The snow lay deep—and still it fell.

On a low stone wall by the roadside Ruth Heywood sat in solemn meditation. With melancholy eyes she watched the door of the little red school house a hundred yards away. On the porch of that school house shivered Zac, also waiting. He, too, kept his eyes on the door, but he had no intention of rebuking the prisoner—should he ever appear. Why try to improve an already perfect thing?

Above Ruth's head the North Wind, moaning through the leafless branches of the maples, played dirge-like airs. Now, late in the afternoon, the darkening sky seemed bearing down upon the snow-covered earth. And Ruth's thoughts were all in harmony with the world about her. There was reason for a joyless face. More experienced women than Ruth had found sorrow and defeat in acting as guardian angel to erring males.

Other children had gone home. Cyrus was being held in punishment. And the punishment was just. The Guardian Angel disliked this business, but Cyrus had no mother, aunt or sister, and his father, being only a man, did not realize the situation. Therefore, it seemed clear to Ruth that she was the chosen instrument by which Cyrus was to be rescued from a career of shame and failure.

At last the boy appeared. Zac bounced with joy, stirring the snowy air with cries of welcome. And Cyrus, glad as any other prisoner to be again at liberty, came running after.

Ruth walked out into the road and stood before him. As he stopped there was a smile on his face, the old familiar smile of the guilty, who hope to soften the face of Justice. But Justice was not beguiled. On the face of the Guardian Angel came no returning smile. Instead, with accusing eyes, she slowly shook her head.

"Cyrus, you ought to be ashamed."

"Why?"

"You know very well why. You are bad, very bad, and teacher was right to keep you after school and punish you."

Cyrus gave up smiling. He reached forth and toyed with one of the horn buttons on the Guardian Angel's coat. "I don't think I am bad just because I hate that geography."

"It's your duty to learn it whether you hate it or not. You will grow up an ignorant, good-for-nothing man unless you study your lessons. Everybody knows that. You ought to go straight home and tell your father you have been kept after school. Just tell him all about it. Will you?"

There was a puckering of the boy's mouth, but no answer.

"If you were stupid, and couldn't learn if you tried, it would be different, but you are just perverse and—and bad. If you don't do better I shall just go and tell your father myself."

"Oh, Ruthy! You wouldn't do that!" And he let go the button and took a backward step, as one who shrinks from a faithless friend.

"But it's for your own good, Drowsy. And, besides, teacher will tell him if I don't."

"I s'pose she would."

"You don't want to grow up and know less than anybody else—even less than school children?"

Cyrus smiled. "That would be funny!"

"No, it would not be funny. Do you think it would be funny to dig ditches all your life and drive oxen like old Sim Barker?"

"But what makes him so bad is because he's foolish and dirty and has tobacco juice in the corners of his mouth. Geography wouldn't help him—nor anybody else. Geography!" And Cyrus uttered the word with a fathomless contempt. "That geography just makes me sick—just sick, sick, sick—and mad! What stuff it tells you! Which is the largest African Lake? Where are the Barbary States? What about the surface of Abyssinia? What are the products of the Cape of Good Hope? Who in thunder cares for the climate of Uruguay or the exports of Ecuador? Who'd ever be such a fool as to want to remember the population of Thibet? And who cares anyway? Any jackass can know those things whenever he wants to by looking at a map or that fool geography."

"Oh, Cyrus, you mustn't talk like that!"

But the revolutionist went on. "Why don't they tell us things worth remembering? Look at my lesson to-day! The Island of Madagascar! Who in thunder wants to know about the products of Madagascar? Hoh! It makes me sick!"

"But, Drowsy, Madagascar is an important island and——"

"Important grandmother! Any fool can read about it. Why don't they tell me things I want to know?"

"What thing do you want to know?"

"I want to know things that other people don't know. I want to know how the earth looks when you are standing on the moon. I want to know what's lying in the mud at the bottom of the Tiber—all the bronze and gold and marble things; and what sort of people live on the other planets, and why cats and dogs can see in the dark. And if God is good and not mean—why did he make Bobby Carter a hunchback?"

"Oh, Cyrus! It's wicked to talk like that!"

"No, it isn't. I'm only asking about it. I'm only asking why teacher doesn't tell us things worth knowing. I want to know what would happen if you dug a well through the center of the earth. Would a stone keep on dropping till it came out the other side?"

"That is gravity," said Ruth in her wisest manner, glad of a chance to hold her position as mentor.

"Yes, but the name doesn't help any. If I got into a big cannon ball and was shot up into the air how many hundreds of miles would I go before I would fall back? And if you should go up in a balloon a mile high I want to know if you would stay still and see the earth going round and round beneath you or would you have to go with it—and Massachusetts always just underneath."

