she turned a corner and was alarmed by a great churning and puffing noise ahead, as though the inverness had left her native element and come sailing up main street. but it was only captain willoughby in his new automobile. it was the first, and as yet the only machine in algonquin, and its unhappy owner would have sold it to the lowest bidder could he have found any one foolish enough to bid at all. for so far, the captain had had no opportunity to learn to run it. his first excursions abroad had been attended with such disaster, such mad careering of horses, and plunging into ditches, such dismaying paralysis of the engine right in the middle of a neighbour's gateway, such inexplicable excursions onto the sidewalk and through plate glass windows, such harrowing overturning of baby-carriages, that mrs. captain willoughby took an attack of nerves every time he went abroad, and the town fathers finally requested that the captain take out his juggernaut car only at such hours as the streets were clear. so on quiet evenings such as this one, when there were not likely to be any horses abroad, mrs. willoughby telephoned all her friends and told them to take in the children for the captain was coming. and so, heralded, like the lady godiva, the trembling motorist went forth, while the streets immediately became as empty as those of coventry, with rows of peeping toms, safe inside their fences, jeering at the unhappy man's uneven progress. he whizzed past helen at a terrible speed, grazing the side-walk and giving her almost as great a fright as he got himself, and went whirring up the hill.

she did not want to join the crowds in the park so she followed the familiar street past the school, and out along the pine road toward the lake shore. but when she found her way was leading her through willow lane, where all the dirty and poor people of algonquin lived, she turned off into a path that crossed a field and led to the water. helen had some little pupils from willow lane, and their appearance did not invite a closer acquaintance with their homes.

she did not know that she was passing near the back of old peter mcduff's farm, but she noticed that the fences were conveniently broken down, and left a path clear down to the water's edge.

lake algonquin lay before her in its evening glory, a glory veiled and softened by the amethyst veil the autumn was weaving. the water was as still and as clear as a mirror. to her left the town nestled in a soft purple mist, the gay voices from the park were softened and sweetened by the distance. straight ahead of her lay wawa island, an airy thing floating lightly on the water, and reflected perfectly in its depths.

at one end of its dark greenery autumn had hung out a banner to herald her coming—a scarlet sumach. a yellowing maple leaf fell at helen's feet as she passed. along the water's edge where the birches grew thick arose a great twittering and chattering. the long southern flight was already being discussed. away out beyond the island a canoe drifted along on the golden water. some one seated in it was picking a mandolin and singing, "good-bye, summer."

helen slipped down the path where the birches and elms, entwined with the bitter-sweet, hung over the water. a little point jutted out with a big rock on the end of it. she took off her hat, seated herself upon the rock, and drank in the silence and peace of the calm evening.

a little launch went rap-rap-rap across the clear glass of the water, leaving a long trail of light behind it like a comet, and the sweet evening odours were mingled with the unsavoury scent of gasoline. helen had often sped joyfully over the bay at home in just such a noisy little craft, quite unconscious of being obnoxious to any one else. it was not the first time she had found her view-point was changing. she seemed to have been drifted ashore in a wreck, and to be sitting looking on at the life she had lived with wonder and sometimes with disapproval. the launch passed, the evening shadows deepened, but she still sat wrapped in the deeper shadows of her own sad thoughts.

she had no idea how long she had sat there when she was roused by the sudden appearance of a canoe right at her side. it had stolen up silently, propelled by the noiseless stroke of a practised paddler, and went past her like a ghost. the young man kneeling in the stern had something of the perfectly balanced play of muscle, and poise of lithe figure that belonged to the indian. for in spite of his anglo-saxon blood, roderick mcrae was as much a product of this land of lake and forest as the red skin. he had almost passed her, when he looked up and saw her for the first time. he gave a start; it seemed too good to be true. but she bowed so distantly that his hesitating paddle dipped again. he went on slowly, too shy to intrude. he had taken but a few strokes when from away behind her on the darkening land, came a loud sound of singing. peter fiddle was drunk again. feeling very grateful to peter for the excuse, roderick turned about, with an adroit twist of his paddle, and glided back till he was opposite her.

