“Well, if it isn’t a slimy old eel.  There! be off with you; go back into the water,” said Lane, as he shook the eel free from the hook.

“Come, we must be starting.”

He pushed the canoe into the brook, helped Mel to a seat in the bow and shoved off.  In some places the stream was only a few feet wide, but there was enough room and water for the light craft and it went skimming along.  The brook turned through the woods and twisted through the meadows, sometimes lying cool and dark in the shade and again shining in the sunlight.  Often Lane would have to duck his head to get under the alders and willows.  Here in an overshadowed bend of the stream a heron rose lumbering from his weedy retreat and winged his slow flight away out of sight; a water wagtail, that cunning sentinel of the brooks, gave a startled tweet! tweet! and went flitting like a gray streak of light round the bend.

“Daren, please don’t be so energetic,” said Mel, nervously.

“I’m strong as a horse now.  I’m—­hello!  What’s that?”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“I imagined I heard a laugh or shout.”

The stream was widening now as it neared its mouth.  Lane was sending the canoe along swiftly with vigorous strokes.  It passed under a water-gate, round a quick turn in the stream, where a bridge spanned it, and before Lane had a suspicion of anything unusual he was right upon a merry picnic party.  There were young men and girls resting on the banks and several sitting on the bridge.  Automobiles were parked back on the bank.

Lane swore under his breath.  He recognized Margaret, Dick Swann and several other old-time acquaintances and friends of Mel’s.

“Who is it?” asked Mel.  Her back was turned.  She did not look round, though she heard voices.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Lane, calmly.

He would have given the world to spare Mel the ordeal before her, but that was impossible.  He put more power into his stroke and the canoe shot ahead.

It passed under the bridge, not twenty feet from Margaret Swann.  There was a strange, eager, wondering look in Margaret’s clear eyes as she recognized Mel.  Then she seemed to be swallowed up by the green willows.

“That was damned annoying,” muttered Lane to himself.  He could have met them all face to face without being affected, but he realized how painful this meeting must be to Mel.  These were Mel’s old friends.  He had caught Margaret’s glance.  Old memories came surging back.  His gaze returned to Mel.  Her face was grave and sad; her eyes had darkened, and there was a shadow in them.  His glance sought the green-lined channel ahead.  The canoe cut the placid water, turned the last bend, and glided into the swift river.  Soon Lane saw the little cottage shining white in the light of the setting sun.

One afternoon, as Lane was returning from the woods, he met a car coming out of the grassy road that led down to his cottage.  As he was about to step aside, a gay voice hailed him.  He waited.  The car came on.  It contained Holt Dalrymple and Bessy Bell.