THE RAPIDS

The rapids at Kohiseva are well known; none so well known, nor so ill famed, in all the length of Nuoli River.

And the homestead at Moisio is a well-known place, for they are a stubborn race that hold it; for generations past the masters of Moisio have been known among their neighbours as men of substance, and hard in their dealings to boot—unswerving and pitiless as the waters of Kohiseva.

The daughter at Moisio is well known too; none carries her head so high, and a tender glance from her eyes is more than any of the young men round can boast of having won.

Kyllikki is her name—and no one ever had such a name—at least, folk say there's no such name in the calendar.

* * * * *

The lumbermen's rearguard had come to Kohiseva. They came by night, and here they were at their first day's work there now. Some were still busy floating the last of the timber down; others were clearing the banks of lumber that had driven ashore.

It was evening, and the men were on their way to their quarters in the village.

In the garden at Moisio a young girl was watering some plants newly set.

A youth came walking down the road beyond the fence. Some distance off, he caught sight of the girl, and watched her critically as he came up.

"This must be the one they spoke of," he said to himself. "The girl that's proud beyond winning!"

The girl's slender figure straightened as she rose from her stooping position, and threw back the plaited hair that had fallen forward over one shoulder; she bowed her head in demure self-consciousness.

"She's all they say, by her looks," thought the youth, and slackened his steps involuntarily as he passed.

The girl watched him covertly. "So that's the one they've all been talking about," she said to herself. "The one that's not like any of the rest."

She bent down to fill her can.

"Shall I speak to her?" the young man asked himself.

"But suppose she'll have nothing to do with you?"

"H'm. 'Twould be the first that ever took it so!" And he smiled.

The girl bent over her work again; the young man came nearer.

"I wonder if he'll have the impudence to speak to me," she thought. "'Twould be like him, from what they say. But let him try it with me…!"

"Like to like's the best way, I doubt," said the youth to himself. "If she's so proud, I'd better be the same." And he walked by resolutely, without so much as a glance at her, after all.

"Ho!" The girl spilled some of the water with a splash to one side. "So that's his way, is it?"

She cast a look of displeasure at him as he passed down the road—to go by like that without a word was almost a greater offence than if he had spoken.

* * * * *

Next evening she was there again.

And this time he stopped.

"Good evening," he said, raising his hat with rather more of pride than courtesy.

"Good evening." She flung the words at him over her shoulder, turning her head but just so much as to show the corner of an eye.

Silence.

"What lovely roses!"

The speech was pleasant enough in itself, almost a compliment. But there was a challenge in the words—as the speaker himself was aware.

"They're well enough," she answered carelessly, as if to imply that she had no more to say—he could go on if he cared to.

"I wonder, now, if you'd give me one—one of the red ones yonder—if it's not too much to ask?"

The girl drew herself up. "'Tis not our way at Moisio to give roses over the fence to strangers—though there may be those elsewhere that are willing enough."

"Though there may be those elsewhere…." The young man flushed. He understood what was in her mind—the tone of her voice was enough. He had expected something of this at their first encounter, but for all that he was startled at the fierce resolution in her opening thrust.

"'Tis not my way to beg for roses over every fence," he answered proudly. "Nor to ask a thing twice of anyone. Good-night!"

The girl looked at him, astonished. She had not expected anything like this.

He walked on a few paces, then stopped suddenly, and clearing the ditch with a leap, stood leaning against the fence.

"There's just one thing I'd like to say—if I may," he said, glancing sharply at her.

"You can say what you please, I suppose," she answered.

"Just this, then," he went on. "If any day you should find you have set too high a price upon your roses, then take the one I asked for, and wear it yourself. It could not hurt your pride, I think. It would only show that you counted me a fellow-creature at least."

"Too high at least to be given to any tramp that is bold enough to ask," said the girl, facing him squarely. "If anyone cares for them, he must venture more than that."

They looked each other straight in the eyes for a moment.

"I'll bear that in mind," said the youth, with emphasis. "Good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the girl.

He walked on, and she stood watching him.

"Not like the others—they were right in that," said she, and went on with her work.

* * * * *

That Sunday afternoon a crowd of people gathered on Kohiseva bridge. There was not room for all, and the banks were thickly lined on either side.