"excuse me, miss murray," he stammered, feeling his old shyness return, "but—are you alone here?"

"yes," said the girl a slight wonder in her voice at the question. "i came down for a walk and—" she turned and glanced behind her and gave an exclamation at the darkness of the woods. she had forgotten the magic power the water has of gathering and holding the sunset light long after darkness has wrapped the earth. "oh, i had no idea it was so late!" she cried in dismay.

roderick joyfully ran his canoe up close to the rock. the fear in her voice made him forget his embarrassment. "i don't wish to trouble you," he said, "but it isn't wise to go home that path through the woods alone." he hesitated. he did not like to tell her that old peter might come down there raging drunk, and that at the head of willow lane she might meet with another drunken row between mike cassidy and his wife. "oh dear!" she cried, "how could i be so foolish? i never dreamed of its being so dark and i forgot—"

"if you will let me i'll take you home," said roderick eagerly, "in my canoe."

he was immeasurably relieved at her answer.

"let you?" she cried gratefully. "why, i'll be ever so much obliged to you. i am sorry to be such a trouble. i don't see how i was so careless," she added in frank apology.

roderick knew he ought to say it was no trouble, but a pleasure. but he was too shy and too happy. he succeeded only in mumbling, "oh, not at all," or something equally vague.

he brought the canoe close to the rock and held out his hand. she stepped in very carefully, and with something the air of one venturing out on a very thin piece of ice.

"it's the first time i ever stepped into a canoe," she said a little tremulously. he steadied her with his hand, smiling a little at her graceful awkwardness. then he showed her how to place herself in the little seat in the centre, with a cushion at her back. he did it clumsily enough for he was embarrassed and nervous in her presence. in all his years of paddling about the lake it was but the second time he had taken a young lady into his canoe, and the first one he had rescued out of the water, and this one off a lonely point of land. so he was not versed in the proper things to say to a lady when taking her for a paddle.

the canoe slipped silently out from the rock and slid along the darkening shore. only the faintest suggestion of the sunset glow lay on the softly glimmering surface of the water. but they had gone only a few yards, when there came a new miracle to remake the scene. from behind the black bulk of the pine clad island peeped a great round harvest moon, and suddenly the whole world of land and water was painted anew in softer golden tints veiled in silver. the girl sat silent and awe-struck. was there never to be an end to the wonders of this place? "oh," she said in a whisper, "isn't it beautiful?"

roderick looked, and was silent too.

yes, it was very wonderful he thought, more wonderful to him than she dreamed. he felt as if he could paddle on forever over the shining lake with the magic colours of moon-rise and sunset meeting in the golden hair of the girl opposite him. they went on for a long time in silence. they passed into the shadow of the island with silver lances through the trees barring their path. the dewy scent of pine and cedar stole out from the dark shore. the silver light grew brighter, the whole lake was lit up with a soft white radiance.

"have you always lived here?" she asked at last in a whisper, an unspoken fear in her voice lest a sound disturb the fair surroundings and they vanish, leaving them in a common, every day world of material things.

"always," said roderick in the same hushed tone, though for a different reason. "i was born on the old farm back here."

"then i wonder if you know how lovely it all is?"

"perhaps not. but it is home to me, you know, and that gives an added charm."

"yes," she said and checked a sigh. "and you've always paddled about here i suppose."

"i never remember when i learned. but i remember my first excursion alone. i was just six. old peter mcduff who lives on the next farm used to tell me fairy tales. and he told me there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, waiting for the man bold enough to go after it. i felt that i was the man, and i paddled off one evening when there was a rainbow in the sky. i got lost in the fog, and my father and a search-party found me drifting away out on the lake. and i didn't bring home the pot of gold."

"nobody ever does," she said drearily. "and every one is hunting it." they were silent for a moment, the girl thinking of how she too had gone after a vanishing rainbow. then the memory of that vision of the first sunday morning in algonquin church came to her. there was a rainbow somewhere, with the treasure at the foot; one that did not vanish either if one persisted in its pursuit.

she tried to say something of this to roderick, fearing her sombre words had set him to recalling her secret.

