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"The French Flotilla!" exclaimed Miss Acton. "In sight, do you say?" "Walter Watland—what?" Above him bent a face with tender blue eyes and red, half-smiling lips beneath a crowning glory as golden as frost-pinched maple leaf. And she would be at school in the morning! It was while pondering on how he might contrive to wear his Sunday clothes on the morrow that Billy fell asleep to dream that he was old man Scroggie's ghost and that he was sitting in the centre of Lake Erie with the big hardwoods bush on his knees, waiting for her to come that he might present it all to her. He walked to a bed of flowers at which an under-gardener was at work, and said to the man: "Have you good eyes?".