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“I’m sure of it,” Estelle declared with conviction. “Why, you–“

“Why I?” asked Arthur again. He bent forward in his chair and fixed his eyes on Estelle’s. She looked up, met his gaze, and stammered.

“You–you do things,” she finished lamely.

“I’m tempted to do something now,” Arthur said. “Look here, Miss Woodward, you’ve been in my employ for three or four months. In all that time I’ve never had anything but the most impersonal comments from you. Why the sudden change?”

The twinkle in his eyes robbed his words of any impertinence.

“Why, I really–I really suppose I never noticed you before,” said Estelle.

“Please notice me hereafter,” said Arthur. “I have been noticing you. I’ve been doing practically nothing else.”

Estelle flushed again. She tried to meet Arthur’s eyes and failed. She bit desperately into her pigeon drumstick, trying to think of something to say.

“When we get back,” went on Arthur meditatively, “I’ll have nothing to do–no work or anything. I’ll be broke and out of a job.”

Estelle shook her head emphatically. Arthur paid no attention.

“Estelle,” he said, smiling, “would you like to be out of a job with me?”

Estelle turned crimson.

“I’m not very successful,” Arthur went on soberly. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t make a very good husband, I’m rather worthless and lazy!”

“You aren’t,” broke in Estelle; “you’re–you’re–“

Arthur reached over and took her by the shoulders.

“What?” he demanded.

She would not look at him, but she did not draw away. He held her from him for a moment.

“What am I?” he demanded again. Somehow he found himself kissing the tips of her ears. Her face was buried against his shoulder.

“What am I?” he repeated sternly.

Her voice was muffled by his coat.

“You’re–you’re dear!” she said.

There was an interlude of about a minute and a half, then she pushed him away from her.

“Don’t!” she said breathlessly. “Please don’t!”

“Aren’t you going to marry me?” he demanded.

Still crimson, she nodded shyly. He kissed her again.

“Please don’t!” she protested.

She fondled the lapels of his coat, quite content to have his arms about her.

“Why mayn’t I kiss you if you’re going to marry me?” Arthur demanded.

She looked up at him with an air of demure primness.

“You–you’ve been eating pigeon,” she told him in mock gravity, “and–and your mouth is greasy!”

XII.

It was two weeks later. Estelle looked out over the now familiar wild landscape. It was much the same when she looked far away, but near by there were great changes.

A cleared trail led through the woods to the waterfront, and a raft of logs extended out into the river for hundreds of feet. Both sides of the raft were lined with busy fishermen–men and women, too. A little to the north of the base of the building a huge mound of earth smoked sullenly. The coal in the cellar had given out and charcoal had been found to be the best substitute they could improvise. The mound was where the charcoal was made.

It was heart-breaking work to keep the fires going with charcoal, because it burned so rapidly in the powerful draft of the furnaces, but the original fire-room gang had been recruited to several times its original number from among the towerites, and the work was divided until it did not seem hard.

As Estelle looked down two tiny figures sauntered across the clearing from the woods with a heavy animal slung between them. One of them was using a gun as a walking-stick. Estelle saw the flash of the sun on its polished metal barrel.

There were a number of Indians in the clearing, watching with wide-open eyes the activities of the whites. Dozens of birch-bark canoes dotted the Hudson, each with its load of fishermen, industriously working for the white people. It had been hard to overcome the fear in the Indians, and they still paid superstitious reverence to the whites, but fair dealings, coupled with a constant readiness to defend themselves, had enabled Arthur to institute a system of trading for food that had so far proved satisfactory.