"i suppose it is perfect happiness," he said. "if so, i never met any one who had found it, except—yes, i believe i know one."

"who?" she asked eagerly.

"my father," answered roderick gently.

"i have heard of him," she said, smiling at the glow of pride in the son's eyes. "and where did he discover it?"

roderick laughed. "i suppose it's in the heart, after all; but my father is never so happy as when he is in the midst of misery. his pot of gold seems to lie down on willow lane."

"on willow lane? why that's where all those dreadfully poor, dirty people live, isn't it?"

"yes. they are an unsavoury bunch down there. that's where mr. and mrs. cassidy throw the household furniture at each other, and billy perkins starves his family for drink, and where the celebrated peter mcduff plays the fiddle every night at the tavern. he might have serenaded you, if you had gone back home by the road."

she smiled gratefully and her smile was very beautiful. but her thoughts were in willow lane. there were worse things there that roderick did not mention, but she had heard of them. it was a strange and wonderful thing that the saintly-faced old man with the white hair, whom she had seen with roderick at church, should find his happiness among such people.

roderick had paddled as slowly as it was possible to move, but he could not prolong the little voyage any further. they were at the landing.

"i have made you come away back here," she said, "and now you will be so late getting home. i must let you go back at once. good night, and thank you."

roderick had been hoping that he might walk up to rosemount with her, but felt he was dismissed. he wanted, too, to ask her if she would not come out on the lake again, but his shyness kept him silent.

as he helped her out, the yellow light of the wharf lamp fell upon her light dress and shone on the gold of her hair, and at the same moment a canoe slid silently out of the dimness beyond and glided across the track of the moon. in the stern knelt one of algonquin's young men wielding a lazy paddle, and in the low seat opposite, with a filmy scarf about her dark hair, reclined miss leslie graham. she sat up straight very suddenly, and stared at the girl who was stepping from the canoe. but she did not speak, and roderick was too absorbed to notice who had passed. and the young man with the lazy paddle wondered all the way home what had happened to make the lively young lady so silent and absent-minded.

helen murray thought many times of what roderick had told her about his father's interest in willow lane. she could not help wondering if others could find there the peace that shone in the old man's eyes. she was wondering if she should go down and visit the place, when, one day, willow lane came to her. it was a warm languorous october day, a day when all nature seemed at a standstill. her work was done, she was resting under her soft coverlet of blue gossamer, preparing for her long sleep. helen had had a hard day, for she had not yet learned her new strange task. the room was noisy, fifty little heads were bent over fifty different schemes for mischief, and fifty sibilant whispers delivered forbidden messages. the teacher was writing on the board, and turned suddenly at the sound of a heavy footstep in the hall. the door was open, letting in the breeze from the lake, and in it stood a big hairy man with a bushy black head and wild blue eyes. helen stood and stared at him half-frightened.

the fifty small heads suddenly whirled about and a hundred eyes stared at the visitor, but there was no fear in them. a giggling whisper ran like fire over the room. "it's peter fiddle!" the man shook his fist at them, and the teacher went with some apprehension towards the door.

"can i do anything for you, sir?" she enquired, outwardly calm, but inwardly quaking. he took off his big straw hat and made her a profound bow.

"i'll be peter mcduff," he said with a stately air, "an' i'll loss a pig."

"i—i don't think it's here," faltered helen, dismayed at a visit from the notorious mcduff. "you might ask some other place," she suggested hopefully.

"i'll be wantin' the bairns to be lookin' for it," he said, making another bow. he turned to the children, now sitting, for the first time since their teacher had set eyes on them, absolutely still and attentive.

"if you see a pig wis a curly tail," he announced, "that's me!"

the whole school burst into a shout of laughter, and the man's face flamed with anger. he shook his fist at them again, moving a step into the room. "ye impident young upstarts!" he shouted. "i'll be peter mcduff!" he cried proudly. "and i'll be having you know they will not be laughing at the mcduff whatefer!"

"i—i'm sure they didn't mean to be rude, mr. mcduff," ventured the frightened teacher.

