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 were no football games to play and his home was depressingly Sabbatical. And this was a Saturday, and Don did not expect to be disturbed. He had made himself comfortable on a little knoll of grass, with the stream at his feet and the slim white stem of a silver birch at his back; Dexter had curled himself in a patch of sunlight near by, his nose between his paws, blinking sleepily; some wood sparrows twittered and quarrelled among the evergreens.

Don, with a book of the "Odyssey" on his knees and a "crib" in his hand, fitted the translation to the text and marked with a lead pencil the words he did not know. He was so busy that he did not notice Dexter when the dog pricked up its ears. He was murmuring: "Then answering him—then answering him—the wily Odysseus—the wily Odysseus—said 'King Alcinous.—The dog sat up, its nostrils twitching, and watched the trail of brown path down which they had come. Truly it is a beautiful thing.'—Quiet, sir." The dog had growled. "What's the matter with you?" He looked up from his study. There was a girl approaching through the trees.

He put his cap on quickly, and fixed his attention on his book in a pretence of absorption which he intended to maintain until she had passed. But, in a moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stop; and Dexter, having sniffed at the hem of her skirt—which came almost to her shoe-tops—barked and ran away up the path. She came closer, and stood there. He raised his eyes from her ankles—which were neatly turned—to her belt, in which she carried a bunch of violets—and then to a face that was dimly