There were rumours of unusual doings abroad—and folk had come out to see.

"Next Sunday afternoon at four," the news had run, "a match at Kohiseva—shooting the rapids."

And folk pricked up their ears aghast—down the rapids at Kohiseva on a stick of timber; it was more than any had ever ventured yet. True, there was the man some ten years back—a foolhardy fellow from a neighbouring district—who had tried the lower reach, which was less dangerous by far, but he was dead when he came ashore.

Anyhow, it was to be done now. There were two gangs of lumbermen in the place, and, as it chanced, men of unusual daring and skill in each. A dispute had arisen between the headmen as to the merits of their respective parties, and the only way to settle it was by a match, the headman of the losing gang to stand treat all round.

All Kohiseva was afoot, and many had come in from the villages round. It was no light thing to try the rapids there.

The sight-seers on the bridge moved this way and that, eagerly discussing the event.

"'Tis a mad idea, for sure."

"Ay, they'll have been drunk the time, no doubt."

"There's no man in his sober senses would ever try it."

"But which of them is it?" asked one. "Who's going down?"

"One of them's just a mad young fool that'll do anything if you dare him."

"Ay, there's some of that sort most ways to be found. But 'tis a mad thing to do."

"None so mad, perhaps," put in another. "They say he's the cleverest of them all."

"I doubt but Kohiseva'll be one too clever for him. And the other—who's he?"

"Why, didn't you know? There he is standing over there; Olof, they say's his name."

"That one? He looks a sight too fine for a lumberman at all."

"'Tis him none the less for that."

"What's he doing in the gang, anyway? 'Tis not his business, by the look of him."

"Ay, you may say so, but there's none knows more about him than all can see. Book-learned, they say he is, and speaks foreign lingos, but Olof's all the name he goes by."

"H'm. Must be a queer sort."

"Ah, there's more than one queer sort among these gangs. But if any ever gets through the rapids, I say 'twill be him and no other."

"Wait and see," grumbled an adherent of the opposite party.

"Hey—look! there's old man Moisio pushing through to the foremen. Now, what's he want with them, I wonder?"

The foremen stood midway across the bridge. One of them, Falk, was leaning against the parapet, puffing at his tasselled pipe, and smiling. The other, Vantti he was called, a sturdy, thick-set fellow, stood with his hands in his pockets and a cigar between his teeth. Vantti came from the north-east, from Karelen, and was proud of it, as he was proud of his Karelen dialect and his enormous Karelen boots—huge, crook-toed thigh-boots that seemed to swallow him up to the waist.

Moisio came up to the two. "What's this about the rapids?" he said sternly. "If you've put up a match, as they're saying here, then I've come to say you'd better put it off before harm comes of it. Five men's lives the river's taken here in my time. And we've no wish for more."

"Easy, Moisio," says Vantti, taking the cigar from his mouth, and spitting a thin jet sideways. "No call to take it that way. 'Tis but a bit of a show we've got up to amuse the village folk."

"Call it what you please," answered Moisio. "You'll mark what I say. I'm answerable for order in this place, and if any harm comes afterwards, I'll call you to account for it. 'Tis no lawful way, to risk men's lives for a bet."

"Moisio's right," cried several among the crowd.

The two headmen consulted in a whisper.

"Ay, if that's the way of it," says Vantti at last, and offers his hand. Falk takes it, and turns to face the crowd.

"Listen," he says aloud. "Vantti, here, and I, we take you to witness that we've called off our bet here and now. So there's none can blame us afterwards. If the two men who've entered for the match will cry off too, there's an end of it. If not, 'tis their own affair."

All eyes were turned towards the two competitors, who stood facing each other, with their friends around.

One of them, a young man in a bright red coat, lifts his head boldly. "I'm not afraid of drowning, and not going to drown," he cries.

"You draw back, then," says Moisio to Olof. "He'll not care to make the trip alone. No man's gone down the rapids here and lived—'tis madness to try."

Olof scans the water with a critical eye, the crowd waiting expectantly the while.

"I'll not deny it," says he at last. "Don't think I'm paying no heed to what you say. But I've a reason of my own for doing something more than most would venture—and I'll not draw back." He spoke loudly and clearly; all on the bridge could hear his words.

Moisio said no more, but drew back a little.

