last solemn words he had given her to steer by.” She lifted the oars, (lropped them into the blue water, and looked up t0 see the fisherman busy, pulling in his line, and happy.

When the boat came back the sun had sailed so fan" lmyoiid them that the shadow of the big bluffs lay half way the river’s breast, and the stream was dark with the creeping twilight.

She climbed the bluff slowlyq so slowly that his quick heart caught the sigh i11 the loitering steps before he saw it in her face.

You’re back i?” he said. What have you done all these hours? Seven trout are on my string; what have you on yours ? Speak up, we must be travelling.”

“Nothing,” said she; “nothing; l have only been down there on the island,’ listening to a bird sing.”

A bird ?

A lovely, lonesome little bird. Not another bird

in the forest answered its note. Yet, the song was

so beautiful, so beautiful! and nobody heard a note of it.”

And it reminded you of yourself ?” said he.

“Myself? My! I Wish it had. Why, whoever heard of me singing?”

“Well,” said the fisherman, he knew her so Well, what have you made of it ? Out with it now.”

“\Vl1_v,” said she, ‘~ it was so Silll, so beautiful, that brave bird singing its very best in the heart of the empty’ forest, that it (i171? remind me, l will admit, of some lives that we hear of. 1km‘ of, for we see so