"my name'll be peter mcduff," he insisted, coming further into the room while she stepped back in terror. "i'll be sixty years of old, and i'll neffer be casting a tory vote! an' if you'll be gifing me a man my own beeg and my own heavy—" he brandished his fists fiercely.

"peter!"

the mcduff turned. behind him stood angus mcrae, his gentle face distressed. he laid his hand on peter's shoulder with an air of quiet power. "come away home with me, peter man," he said soothingly. "we'll be finding the pig on the road."

peter stumbled out grumbling, and angus mcrae, pausing a moment to deliver an apology to helen, followed. mrs. doasyouwouldbedoneby came along the hall rocking with laughter.

"you poor child!" she cried. "i heard him, and was coming to the rescue when i saw old angus. i knew you'd be scared. but peter wouldn't hurt a hair of a woman's head."

"that mr. mcrae seemed to have some strange power over him," whispered helen, watching, with some apprehension, the two climb into an old wagon.

"so he has. and he's the only one that has. he keeps peter in order when he's drunk and keeps him sober, when he can. ah, dear me! dear me! there's a clever man all gone wrong. angus mcrae's been working with him for years. he lives out there past what they call willow lane. ever been down there?"

"no, but i've heard of it often."

"it's that bit of street that runs from the end of the town where that old hotel is. i'm going down there after school to see about minnie perkins. come along for a walk. now, you children, go right back there, do you hear me?" for the primary grade had overflowed and was flooding the halls. and madame swept them back and slammed her door.

when school was dismissed and the last noisy youngster had gone storming forth helen went down the hall to her friend's room. madame came swaying out carrying a bunch of gay spiked gladiolus, her draperies floating about her with cherubs peeping from their folds, like a saint in an old picture.

she dismissed her satellites firmly at the first corner, except those who lived beyond or on willow lane, a ceremony that necessitated a great deal of shooing and scolding.

the first eye-sore on willow lane was the old hotel, still standing there, forlorn and ugly, as though ashamed of all the evil it had wrought.

as the years passed there was always a new generation of loungers to sit and smoke and spit on its sagging veranda. from it ran the old high board fence plastered with ugly advertisements of soap or circus or patent medicine. it disfigured the whole street and shut off a possible glimpse of the lake. away on the other side of it was a meadow where in spring-time the larks soared and sang, and beyond it the lake and the woods where the mocking bird and the bee made music. but here in willow lane was neither sound nor sight that was pleasant.

the street consisted of a single sorry-looking row of houses with narrow box-like yards shoved up close to the road, as though there were not acres and acres of open free meadow land behind them. the hills upon which algonquin was situated ceased abruptly here, and the land spread away in a flat plain along the lake shore. the ground was low and damp, and every house in willow lane that had the misfortune to possess a cellar was the abode of disease. a deep ditch ran parallel to the rickety board side-walk. there had just been a week of unceasing rain and it was full of green water.

"oh dear!" said helen, in distress. "i had no idea there was such a place as this in algonquin."

"people have lived here for years and still seem to have no idea," said madame. she paused and looked back. "do you see that house 'way up on the hill yonder? the one with the tower sticking up between the trees? that's alexander graham's mansion. and he makes a good deal of his money out of the rents of these houses, and nobody seems to care very much. the people of the churches send down turkeys and plum puddings, and everything good at christmas time, and seem to think that will do for another year. but the only man who tries to do anything all the time is angus mcrae. i suppose you know that lawyer ed calls him the good samaritan, and this the jericho road."

the first house in the dreary row was the turbulent home of mr. cassidy, the gentleman who commanded so much of lawyer ed's attention. mrs. cassidy was on the front veranda washing. it was a pastime she seldom indulged in, for there was never much water in the old leaky rain barrel at the corner of the house. for while willow lane had water, water everywhere, the inhabitants had not any drop in which to wash themselves. but the overflowing rain-barrels had tempted judy to-day, and so her little figure was bobbing up and down over the washboard like a play judy in a show. she was scrubbing her own clothes, but not her husband's, for mr. cassidy and his wife lived each an entirely independent life. they occupied different sections of the house even, and the lady saw to it that her husband's apartments were the coldest in winter and the hottest in summer. this arrangement had been held to, ever since the day that mike thrashed judy. it had not been without some provocation, it is true; for though very small, mrs. cassidy had a valiant spirit, and had many and varied ways of exasperating her husband's inflammable temper. but lawyer ed had appealed to father tracy, and that muscular shepherd of his flock had come down upon willow lane and thrashed mike thoroughly and soundly. since then there had been a sort of armed neutrality in the home of the cassidys.