"Well, who's to go first?" said Falk.

"Let me," says Redjacket.

"As you please," said Olof.

Moisio turned to the headmen again. "You'll have some men on the farther bank," he said, "in case of accidents."

"Not on my account," puts in Redjacket scornfully. "But if the other man here wants fishing up…."

"Have them there if you like," says Olof. "'Twill do no harm."

The men take up their poles; those on the bridge look expectantly down the river.

Kohiseva Rapids are a lordly sight in spring, when the river is full. The strong arch of the bridge spans its powerful neck, and just below, the rapids begin, rushing down the first straight reach with a slight fall here and there. Then curving to the right, and breaking in foam against the rocky wall of Akeanlinna—a mighty fortress of stone rising straight up in midstream, with a clump of bushes like a helmet plume on its top. The river then divides, the left arm racing in spate down to the mill, the right turning off through a channel blasted out of the rock for the passage of timber going down. A wild piece of water this; the foam dances furiously in the narrow cut, but it ends as swiftly as the joy of life; over a ledge of rock the waves are flung a couple of fathoms down into the whirlpool called Eva's Pool. Here they check and subside, the channel widens out below, and the water passes on at a slower pace through the easier rapids below.

That is Kohiseva. The rock of Akeanlinna would be left untroubled were it not for the lumbermen and their work. In the floating season, the channel between it and the left bank is filled with timber, gathering like a great bridge, against which new arrivals fling themselves in fury, till they are drawn down through the cut.

The task which the rival champions have set themselves to-day is to make their way down the upper rapids as far as Akeanlinna, and there spring off—if they can—at the block—for there is no getting down through the cut on a timber baulk, and none could go over the ledge to Eva's Pool and live.

The men have taken up their places on the bank, and the two competitors are preparing to start.

"Wouldn't it be as well to send a couple of baulks down first, for whirlpools and hidden rocks?" suggests Olof.

"Ho, yes!" cries his rival. "And get a surveyor to mark it all out neatly on a chart—a fine idea!"

Redjacket's party burst out laughing at this, and all looked at Olof.

He flushes slightly, but says nothing, only bites his lip and turns away to study the river once more.

Redjacket looks at him sneeringly, and, pole in hand, steps out on to the boom, a little way above the bridge. Then, springing over to the raft, he chooses his craft for the voyage—a buoyant pine stem, short and thick, and stripped of its bark.

The young man smiles, with a curious expression, as he looks on.

"Did you see?" whispers one on the bridge to his neighbour. "Mark my words, he knows what he's about."

"Look out ahead!" Redjacket slips his tree trunk under the boom, and steps out on to it. Then with a touch of his foot he sends it round and round—spinning it, and sending up the water on either side.

"Ay, he's a smart lad," say the onlookers on the bridge.

Redjacket stops his manoeuvres now, gives a bold glance towards the bridge, then, with a shrill whistle, fixes the point of his pole in the wood; and, stepping back a little, with his hands on his hips, begins, mockingly, to "say his prayers."

"There! Ever see such a lad?" Redjacket's partisans look round proudly at the rest.

"Look at him—look!"

"Have done with that!" cries a stern voice from the crowd. "'Tis no time for mockery."

"What's it to you whether I choose to sing or pray?" cries Redjacket, with an oath. But he stops his show of praying, all the same, and picks up his pole again. He is nearing the bridge now.

Already the angry water swirls over the stem and laps his boots, but he stands fast.

The speed increases, the log itself disappears in a flurry of foam—those on the bridge hold their breath.

Then it comes up again. The current thrusts against its hinder end, and the buoyant wood answers to it like the tail of a fish, slipping sideways round; the steersman sways, but with a swing of his pole recovers his balance, and stands steady as before.

A sigh of relief from the watchers.

"Tra la la la!" sings Redjacket, undismayed. And he takes a couple of dance-steps on his log.

"He's no greenhorn, anyhow," the crowd agree. And some of them glance at Olof—to see how he takes their praise of his rival.

But Olof does not seem to heed; he is watching the water with a certain impatience—no more.

Just then Redjacket's log strikes a sunken rock, and is thrust backward. A swift movement—the log comes down with a splash into the foam; the man bends over, straightens his body, and stands upright as before, then strikes an attitude, and sails on past the obstacle.

