They climbed the steep, short bank. “You are big,” she remarked gravely as they passed between the old apple trees. “Bigger than lots of grown men. I thought you were just a little boy when I couldn’t see anything but your head. You must be quite old.” “I’m eighteen; and I’m going to college this fall—if mother makes me. But I’d sooner stop home and work with Uncle Jim,” he replied. At that moment they cleared the orchard and came upon the ell and woodshed of the wide gray house and Mr. James McAllister in the door of the shed. McAllister backed and vanished in the snap of a finger. “He is shy with strangers, but he’s a brave man and a good one,” said Ben. Mrs. O’Dell appeared in the doorway just then. “Mother, here’s a little girl who came from somewhere or other in a big red pirogue,” said Ben. “I found her out at the net. She has a letter for you.” Mrs. O’Dell was a tall woman of forty, slender and strong, with the blue eyes and warm brown hair of the McAllisters. She wore a cotton dress of one of the changing shades of blue of her eyes, trim and fresh. The dress was open at the throat and the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. She stepped forward without a moment’s hesitation and laid a strong hand lightly on one of the little girl’s thin shoulders. She smiled and the blue of her eyes darkened and softened. “A letter for me, dear?” she queried. “Yes Mrs. O’Dell—from dad,” replied the stranger. “You are Richard Sherwood’s little girl?” “Yes, I’m Marion.” “And you came alone? Not all the way from French River?” “Most of the way—alone. I—dad——” Ben became suddenly aware of the fact that the queer little girl was crying. She was still looking steadily up into his mother’s face but tears were brimming her eyes and sparkling on her cheeks and her lips were trembling. He turned away in pained confusion. For several minutes he stared fixedly at the foliage and green apples of the orchard; when he ventured to turn again he found himself alone. Ben passed through the woodshed into the kitchen. There he found