"good day, mrs. cassidy," called madame over the little fence. "it's a beautiful day after the rain."

"aw, well now and is that you, mrs. adam?" enquired judy, her little face peering out of the clouds of steam. "sure it's yerself would be bringin' beautiful weather, aven if it was poorin'."

her voice was soft, her manner ingratiating, there was no sign of the warrior spirit beneath.

"i hope the rain'll keep off till you get your clothes dry," said madame pleasantly, but passing resolutely on, for mrs. cassidy showed sighs of a desire to come to the gate and have a friendly chat. "we must get out of her way. if she starts to talk we'll never escape," she whispered. "just look at that will you!"

the second place was one where some pitiful attempts at beautifying had been made. the yard was swept clean and a little drain had been dug at the side to let the water run off. a few drowned flowers leaned over on their hard clay beds, and there was a neat curtain and a mosquito netting on each window. but right against the window that overlooked the cassidys' yard, mrs. cassidy had piled all the old boards, boxes and rubbish she could find, to obstruct the view to the town, of her too ambitious neighbour. "now, what do you think of that?" cried madame. "isn't she the malicious little soul?"

"good day, mrs. kent, and how are you to-day?"

"good day, mrs. adam," from a sharp-faced neat woman, sitting at the doorway of the barricaded house, knitting rapidly.

"it's a beautiful day, isn't it?" said madame ingratiatingly.

"lovely," responded the woman. "it's a great thing we had so much rain, we need a lot down here, we're that dry."

madame chose to take the sarcasm as a joke, and laughed blithely.

but the woman did not smile. "she's had to work too hard, poor soul," whispered the visitor when they had passed. "she's clean and thrifty but she has to wash to support a crippled boy and a consumptive girl. no wonder she's sour."

they passed two or three more sorry-looking houses and finally paused before the gate of the home of madame's little pupil. the bare grassless yard was filled with old boxes and rubbish. a big lumbering lad of about fourteen sprawled over the doorstep playing with a string. he looked up with vacant eyes, and clutched at the visitors' skirts, muttering and jabbering in idiot glee.

madame put her hand tenderly on his small, ill-shaped head.

"poor eddie," she whispered, "poor boy."

she fumbled in her big black satchel and brought out a gay candy stick. he grabbed it with strange cries of joy. the sounds brought a ragged little ghost of a woman to the door, carrying a tiny bundle on her arm.

"well, well, is that you, madame?" she cried, smiling a broad toothless smile. "i thought it was you, an' minnie she says, i believe that's my teacher, ma."

madame climbed the steep steps, helen following. the room was dirty and untidy. a rusty stove and table, three chairs and an ill-smelling cupboard in the corner, with some gaudy glass dishes upon it, were the only furniture.

"and how are you, mrs. perkins? this is the new teacher, miss murray. when minnie passes out of my room, she'll he under this lady's care. and how is my little girl this afternoon?"

madame passed to the door of the tiny bedroom. the bed filled the whole space with just room enough to stand left between it and the wall. a little girl was lying on it, her hollow cheeks pink, her eyes bright. the sun poured in at the bare window and the room was hot and breathless. the swarming flies covered her face and arms. she brushed them away fretfully, and stretched out her hot hands for the flowers. "oh, teacher," she cried, trying to strangle her cough, "i watched and i watched for you all day and i was scared you wasn't comin'."

mrs. doasyouwouldbedoneby sat down on the edge of the dirty bed and put her cool hand on the little girl's burning forehead.

helen placed herself rather gingerly on a proffered chair, and looked at the wee bundle in the woman's arms.