"There's no use in knowing that."

"Yes, there is. When I'm grown up I may do something like it."

Ruth laughed. "You silly boy! Nobody ever did such a thing."

"But I may. Lots of things have been done that were never done before. And mighty surprisin' things, too!"

There was no denying this. So Ruth, for want of words, merely gazed upon him in sorrow and disapproval, as any Conservative might gaze upon any Radical. Before she could frame a speech to fit the look the orator again rushed on. He spoke rapidly and with feeling. The drowsy eyes became wider open. His hands with the gray mittens moved freely in the snowy air. To Ruth it was a sudden transformation of a prospective ignoramus into an inspired orator. In a higher, thinner voice he demanded: "What makes one kind of electricity do what another kind can't? And if men are so smart, why didn't they use electricity thousands of years ago instead of just now? The air has always been full of it."

This was an interesting question. But the Guardian Angel had no answer ready.

"And what makes light travel so fast? Why, just think of it, a hundred and fifty thousand miles in one second! And heat. There's lots to learn about heat. Why do folks burn wood and coal in winter instead of storing up heat in summer when there's too much of it. They keep ice all summer. And why not keep heat all winter? And just look at sunshine! Why not keep some overnight to read by? I could do it if I was a man."

The orator paused to get his breath.

"But, Cyrus, perhaps you can learn all those things later."

"But I want to know 'em now. Not the things I've just been reciting, the climate of Texas, the crops of New South Wales and the population of Wurtemburg. Hoh! I could be a teacher myself and tell things everybody knows already. Teachers are no smarter than anybody else. I asked her why some families, like the Herricks, have all boys and other families all girls."

"What did she say?"

"She just couldn't tell me. And she didn't like it when I asked her why God, who knows everything, should do foolish things."

"Oh, Cyrus!"

"Well, he makes warm days in April to start things going, then sends a sudden frost and nips the blossoms and kills the crops. Any fool farmer knows better than that."

Ruth frowned. "You should not say such things." But the orator ignored the rebuke. "Instead of telling me about the wrecks and ruins and the treasures and the forests at the bottom of the ocean, teacher tells me how many bales of cotton and barrels of molasses come from Alabama. Why, Ruthy, at the Island of St. Helena the ocean is nearly six miles deep!"

"But, Cyrus, nobody really knows just what lies at the bottom of the ocean."

"Hoh! That's just it. Teacher stuffs us with things everybody knows. All the easy things. Any cow or any hen can know 'em. I want the other things. If she's a teacher she ought to know about the bottom of the sea. She ought to tell us about Atlantis. There's be some fun in that."

"Atlantis?"

"Yes. That was the big island out in the Atlantic Ocean that suddenly disappeared. It sank to the bottom of the sea. Don't you remember?"

Ruth was honest and slowly shook her head. Yet she knew that her position as mentor, spiritual guide and good example became weaker should the ignoramus she was rebuking display more learning than herself.

But Cyrus was too much absorbed in the bigness of his subject to think of himself or other trifles. "Why, Ruthy, it was a whole kingdom, this island—a continent. It was covered with beautiful temples, whole cities and lots of people. And all of a sudden—nobody knows why—it disappeared beneath the waves! And now, to-day, down at the bottom of the ocean those cities and those marble temples are still standing!"

"Where was this island?"

"Off to the west of Spain, and Africa. People think the Azores and the Canary Islands are the tops of mountains of that sunken country."

Ruth said nothing, but the enchanting eyes spoke plainly of surprise and wonder. "When did that happen?"

"Way back in ancient times; before Greece began."

The enthusiasm of Cyrus produced its effect on Ruth, and the earnest eyes of Ruth had their usual effect on Cyrus. He laid one of his hands, in its gray worsted mitten, against the Guardian Angel's chest. "And, Ruthy, just think of those white marble temples! Just think of the streets and houses! Think of all the statues and the helmets, shields and swords and spears all lying around down there at the bottom of the ocean! Think of all the ornaments in gold and silver! And think, that in those great white cities with all their treasure, coral and sea plants grow instead of trees! And the only living things are fishes swimming in and out among the statues and the monuments, the palaces, the forums and the amphitheaters."

The orator drew a long breath, then in a lower tone: "I'd give anything to spend a day in that place."

Little batches of snow had gathered on the heads and shoulders of the two children. For a moment they stood in silence, Ruth gazing thoughtfully at Cyrus, Cyrus gazing in anger and contempt toward the school house.

