"Tommy, Tommy, where are you?"
The voice, clear, mellow, flute-like, gave him a singular thrill that brought him up to a sitting position. The book dropped from his hand, forgotten. No child's voice was that; he had heard it before, coming from lips whose fair curve and fullness he could not forget, and, though he chided himself for his folly, its echoes had haunted him even in his dreams.
He waited, breathless, expectant, desiring to hear the call repeated, and that desire was quickly gratified.
"Tommy, Tommy, why don't you answer me?"
He was tempted to answer, but that was unnecessary; for the branches parted, and she appeared in full view, pausing instantly on beholding him, her blue eyes wide with surprise, her flushed cheeks quickly taking on a deeper tint.
She was dressed in white, an occasional ribbon adding a livening bit of color, and the sight of her figure, poised against that dark-green background, slender, startled, entrancing, set his heart thumping. Nor was his voice quite natural as he hastily rose, bowed, and asked:
"Did you call me, Miss Harting?"
"Oh—oh, I beg your pardon!" she returned,
