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“The poor dear,” said she, “he has no place to sleep. He is guarding me from the dangers of the forest.” Which was quite ridiculous, as any woodsman will know.

Her drowsy eyes watched him wistfully–her mystery, her hero of romance. Again the fire blurred, again the solemn shadows paused. A last thought shaped itself in Barbara’s consciousness.

“Why, he must be very old,” she said to herself. “He must be twenty-six.”

So she fell asleep.

III

Barbara awoke to the sun and the crisp morning air and a delightful feeling that she had slept well and had not been uncomfortable at all. The flap of the tent was discreetly closed. When ready she peeped through the crack and saw Stanton bending over the fire.

In a moment he straightened and approached the tent. When within a few feet he paused. Through the hollow of his hands he cried out the long, musical, morning call of the woodsman.

“R-o-o-oll out!” he cried. The forest took up the sound in dying modulations.

For answer Barbara threw aside the tent-flap and stepped into the sun.

“Good-morning,” said she.

“Salut!” he replied. “Come and I will show you the spring.”

“I am sorry I cannot offer you a better variety for your breakfast. It is only the supper over again,” he explained, after she had returned, and had perched like a fluffy bird of paradise on the log. Her cheeks were very pink from the cold water, and her eyes were very beautiful from the dregs of dreams, and her hair very glittering from the kissing of the early sun. And, wonderful to say, she forgot to thrust out her pointed chin in the fashion so entirely adorable.

She ate with relish, for the woods-hunger was hers. Stanton said nothing. The time was pregnant with unspoken things. All the charming elements of the little episode were crystallising for them, and instinctively Barbara felt that in a few moments she would be compelled to read their meaning.

At last the man said, without stirring:

“Well, I suppose we’d better be going.”

“I suppose so,” she replied.

They sat there some time longer, staring abstractedly at the kindly green forest; then Stanton abruptly arose and began to construct his pack. The girl did not move.

“Come,” he said at last.

She arose obediently.

“Follow close behind me,” he advised.

“Yes,” said she.

They set off through the greenery. It opened silently before them. Barbara looked back. It had already closed silently behind them, shutting out the episode forever. The little camp had ceased to exist; the great, ruthless, calm forest had reclaimed its own. Nothing was left.

Nothing was left but the memory and the dream–yes, and the Beginning. Barbara knew it must be that–the Beginning. He would come to see her. She would wear the chiffon, another chiffon, altogether glorious. She would sit on the highest root of the old elm, and he would lie at her feet. Then he could tell her of the enchanted land, of the life of the winds of heaven. He would be her knight, to plunge into the wilderness on the Quest, returning always to her. The picture became at once inexpressibly dear to her.

Then she noticed that he had stopped, and was looking at her in deprecation, and was holding aside the screen of moose-maples. Beyond she could see the familiar clearing, and the smoke from the Maxwell cabin.

She had slept almost within sight of her own doorstep.

“Please forgive me,” he was saying. “I meant it only as an interesting little adventure. It has been harmless enough, surely–to you.”

His eyes were hungry. Barbara could not find words.

“Good-by,” he concluded. “Good-by. You will forgive me in time–or forget, which is much the same. Believe me, if I have offended you, my punishment is going to be severe. Good-by.”

“Good-by,” said Barbara, a little breathlessly. She had already forgotten the trick. She could think only that the forest, the unfriendly forest, was about to recall her son.

“Good-by,” he repeated again. He should have gone, but did not. The situation became strained.

“When are you coming to see me?” she inquired at length. “I shall be here two weeks yet.”

“Never,” he replied.

“What do you mean?” she asked after a moment.

“After Painted Rock, the wilderness,” he explained, almost bitterly, “the wilderness and solitude for many years–forever!”

“Don’t go until to-morrow,” she urged.

“I must.”

“Why?”

“Because I must be at Painted Rock by Friday, and to reach it I must travel fast and long.”

“And if you do not?”

“My mission fails,” he replied.

They stood there silent. Barbara dug tiny holes with the tip of her parasol.

“And that is ruin?” she asked softly, without looking up.

“I have struggled hard for many years. The result is this chance.”

“I see,” she replied, bending her head lower. “It would be a very foolish thing for you to stay, then, wouldn’t it?”

He did not reply.

“But you are going to, aren’t you?” she went on in a voice almost inaudible. “You must not go like that. I ask you to stay.”

Again the pause.

“I cannot,” he replied.

She looked up. He was standing erect and tall, his face set in the bronze lines of a resolution, his gray eyes levelled straight and steady beyond her head. Instantly her own spirit flashed.

“I think now you’d better go!” said she superbly.

They faced each other for a moment. Then Barbara dropped her head again, extending her hand.

“You do not know,” she whispered, “I have much to forgive.”

He hesitated, then touched the tips of her fingers with his lips. She did not look up. With a gesture, which she did not see, he stooped to his pack and swung into the woods.

Barbara stood motionless. Not a line of her figure stirred. Only the chiffon parasol dropped suddenly to the ground.