At this point there came a sudden change in the Guardian Angel's manner. She realized the necessity for different tactics. Familiar with Cyrus's astonishing cleverness in argument she suspected that he was justifying his own guilt by this dazzling display of wisdom. Then came a swift transformation in the irresistible eyes, from sympathy to rebuke.

"Stop," she said.

Cyrus stopped—midway in a sentence.

"Those reasons you can tell to teacher. They are no excuse for being a lazy boy; I shall tell your father unless you do better."

Then she turned and walked away, striking her cold hands together for warmth. Cyrus followed, treading the narrow path in the snow made by horse's feet.

But shivering Zac, who had good excuse for shivering after his long wait on the windy porch, ran joyfully ahead. He had borne with patience this long delay. Cyrus picked up a handful of snow and molded it into a ball. As they were passing the store he caught Ruth by a sleeve and pointed to a boy more than a hundred feet away. The boy was stooping over a sled.

"What'll you bet I can't hit Luther from here?"

Now Cyrus was a surprisingly good shot. He seemed able to hit whatever he fired at, and from unbelievable distances. His surprising accuracy in this direction had made him pitcher on the village nine. But Ruth, remembering her rÔle as Guardian Angel, merely turned about and started on again in dignified silence. But from the corners of her eyes she watched the unsuspecting Luther, for she knew the missile would reach its mark. Her silent prophecy was correct. Through the snowy air the missile flew. It landed, with force, on the victim's back, just below his neck. He straightened up and looked about. Then with a shout of defiance he scooped a handful of snow, quickly rolled it into a ball and sent it toward the enemy. Here the unexpected happened. The snow ball, thrown in a hurry, would have missed Cyrus by a yard or more even had Fate allowed it to go its way. But Deacon Phineas Whitlock intervened. This stern old puritan of ferocious aspect, of iron will and despotic temper, the terror of children and of all other habitual sinners, was just passing Cyrus in solemn dignity, toward the store.

The snowy sphere forwarded by Luther landed full upon the deacon's mouth. And, as the deacon's mouth happened to be partly open at the time—from his habit of preaching to himself—he received within it a portion of the missile as it smashed and spread about his face. Swiftly he wiped his face with the back of a hand. His temper was a hot one. Luther knew it, and he grabbed the rope to his sled and disappeared down the hill behind the store, with a velocity no elderly deacon could hope to attain. Spluttering and wiping snow from his mouth and nose he turned threatening eyes on Cyrus. In a voice between a gasp and a shout of rage he demanded:

"Who is that boy? Who is he? What's his name?"

Cyrus shook his head. "I don't know, sir."

"Yes, you do! Who is he? What's his name?"

"I don't know, sir. Honestly I don't."

"Don't know, you young rascal! You have eyes. What's his name?"

But Cyrus, with a protesting, most polite and sorrowful gesture with both his hands, again proclaimed his ignorance. "I really don't know, sir. The air is so full of snow I didn't see his face."

Deacon Whitlock again spluttered. His speech was incoherent, but doubt and anger were plainly indicated. However, he turned away—still muttering.

Then the Guardian Angel approached the liar. "Cyrus Alton! How can you do such a thing?"

"What thing?"

"Deacon Whitlock knows perfectly well you knew who it was, and that you told him a lie. And he will despise you for it. So would everybody else. So do I despise you for it."

His only answer to this was a look of mingled sorrow and remonstrance. Then, instead of trying to defend himself, as the Guardian Angel expected, he looked away. He also heaved a sigh,—a sigh of weariness and discouragement, an unboylike, elderly sigh such as grown-ups use.

The Guardian Angel continued. "And I should think you would be ashamed to be such a coward."

Cyrus stiffened at the word. "A coward!"

"Yes, coward. People only lie when they are afraid. If you had been brave you would have told the truth."

"But, Ruthy, you don't understand. I did it to save Luther. If Deacon Whitlock knew who it was he would tell Luther's father and Luther might get a lickin'."

Ruth shook her head. "Your duty was to tell the truth—or say nothing."

"No, sirree! That isn't true. The Bible says do unto others as you'd like to have other fellers do unto you. And I did just what I would want Luther to do for me."

This line of defense was confusing, and Ruth was familiar with his skill in argument. She knew well enough the pitfalls he could dig for the embarrassment of any adversary. So, regarding him with the sternest look she could bring into a very gentle face, she said:

"It is wrong to tell lies and you know it is. And you are bad—just bad. Why don't you button up your coat in front? The snow is actually blowing down your neck."

