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“I am lost,” answered Barbara, contentedly, as one would say, “My shoes are a little dusty.”

“That’s bad,” sympathised the other. “Where are you lost from?”

“The Adamses’ or the Maxwells’, I don’t know which. I started to go from one to the other. Then there was the deer, and so I got lost.”

“I see,” he agreed with entire assurance. “And now what are you going to do?”

“I am not going to do anything. You are to take me home.”

“To the Adamses or the Maxwells?”

“To whichever is nearest.”

The young man seemed to be debating. Barbara glanced at his thoughtful, strong face from under the edge of her picture-hat, which slyly she had rearranged. She liked his face. It was so good-humoured.

“It is almost sunset,” replied the youth at length. “You can see the shadows are low. How do you hope to push through the woods after dark? There are wild animals–wolves!” he added, maliciously.

Barbara looked up again with sudden alarm.

“But what shall we do?” she cried, less composedly. “You must take me home!”

“I can try,” said he, with the resignation of the man who can but die.

The tone had its effect.

“What do you advise?” she asked.

“That we camp here,” he proposed, calmly, with an air of finality.

“Oh!” dissented Barbara in alarm. “Never! I am afraid of the woods! It will be wet and cold! I am hungry! My feet are just sopping!”

“I will watch all night with my rifle,” he told her. “I will fix you a tent, and will cook you a supper, and your feet shall not be wet and cold one moment longer than you will.”

“Isn’t your home nearer?” she asked.

“My home is where night finds me,” he replied.

Barbara meditated. It was going to be dreadful. She knew she would catch her death of cold. But what could she do about it?

“You may fix the wet-feet part,” she assented at last.

“All right,” agreed the young man with alacrity. He unslung the pack from his back, and removed from the straps a little axe. “Now, I am not going to be gone but a moment,” he assured her, “and while I am away, you must take off your shoes and stockings and put these on.” He had been fumbling in his pack, and now produced a pair of thick woollen lumberman’s socks.

Barbara held one at arm’s length in each hand, and looked at them. Then she looked up at the young man. Then they both laughed.

While her new protector was away, Barbara not only made the suggested changes, but she did marvels with the chiffon. Really, it did not look so bad, considering.

When the young man returned with an armful of hemlock bark and the slivers of a pine-stump, he found her sitting bolt upright on a log, her feet tucked under her. Before the fire he shortly hung the two webs of gossamer and the two dear little ridiculous little high-heeled shoes, with their silver buckles. Then in a most business-like fashion he pitched a diminutive shelter-tent. With equal expedition he built a second fire between two butternut-logs, produced a frying-pan, and set about supper.

The twilight was just falling. Somehow the great forest had lost its air of unfriendliness. The birds were singing in exactly the same way they used to sing in the tiny woods of the Picnic Grounds. It was difficult to believe in the wilderness. The young man moved here and there with accustomed ease, tending his pot and pan, feeding the fire. Barbara watched him interestedly. Gradually the conviction gained on her that he was worth while, and that he had not once glanced in her direction since he had begun his preparations. At the moment he was engaged in turning over sizzling things in the pan.

“If you please,” said Barbara, with her small air of decision, “I am very thirsty.”

“You will have to wait until I go to the spring,” replied the man without stirring.