middle-aged man who sat on the porch with a book across his knees and a
clay pipe in his mouth. It did not lie in facial resemblance. It was
more subtle than likeness of feature. Perhaps it was because of their
eyes, alike deep gray, wide and expressive, lifted always to meet
another's in level unembarrassed frankness.

They halted at the edge of the porch. The girl sat down. The young man
nodded to Carr. Though they had but lately been fair in the path of the
thunderstorm they had escaped a wetting. The girl's eyes followed her
father's glance, seemed to read his thought.

"We happened to find a spruce thick enough to shed the rain," she
smiled. "Or I suppose we'd have been soaked properly."

The young fellow tarried only till she was seated. He had no more than
greeted Carr before he lifted his old felt hat to her.

"I'll be paddling back while the coolness lasts," said he. "Good-by."

"Good-by, Tommy," the girl answered.

"So long," Carr followed suit. "Don't give us the go-by too long."

"Oh, no danger."

He walked to the creek bank, stepped into a red canoe that lay nose on
to the landing, and backed it free with his paddle. Ten strokes of the
blade drove him out of sight around the first brushy bend upstream.

The girl looked thoughtfully after him. Her face was flushed, and her