the tracks she caught a glimpse of a black horse, and as it came nearer Flea noted the rider, a young man whose kindly dark eyes and white teeth dazzled her.  His straight legs were incased in yellow boots, his fine form in a tightly fitting riding-coat.  Flea had never seen just such a man, not even in the infrequent visits she made to Ithaca.  Something in his smile, as he drew up his steed and looked down upon her, affected her with a curious thrill.

“Little girl, will you tell me if I am on the right road to Glenwood?”

Flea’s tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.  His voice, cultivated and deep, made her forget for a moment the question he had asked her.  Then she remembered; but instinctively she did not reply in her usual high squatter tones.

“Nope, ye got to go back, and turn to the right at the top of the hill.  Ye can’t go round the shore from here; the water’s too high.”

This impulsive desire to choose her words and to modulate her voice came from a sudden realization that there lived another class of people outside the squatter settlement of whom she knew little.

“Thank you very much,” replied the questioner.  “Now I understand that if I ride to the top of the hill and turn to the right, I’ll reach Glenwood?”

“Yep,” answered Flea.

Her embarrassment caused her lips to close over the one word.  Wonderingly she watched the man ride away until the sight of his dark horse was lost in the trees above the tracks.

“It were a prince,” she stammered in a low tone, “a real live prince!”

Flea contemplated the darkening hills with moody eyes.  She counted slowly one by one the towers of the university buildings.  This she did merely from habit; for the expression remained unchanged on her melancholy face.  At length the gray eyes dropped to the water and fixed their gaze upon a fishing boat turning toward the shore.  A few moments before it had been but a black speck near the lighthouse; but as it came nearer Flea distinctly saw the two men and the boy in it.  Upon the bow of the boat was perched Snatchet, a yellow terrier, his short ears perked up with happiness at the prospect of supper.  When the craft touched shore the girl rose and ran toward it.  Almost in fear, she searched the face of the youth at the rudder with eyes so like his own that they seemed rather a reflection than another pair.  She said no word until she took her position beside the boy on the shore, slipping her hand into his as she walked by his side toward the hut.

“Be ye back for the night, Flukey?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Where ye goin’ after supper?”

“To Ithaca.”

“Air ye leg a hurtin’ ye much?”

“Yep.”

“Granny Cronk says as how yer pains be rheumatiz.  If ye stay in out of the night air, ye’ll get well.”

“Pappy Lon won’t let me,” sighed Flukey.

He sank down on the cabin threshold, and as he spoke drew a blue trouser leg slowly up.