"Well done—well done!"

"'Twas a marvel he cleared it."

The log goes on its way, the man standing easily as ever.

Then once more it collides. The fore end lifts—an oath is heard—next second the red jacket shows in a whirl of water. Then it disappears.

A movement of anxiety on the bridge—the watchers on the bank spring to their feet.

He is up again, swimming athwart the stream. A few powerful strokes, and he reaches the dead water close inshore.

Cursing aloud, he sits down and pours the water from his boots. One of the men posted at Akeanlinna brings him his pole—but his hat is gone. He hurries up along the bank.

"Enough—give over now!" cry those on the bridge.

"Go and tell your mother!" he answers furiously.

"Maybe he'd like to have that chart now, after all," says one, with a sly glance.

He pulls off his red coat. "Seeing I've lost my hat, I can do without a jacket." A blue shirt shows up on the raft; he picks out a fresh log, thrusts it angrily under the boom, and comes floating down towards the bridge.

"Now you can stare till you think you'll know me again."

Not a sound from those on the bridge.

The log shoots down, the man stands erect, and passes proudly under the gaze of all. He plies his pole to the right, and the log swerves a little to the opposite side—the first obstacle is safely passed, though it almost cost him his footing again.

"Aha! He's on his guard this time! Maybe he'll do it, after all!"

"Well, he said you'd know him again!" Redjacket's party are recovering confidence.

The log hurries on, the man balancing carefully with his pole.

Nearing the second rock now—the figure crouches down and steps a little back. A sudden shock, a crash—his pole has broken, and the blue shirt disappears in the rapids.

"Look! Right down there! He'll never get ashore this time." The onlookers crowd together, straining to see.

The blue shirt comes into view for a moment.

"He'll never do it—'tis right out in midstream."

"Hi—look out there on the bank!"

"He'll be smashed to pieces on the Malli Rock."

"No, no! he's too far out."

The blue shirt is carried past the threatening rock, but making straight for the big raft below. A clenched hand is raised to bid the men there stand aside—he will manage alone. But they take no heed. One thrusts a pole between the swimmer's legs as he nears the raft, another grasps him by the neck, and they haul him up—a heavy pull, with the water striving all the time to suck him under. Inch by inch the blue shirt rises above the edge.

He limps ashore, supported by a man on either side. One knee is bleeding.

"'Tis more than man can do!" he cries in a broken voice, shaking his fist toward the bridge.

* * * * *

There is a low murmur of voices on the bridge, an anxious whispering. Olof picks up his pole. Close behind him a young girl plucks at the sleeve of an elderly man, and seems to be urging him, entreating….

Moisio turns to Olof. "Once more I ask of you—let it be enough. You have seen how your companion fared. Do not try it again."

"I must," answered Olof in a voice cold and hard as steel, with a ring of confidence that impressed those who heard.

He goes off to the raft, picks out a log and tries its buoyancy with care. A long pine stem, with the bark off, and floating deep in the water.

"Ah—he's choosing a horse of another sort!"

"Tis another sort of rider, too, by his looks."

Olof was nearing the bridge now—calmly, without a word, watching the course of the river all the time. Reaching the bridge, he raised his eyes for a moment, and met the glance of a girl looking down. A faint smile, and the slightest inclination of the head, no more.

"Good luck to you!" cried several of the onlookers; a certain sympathy was evident among the crowd.

Now he glides under the bridge, on towards the perilous stage of the journey—all watch with eager eyes.

The strange craft cleaves the waves, sending up spray on either hand—but the heavy log, floating deep, hardly moves; the steersman keeps his footing steadily as on firm ground.

"That's the way! Ah, he knows the sort of craft to choose for the work!"

The log hurries on, the lithe figure bends a little, balancing with the pole.

"Turn off—turn off! He's making straight for the rock!"

He stands poised, with muscles tense, his pole in readiness, his eyes fixed on the whirl about the sunken rock, his knees slightly bent.

A shock—and he springs deftly in air as the heavy log is thrust backward under him—taking his footing again as firmly as before.

"Bravo, bravo! Finely done!"

On again. A few quick, powerful strokes with the pole—and the rock that had been his rival's undoing is safely passed.