"why, it's a baby," she whispered in awe. the mother's faded face lit up with pride. she held the little scrap of humanity towards the visitor. "'e's a grite little rascal, 'e is," she exclaimed fondly. "as smart as a weasel, an' 'im only a fo'tnight old last sunday."

helen was positively afraid to touch the little bundle, but the look of utter exhaustion on the woman's face overcame her repugnance. she held out her arms and the mother dropped the baby into them and sank upon a chair with a sigh of relief.

"only a little over two weeks," gasped helen, looking at the wee wrinkled face peeping from the bundle.

the mother's face beamed with joy and pride. she thought that the visitor's astonishment was for the wonderful baby, all unconscious of herself.

"yes'm, just but a fo'tnight, and a little over. oh 'e's a grite little tyke, 'e is. ain't 'e, now?"

"has doctor blair been to see minnie?" asked madame softly.

"yes'm. old angus 'e was 'ere on monday, and 'e sent 'im. 'e says it's 'er lungs." she looked at her visitors with child-like simplicity. "is it very bad for minnie to 'ave anything wrong with 'er lungs do you think, mrs. adam?"

madame's gentle face was eloquent with pity. "doctor blair is a good, kind doctor," she said evasively. "he'll do his best for her. you do everything for her that he asks."

"yes'm. old angus 'e was trying to tell me wot to do, but i ain't much of a 'and at sickness. minnie she gets up and gets wot she wants but i tell 'er she ought to lie abed."

the little girl had fallen into a doze, under the soothing touch of her teacher's hand. madame took off the veil from her hat and spread it over the child's face as a protection from the flies. she came back into the kitchen. the idiot boy came in and rolled about the floor muttering and whining.

"and how's mr. perkins?" asked madame. "is he keeping well?" it was her gentle way of asking if he was keeping sober. the woman's tired face lit up.

"yes, ma'am. 'e is that. 'e's been keepin' fine since three weeks come sunday. that was the night old angus took 'im to the harmy an' got 'im saved. an' 'e's ben keepin' nicely saved ever since. we've been 'avin' butter," she added proudly. "ever since 'e got 'imself converted. but we 'ad to 'ave the doctor for pore minnie." her thin little face quivered. "if minnie'd only get better now, we'd be gettin' a good start, an' we'd all be 'appy."

"mr. perkins has work now, hasn't he?" said madame comfortingly.

"yes'm. it's not steady, but old angus 'e's goin' to get 'im another job. it's ben rather 'ard on my man," she added apologetically, "just a comin' out from the hold country. it's 'ard gettin' work at first. an' i wan't much use with 'im a comin'," she added, touching the bundle reverently.

"so this is the only canadian baby you have," said madame.

"yes'm." the mother forgot her troubles and smiled and fawned on the bundle in delight.

"he's johny canuck, isn't he?" asked madame, with a feeble attempt at gaiety.

"oh, no, ma'am," cried the mother hastily. "'e's william 'enery, after 'is paw. we ain't got 'im christened yet. but jist as soon's i can get 'im a dress the pawson,—'e's a foine man,—'e says 'e'll come an' do 'im, an' if my man jist keeps nicely saved, we'll be gettin' a dress. but it's been 'ard on my man. eddie there 'e's not much 'elp, poor lad. but 'e goes out on the railroad track an' picks me up a bit o' coal. an' old angus 'e's been that good. oh, we'd never a' got on without old angus. but if my minnie 'adn't took sick—"

she wiped a tear on the baby's dirty dress. it was the quiet, dispassionate tear of a woman long accustomed to hardship. "i'll be all right when i get a bit stronger an' can work," she added hopefully.

the visitors rose to go. madame held the woman's hand a long time, trying to explain, as though to a little child, how the sick girl must be treated. the case seemed so pitiful she was at a loss what to say. "i'm afraid i can't get back for a few days, mrs. perkins," she said.

"i'll come and see minnie to-morrow," said helen murray suddenly. the morrow was her precious saturday that brought a rest from the week's hard work, but the words seemed forced from her. the look of childish fear in the woman's face made some sort of promise necessary for her own peace of mind.

the woman looked up at her gratefully as she took the baby.

