the water's edge, their summer clothes making blotches of bright color
among the gray rocks. Out on the lake, a young man knelt in the stern of
a canoe, swinging a paddle that flashed in the sun, while a girl trailed
her hand in the sparkling water. As the craft passed the landing she
began to sing. No breath of wind ruffled the surface now, and the dark
pine-sprays were still. A drowsy quietness brooded over the tranquil
scene.

"It is very beautiful," she said slowly. "Different, one imagines, from
the rugged North!"

"Very different," Thirlwell agreed, and took out a photograph. "You will
see that by the picture I promised to bring."

Agatha took the photograph. It showed a broad stretch of sullen water
with a strip of forest on the other side. The pines were ragged and
stunted and some leaned across each other, while the gloomy sky was
smeared by the smoke of a forest-fire. In the foreground, angry waves
broke in foaming turmoil among half-covered rocks. No soft beauty marked
the river of the North, and the land it flowed through looked forbidding
and desolate.

"The Shadow River," said Thirlwell. "You can see the Grand Rapid. I
have marked a cross where the canoe upset."

Agatha said nothing for a few moments, and Thirlwell was relieved. He
saw she felt keenly, but she was calm. In the meantime he waited; one
learns to wait in the North.

"Thank you; I would like to keep the picture," she said by and by, and