And she drew the collar of his overcoat closer about his throat and tried to fasten it. "Why, the button is gone! Joanna ought to see to it. You really ought to have a mother, Drowsy. You aren't half taken care of."

This time Cyrus had nothing to say in his own defense. She laid a hand against his cheek. "Your face is hot. I believe you are sick now!"

Cyrus smiled, and nodded. "I shouldn't wonder if I was."

"Why? How do you feel?"

"Oh, sort of—sort of—funny."

"How, funny?"

"I don't know. Sort of cold and then hot and then cold—and kind of trembly. That's why I didn't hit Luther on the head instead of down on his back."

"Now, Cyrus Alton, you go straight home and tell your father just how you feel. Tell him all about it." Then, with increasing severity: "It's a shame you haven't got a mother. I believe it is because you are bad and that's the way God punishes you."

Then she turned away and started on again, Cyrus close behind. In front of her own home she stopped suddenly and wheeled about;—so suddenly that Cyrus walked against her. He took a backward step, and as they looked into each other's faces he said, quietly:

"No, it doesn't."

Ruth's eyes opened wide, in surprise. "Doesn't what?"

"It doesn't mean what you asked."

"But, Drowsy, I didn't ask anything!"

"You thought it, though."

"Thought what?"

"That because I told lies now I would not be an honest man when I grew up. But that isn't so. I shall be an honest man."

"Yes, but I hadn't spoken a word. How could you tell what I was going to say?"

"Oh, I dunno. I can often do that."

"Yes, you have done it before, but how do you do it? How do you know? Just guess at it?"

"No. It sort of comes—as if—well—just the usual way—only without the words waiting to be spoken. I guess it's natural enough."

"Natural enough! Why, it's most mysterious. Nobody else does it."

"Oh, p'r'aps lots of people do it. We don't know everybody."

"But if many people did it we should have heard about them. No, it's very mysterious. Why, Drowsy, I had just opened my lips to say your being such a liar now proves you will be a dishonest man and you said, before I uttered a word, 'No, it doesn't.'"

Cyrus smiled. "I guess it must be a sort of telegraphing without wires, like that man Marconi has just discovered."

For a moment they stood in silence, Ruth looking earnestly into the boy's slumbrous, half smiling eyes, trying vainly to explain the unexplainable. "It's all the harder to understand," she said, "because you could only see the back of my head. And this horrid storm was blowing between us."

"Yes, it's funny, and I dunno much about it. But I believe I could get it if I wasn't seeing you at all; I mean, if you were way off, out of sight."

"Really?"

"Yes, sir! I believe I could. Let's try it some day. Will you?"

"Yes, little Drowsy, when ever you say."

Once more she laid a hand against his face.

"Your cheeks are hot again. Now you go straight home and tell your father just how you feel, and have Joanna sew on that button. Will you?"

"Yep. All right."

He started off. About a dozen yards away he stopped and looked back. She was still standing where he left her, and was watching him. The obvious lack of confidence in his promise—or her air of authority with all this military discipline caused a momentary revolt. He picked up a handful of snow, rolled it quickly in a ball and threw it. She saw it coming, but merely bent her head and lifted an arm in protection.

'Twas a good shot. But the snowball, being soft, merely broke against her arm. Ruth lowered the arm and raised her head, slowly and calmly, as a Guardian Angel who is invulnerable to earthly weapons. She pointed toward his home.

Cyrus raised his cap, moved it grandly through the air in a sweeping curve, bowed very low, then turned and marched away.

He walked with no suspicion of pursuit. But Ruth had obeyed a sudden impulse. She started forward on a run, and when close behind him gave a sudden push with both hands. He tumbled forward into a drift and rolled over on his back. As he started to get up, she pounced on him with all her weight. Then with both knees on his chest she rubbed his face with snow.

Had the assailant been another boy, Cyrus would have kicked and struck and fought him off. But you do not kick and strike your aunts, your mother or your best girl. So, he merely pushed and wriggled about, with eyes and mouth tight shut.

Zac seemed to enjoy the business as much as Ruth. He barked and plunged about as if cheering for the victor.

Well into Cyrus's face Ruth rubbed the snow. "Take that, you horrid boy, and that, and that!"

With a triumphant laugh she took her knees from his chest, jumped to her feet and ran away. And as she ran she expected just what happened. For Cyrus, also quickly on his feet, drew the backs of his mittens across his eyes for clearer vision, then sent a snowball toward the vanishing figure. It landed between her shoulders. But she ignored it, and ran into her own house without even a backward glance.

For a moment Cyrus stood and watched her, then started homeward.

It was a friendly enough parting, but it might have been different had they know how many years were to come and go before they met again.