"it's awful good o' you, miss," she cried, "and indeed i'll be thet grateful, if you'd just come and tell me the best thing to do for minnie. i'm not much of a 'and in sickness." she looked at the two visitors wistfully. "it does a body good jist to 'ave a word with somebody that's sorry for you," she added.

helen went away, her heart sore and sick with the woman's pain.

the idiot boy followed them to the gate, grinning and muttering. his mother called him from the doorway, and he shambled towards her. glancing back, helen saw his long, ungainly body folded in her little thin arms, while she patted him tenderly on the back.

as they stepped out on the rickety side-walk, a tall girl of about sixteen came and stood staring at them from the doorway of the next house. she had a bold, handsome face and her hair and untidy dress were arranged in an extravagant imitation of the latest fashion.

"good day, gladys," said madame kindly, but the girl answered with only a curt nod. when the visitors had passed, she called shrilly to some one in the house behind her.

"maw! hurry out an' see the parade! willow lane's gettin' awful high-toned!" there was a loud cackle of laughter and madame's shoulders shook with suppressed merriment. "that's gladys hurd," she said, shaking her head. "poor gladys, i'm afraid she's not a very good girl. she's not got a very good mother."

as they were turning off willow lane, the rattle of a buggy behind them made madame turn.

"there he is again," she cried. "i suppose he's taken peter home and found his pig for him. i don't believe i could bear the thought of all the misery on willow lane if i didn't know that old angus mcrae was doing so much to lighten it."

helen turned. angus had pulled up in front of the perkins' house and the idiot lad with queer cries of delight came stumbling out to meet him. the girl named gladys ran out too, and the old man handed her a sheaf of glowing crimson dahlias. she buried her face in them and hugged them to her in a passion of admiration for their beauty.

"look, look at mrs. cassidy will you?" cried madame in delight.

mrs. cassidy had come to the door at the first sound of the wheels, and when she saw who was near, she darted out and swiftly and stealthily removed the obstruction from her neighbour's window. then she went to the gate to greet old angus, suave and gentle of speech, and as innocent looking as the meek heap of boards now lying in a corner of her yard.

"well, well, well," laughed madame as they walked on. "even if old angus would merely drive up and down willow lane i believe he would make the people better."

when helen reached rosemount she slipped in at the side door and up the back stair. it was the day the misses armstrong entertained the whist club, and a clatter of teacups and a hum of voices told her the guests were not yet gone. she removed her hat, and smoothed her hair absently; her thoughts were down on willow lane busy with the complex problem of the perkins family. the windows were opened, and the sound of swishing skirts and laughing voices came up to her from the garden walk. a couple of well-dressed women were going out at the gate.

"poor old things," cried one in a light merry voice. "they do get up the most comical concoctions at their teas. and miss annabel in a ten-year-old dress! will she ever grow up?"

"the poor dears can't afford anything better. they are just struggling along," answered her companion. "they had that house left them, and the old lady gets her allowance, but the daughters hadn't a cent left them, and they would both fall dead if they weren't invited to everything. but i don't know where they get money to dress at all."

"i suppose that is why they took that girl to board."

"of course, poor old elinor is so scared—" the voice died away and a sharp rap on her door took helen from the window. she opened the door and there, to her surprise, stood miss leslie graham, looking very handsome in the splendour of her rose silk gown. she smiled radiantly. "good day, miss murray. i think you know who i am and i think it's time we met. i ran up here to get away from that jam of people. those women take such an lasting age to get away. may i sit with you for a minute?"

helen offered her a chair gladly. she had often seen miss graham, and her unfailing gay spirits had made her wish she could know her. the visitor flung her silver purse upon the bed, her gloves upon the table, her white parasol upon the bureau, and sank into the chair.

"oh i'm dead," she groaned. "i've passed ten thousand cups of tea, and twenty thousand sandwiches. don't you pity and despise people that don't know any better than to come to a thing indoors on a hot day?"

helen smiled. "but you came," she said.