"He'll do it! He's the man!" The onlookers were all excitement now.

The speed increases, the lithe figure swaying to either side. A thrust from the left—he springs light-footed to meet it.

Once more his body is bent, his pole held firmly, knees crouching deep—those on the bridge crane their necks to watch.

The next shock comes with a crash that is plainly heard by those upstream; again he springs as the log thrusts back, and comes down neatly as before. A few paces forward to get his balance, then back a step or two like a tight-rope walker.

"That's the way, lad!"

"He knows how to dance!"

"Look out for Malli Rock!"

"Ay, if he can clear that!"

Malli Rock stands ready to meet the attack; the rapids are tearing past on either side.

The log comes down, making full towards the smooth, sloping face of the rock.

Olof swerves a little to the right, and leaps off, coming down in a whirl of spray. The rock has done its part, and sent the end of the log high out of the water; Olof lands on it and goes on again, the log scraping the face of the rock as it passes.

"Sticks like a leech, he does! He's done it now!"

A cheer from the crowd.

Straight down in midstream now. A little ahead the river bends—he is nearing the block at Akeanlinna.

"Now for the last lap!"

"Ay—and the worst of all!"

Two—three short paces back—the log brings up full against the block.

A leap and a crash, a run almost to the fore end of the log before he can check his pace. The log is flung out again into the current, and shivers as if paralysed by the blow. Then the water carries it down again.

The men at their posts stare helplessly—one of them gives a cry, and the onlookers shudder. "Heavens—he's missed it now!"

More shouting, and men running up and down the banks; others standing as if rooted to the spot.

Olof glances at the mass of timber by the rock. A swing of the pole, a sudden deft turn, and hurrying to the other end of the log, he begins poling hard across the stream.

"He's making for the other bank!"

"He'll never do it—and there's no one there to help!"

"Oh—look! He'll be carried over the edge!"

Hard fighting now. Olof is striving to reach the farther bank, the current is drawing the end of the log nearer and nearer the falls—already the water is seething over it.

Two furious strokes, a swift step, and another, and, lifting his pole, he flies through the air—toward the shore. The pole strikes something, as all on the bridge can hear—then he is lost to sight.

A rush of men downstream, crying and shouting….

Then, a moment later, a waving of hats from the men at Akeanlinna, and a cheer is passed from group to group upstream. Some stop, others race on—he is saved—but how?

Then a tall figure appears standing on the shore, waving his hand triumphantly. A mighty cheer from all the onlookers and a waving of hats and kerchiefs. "There he is!"

Olof walks up with easy steps, but the blood is streaming down his face. The first to meet him is a girl, her face pale, her body trembling with emotion. She is standing by herself—the others are still far off.

Olof stops and hesitates—shall he go to meet her, or turn off? The girl casts down her eyes. He draws nearer—she looks up, and gives him one deep, warm glance, and looks down again—her cheeks flushed.

Olof's face lights up, and he lifts his hat as he passes. Then the crowd surges round him with shouts of applause.

"Bravo! Well done! Here's the man that's beaten Kohiseva! Who's the best man now?"

Vantti steps forward and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Well done, lad! 'Tis plain to see you're not born to be drowned." And the sturdy fellow laughs till his great boots shake.

"You've made a name for yourself to-day," says Falk.

"'Olof' was a bit short, maybe…."

"Aha-a-a!"

"So now they'll call you Kohiseva—and a good name too!"

"'Tis as good as another," said Olof, with a laugh. "And longer, anyway."

"And now we'll go down to the mill and see about drinks all round. Twice round, it ought to be—'twas worth it!"

* * * * *

When Olof came home that evening, a girl sat anxiously waiting at Moisio.

A bright rose was stuck between the palings of the fence beside the road. Olof sprang across the ditch—the girl drew her head back behind the curtain.

He fastened the rose in his coat. With a grateful glance he searched the garden, up towards the house, but no one was to be seen.

In the safe shelter of her room a girl sat bowed over the table with her face hidden in her arms, crying softly.

THE SONG OF THE BLOOD-RED FLOWER

"Why are you so sad this evening, Olof?" asked the girl.

"Sad?" he repeated, almost to himself, staring absently before him. "Yes—I wish I knew."

"But how—when it is yourself—don't you know?"

