reached forward, dipped it into the water again. Richard, a few feet behind her, followed her slow revolutions. The effect upon him was almost hypnotic. It was awkward to be silent with most girls. He seldom was. Most girls avoided any such lapses as this. But Laurel Dallas would drift into silence as naturally, as unconsciously, as a canary, whose song is interrupted by some simple cause, and out of it in the same unexpected spontaneous fashion.
The crowd had been left far behind—they couldn't even be heard—when Laurel and Richard slipped into a little sequestered cove, almost a cave, with a leaf-covered roof—a lovely spot. Instinctively both the paddles dug deep into the water and held the canoe stationary. Laurel lifted her paddle very gently, and laid it noiselessly across her knees. The only sound in the sylvan sanctuary was the drip—drip—drip of a few drops of water from her paddle's broad end.
Finally Richard said softly from his seat behind Laurel, "Are you there?"
She broke into a low pleased laugh at that. "Every bit of me is here!"
"I wondered. You've been so noisy."
She leaned her head back and gazed up at the blue sky through the low-hanging branches. She drew in her breath deep. "Oh, isn't it too beautiful to be true!"
Richard, gazing only at her, thought it was! He didn't say so, simply smiled and remarked, "You like the woods, don't you?"
"I love them!" Laurel exclaimed.
But it wasn't the woods she was loving so much