"but i had to. when any of my relations give a tea i am always tethered to a tray and a plate of biscuits." she stopped suddenly and looked at helen keenly, with a stare that puzzled the girl. then she jumped up and seated herself upon the bed, rumpling the counterpane. in the few minutes since she had entered the room she had made the place look as if a whirlwind had swept through it, and helen felt a nervous fear of miss armstrong's walking in and witnessing her untidy condition.

"do you like it here?" she enquired directly.

"yes, i—think i do. algonquin is so beautiful, but—"

"but you can't stand my poky aunts, and grandma's jokes, eh?"

"oh, no," cried helen aghast. "both the misses armstrong have been very kind and mrs. armstrong is delightful—but, of course, i get homesick." she stopped suddenly for that was a subject upon which she dared not dwell.

the other girl stared. "my goodness. i would love to know what homesickness is like, just for once. i've never been away from home except for a visit somewhere in the holidays, and then i was always having such a ripping time, that the thought of going home made me sick."

she sat for a little while, again looking steadily at helen. "you certainly are pretty," she exclaimed. "there's no doubt about that."

"i beg your pardon!" said helen amazed, and doubting if she had heard aright.

"oh, nothing, never mind!" cried the other with a laugh. she tore off her costly hat and flung it on top of the table. then she threw herself backwards on the bed staring at the ceiling. she made such a complete wreck of the starched pillow covers and the prim white bedspread that were the pride of miss armstrong's heart, that helen shuddered.

"well, i don't wonder at you getting homesick here. these ceilings are such a vast distance away they make you feel as if you were a hundred miles from everywhere. i remember sleeping in this room once, when there was an epidemic of scarlet fever or something among the armstrong kids. all the well ones were dumped on our aunts, after the custom of the family, and i was sent off with a dozen others and we were marooned upstairs, like a gang of prisoners, the girls in this room and the boys in grandma's. six in a bed—more or less. i remember we used to lie awake in the early morning before aunt elinor would let us get up, and study the outburst of robins and grapes on the ceiling. and one day we got the boys in with their toy guns and tried to shoot the tails off the birds. cousin harry armstrong hit one. do you see the ghastly remains of that bird without the tail? that was the one. i never hit anything, but i tried hard enough. i am responsible for the bangs on the ceiling. each one tells when i missed my aim."

helen laughed all unawares. she was surprised at herself. it was so long since she had laughed she thought she had forgotten how.

"that robin proved to be the albatross for us," continued leslie graham, sitting up again, "for aunt elinor found out about it, and we had no more good luck from that day till we went home." she sprang up.

"dear me! here i am jabbering away, and mother must be gone." she caught up her hat, dislodging a couple of books that went over on the floor. "oh, dear, i've knocked something over." she did not make any motion to pick them up, however. "mother says i always leave a trail behind me."

she stood before the glass arranging her hat, a radiant figure. helen looked at her wistfully. there was nothing this girl wanted, surely, that she could not have; and yet she seemed so restless and dissatisfied.

"do you go out much?" she asked.

"not very much," said helen. "my school keeps me busy." she did not say that she knew so very few young people she had no one to go with.

miss graham turned to the mirror again. she seemed embarrassed. "the lake's lovely here for paddling. only the season is nearly over. have you been out on the water much?" she did not look at the girl as she asked the question.

"no," said helen, and the other faced round and stared at her. "i don't know how to paddle and i am rather afraid of a canoe."

"do you mean to say you've never been on the lake since you came here?" asked leslie graham, standing and staring with a hat-pin in her mouth.

"oh, yes, i was—once," said helen innocently. she did not think it necessary to tell all about roderick's rescue of her from the point; for already she had heard the misses armstrong coupling his name with their niece's in tones of high disapproval. "i was once—but only once."

leslie graham's face grew radiant.

"is that all?" she cried in a tone expressing decided relief.

she amazed helen by suddenly darting towards her and putting her arm around her. "why you poor little lonesome thing," she cried, "you must learn to paddle; i will teach you myself. now, good-bye, i think we are going to be real good friends." she kissed helen warmly and tripped out, singing a gay song, and leaving her late hostess standing amazed in the middle of her dishevelled room.