"No—that's the strange thing about it. I don't know."

There was a pause.

"I won't ask you if you don't like it," she said, after a while. "But if I were sad, and had a friend, I should want to."

"And make your friend sad too—by telling things no friend could understand?"

"Perhaps a friend might try."

But Olof seemed not to have heard. He leaned back, and his glance wandered vaguely.

"Life is very strange," he said dreamily. "Isn't it strange to have cared very much for a thing—and then one day to feel it as nothing at all?"

She looked inquiringly at him.

"My own life, for instance. Up to now, it has been a beautiful story, but now…."

"Now…?"

"Now, I can't see what it is—or if it is anything at all. Going from place to place, from river to river—from one adventure to another…."

Again there was a pause.

"But why do you live so?" she asked timidly. "I have so often wondered."

"I wonder myself sometimes why I must live so—or if I must—but it goes on all the same."

"Must…? But your home … your father and mother, are they still alive? You have never spoken of them."

"Yes, they are still alive."

"And couldn't you live with them?"

"No," he said coldly. "They could not make me stay."

"But aren't you fond of them?" she asked in surprise.

He was silent a moment. "Yes," he said at last, "I am fond of them—as I am fond of many other things. But there is nothing that can hold me for long."

Something within him was striving for utterance—something he had long restrained.

"And now," he went on, almost violently, "I want…." He stopped.

"You want…?"

"It is something to do with you, Kyllikki," he said earnestly, as if in warning.

"Tell me. You need not be afraid," said the girl in a low voice.

"I want to say good-bye to you—and not as friends," he said passionately.

"Not—not as friends?"

"That is what I said. We met first—you know how it was—it was no friendly meeting. And best if we could leave each other that way too."

"But why…?"

"Because—shall I tell you?"

"I want you to."

He looked her sharply and coldly in the eyes. "Because you have not been what I hoped you would. Ay, and thought you would. I was proud and happy when I knew I had won your friendship. But I thought I had won more than that—something warmer and deeper—a thing complete."

She was silent for a moment.

"Warm and deep—a thing complete?" she repeated. "Did you give that yourself?"

"No! But I could have done. I wished to—but you made it impossible. We have known each other now for a week—and what has come of it? I have scarcely dared to take your hand."

"But what more could you…?"

"What more? Have you for my own—possess you. All or nothing!"

The girl seemed struggling with some inward feeling.

"May I ask you something?" she asked softly.

"Go on!"

"Have me for your own, you said." She hesitated, but went on resolutely: "Does that mean—have me for your own to-day, and go away to-morrow—and then, perhaps, think of me at times as one among a host of others you have 'possessed'?"

He shot a glance at her, almost of hatred, but said no word.

"Perhaps," went on the girl calmly, "perhaps you too have not been what I hoped and thought. If you had…."

"What then?" he asked quickly, as if in challenge.

"Then you would not—speak as you are doing now," she answered evasively. "And perhaps what makes you angry now is only this—that you can never have more than you are able to take yourself."

He looked at her in wonder.

"And perhaps"—her voice was scarcely audible now—"perhaps you cannot take more than you are able to keep?"

She looked down in confusion, hardly knowing what she had said, only that she had been forced to say it.

He sat watching her for a while thoughtfully, as if he had heard something new and unexpected, and was pondering over it.

"You must have known yourself that I could never keep—or keep to—anyone," he said at last.

"I know that," she answered; "you don't want to."

It was as if a fine, sharp thorn had pierced him to the heart, and left its point there. The two sat looking at each other without a word.

"And if I would…." He grasped her hand earnestly. "Do you think I might dare?"

The girl turned pale, and did not speak.

"Answer me," he said insistently.

"Surely each must know that for himself," she answered at last, speaking with difficulty.

"Kyllikki, Kyllikki, if you only knew!" he cried sorrowfully, and took her hands in his. Then a sudden coldness came over him once more.

"And if I were to dare," he said, "there is one other besides you and me."

"Are you afraid of him?" she asked sharply.

"No. But if he turned me from his door in scorn…."

"If the thought of that counts for so much," she said, with emphasis, "then it were better not to ask. For, after—whom would you love more, do you think; yourself, or the one you think you love?"

He winced under her glance.

"If it were for your sake I feared?" he asked, with some feeling.

