to go out of his life so; she should, at least, know who he was, and
Mrs. Yorke should know, too.

That afternoon, impelled by some strange motive, he took the path over
the Ridge again. It had been a long day and a wearing one. He had tried
Hannibal once more; but his pupils cared less for Hannibal than for the
bumble-bees droning in the window-frame. For some reason the dull
routine of lessons had been duller than usual. The scholars had never
been so stupid. Again and again the face that he had seen rest on his
arm the day before came between him and his page, and when the eyes
opened they were as blue as forget-me-nots. He would rouse himself with
a start and plunge back bravely into the mysteries of physical geography
or of compound fractions, only to find himself, at the first quiet
moment, picking his way through the pines with that white face resting
against his shoulder.

When school was out he declined the invitation of the boys to walk with
them, and settled himself in his chair as though he meant to prepare the
lessons for the next day. After a quarter of an hour, spent mostly in
revery, he rose, put up his books, closed the door, and took the same
path he had followed the day before. As he neared the spot where he had
come on the girl, he almost expected to find her propped against the
rock as he had found her the afternoon before. He was conscious of a
distinct shock of loneliness that she was not there. The woods had never
appeared so empty; the soughing of the pines had never sounded
so dreary.

He threw himself down on the thick brown carpet. He had not felt so
lonely in years. What was he! And what chance did he have! He was alone
in the wilderness. He had been priding himself on being the superior of