Sandy and Ruth untied the canoe and paddled out
into midstream, leaving the willow bower full of memories and the
vireo still hopping about among the branches.
"I'll paddle you up to the bridge," said Ruth; "then you will be near
the post-office."
Sandy's voice was breaking to say that she could paddle him up to the
moon if she would only stay there between him and the sun, with her
hair forming a halo about her face. But they were going down-stream,
and all too soon he was stepping out of the canoe to earth again.
"And will I have to be waiting till the morrow to see you?" he asked,
with his hand on the boat.
"To-morrow? Not until Sunday."
"But Sunday is a month off! You'll be coming for the mail?"
"We send for the mail," said Ruth, demurely.
"Then ye'll be sending in vain for yours. I'll hold it back till ye
come yourself, if I lose my position for it."
Ruth put three feet of water between them, then she looked up with
mischief in her eyes. "I don't want you to lose your position," she
said.
"Then you'll come?"
"Perhaps."
Sandy watched her paddle away straight into the heart of the sun. He
climbed the bank and waved her out of sight. He had to use a maple
branch, for his hat and handkerchief, not to mention less material
possessions, were floating down-stream in the boat with Ruth.
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