Sandy shook his fist at the bird.
"You spalpeen, you! If I had ye down here I'd throw ye out of the tree! But you mustn't believe him. I'll stick to my word as the wind to the tree-tops. No—I don't mean that. As the stream to the shore. No-"
He stopped and laughed. All figures of speech conspired to make him break his word.
Somewhere from out the forgotten world came six long, lingering strokes of a bell. 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?"