"No need of that—as long as I know you are sure in your own mind. And if you were sure—you need have no fear for me."

He looked at her in surprise and admiration.

"You are a strange girl, Kyllikki," he said at last. "I am only just beginning to understand you. You are not as I hoped you would be—but you are something more. I know what it must have cost you to say so much. I shall not forget."

Again the trouble rose within him. "You, I understand," he said wearily. "Yes. But myself—"

"You will find that out as well, some day," she said tenderly.

"If only there was time now…." He sat for a moment in thought.

"We are leaving to-morrow afternoon. If I have got things clear in my own mind by then, I will come and see you before we go. But it will be at the last minute. For if it comes to what I think it will, then I must not stay a moment longer."

The girl nodded. Both rose to their feet.

"Kyllikki," he said, with emotion, taking her hands, "it may be this is the last time I see you alone. Do not think hardly of me because I am what I am."

"You could not be otherwise," she answered warmly. "I understand."

"I shall be grateful to you for that always. And perhaps…." His voice broke. "Good-bye, Kyllikki!"

* * * * *

It was Sunday afternoon. The lumbermen were getting ready to leave. The young folk of the village, and some of the elders, had come down to the creek at Kohiseva to see them start.

The water was almost clear of timber already, the boom was being dragged slowly down the dead water by a few of the men. Some went ahead, getting odd logs out of the way, others strolled idly about on the shore, exchanging greetings with the villagers.

A little way down the bank a log is stranded with one end thrust far inshore. Close by it lies a pole.

"That's Olof's," says one of the men. "He's not come down yet—busy up at the village, it seems."

A girl in the group of lookers-on felt her heart beat suddenly.

"H'm—left it to ride down on, I suppose. Wants to take another turn down the rapids before he goes."

"Ay, that's it. Likes that way better than going on a raft like ordinary folk. That's him coming down, isn't it?"

Olof came racing down like the wind.

A girl in the group turned pale. She could see from his manner what had passed. Something terrible it must have been to bring him down in a fury like that.

He came nearer. His face was deadly pale, his lips compressed, and his eyes flashed, though he looked out over the water all the time.

He raised his hat as he passed the group, but without a glance at anyone.

"What's happened now?" The question was in all eyes, but no one spoke.

Olof grasped his pole, thrust off the log, and sprang out on it. He took a few powerful strokes, and turned, casting his eyes over the group on the shore. He was looking for one amongst them—and found her.

"Good-bye!" he cried, waving his hat.

"Good-bye—good-bye! Come again some day to Kohiseva!"

The men waved their hats, the girls fluttered kerchiefs in farewell.

Olof was still facing toward the shore, paddling slowly out across the creek.

Those on shore would have sent him a friendly word, but no one spoke—all were looking at a girl whose face was strangely pale.

Paler than ever it seemed as the man stopped rowing, and fixed his eyes on the group.

"Ay, cast your coins in a beggar's hat, And he'll bless your charity. I was good enough for the girl I loved, But her kin were prouder than she!"

There was a depth of bitterness in the words—the listeners started involuntarily.

"What's taken him all at once? Never heard him sing that way before!"

"Sh! Listen!"

The singer glanced down at the water, took a few strokes out, and went on:

"My home is where the rapids roar, Below the river's brink. All the rivers of all the world— Who cares if he swim or sink?"

The listeners glanced at one another—the meaning of the song was growing clear.

"'Twas no spring day that gave me life With sunlit skies and clear, But a leafless gloom that sent me forth To wander many a year.

My mother wept in her garden lone, Or ever I was born; Looked at a blood-red flower and wept For that her heart was torn."

He was midway across now, paddling slowly, bending a little forward. Those on the shore stood still, waiting.

"And that same flower grew red in my way, And I wished it for my own. I won but little joy of its bloom That was in sorrow grown.

But little joy when my father rose And drove me from his door, And my mother wept as I went to seek What sorrow was yet in store."

A girl was crying softly. The rest stood silent.

"O blood-red flower, O flame-red flower, That ever you grew so red! Ask of my love if she knows you now, When all her tears are shed!"

With a wave of his hand the singer turned, and made his way swiftly across the river.

Those on the shore waved in return, and stood watching and waving long, but he did not look back.