d to
see who was coming along the road Spencer had recognized her. Thus, in
a sense, he was a trifle the more prepared of the two for this
unforeseen meeting, and he hailed it as supplying the answer to his
doubts.

"Now," said he to himself, "I shall know in ten seconds whether or not
I travel west by north to-morrow."

Helen did not avert her glance instantly. Nor did she at once resume a
stroll evidently interrupted to take in deep breaths of the beauty of
the scene. That was encouraging to the American,--she expected him to
speak to her.

He halted in the middle of the road. If he was mistaken, he did not
wish to alarm her. "If you will pardon the somewhat unorthodox time
and place, I should like to make myself known to you, Miss Wynton," he
said, lifting his cap.

"You are Mr. Spencer?" she answered, with a frank smile.

"Yes, I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Mackenzie."

"So have I. What do we do next? Exchange letters? Mine is in the
hotel."

"Suppose we just shake?"

"Well, that is certainly the most direct way."

Their hands met. They were both aware of a whiff of nervousness. For
some reason, the commonplace greetings of politeness fell awkwardly
from their lips. In such a predicament a woman may always be trusted
to find the way out.

"It is rather absurd that we should be saying how pleased we are that
Mr. Mackenzie thought of writing those letters, while in reality I am
horribly conscious that I ought not to be here at all, and you are
probably thinking that I am quite an amazing person," and Helen
laughed light heartedly.

"That is part of my thought," said Spencer.

"Won't you tell me the remainder?"

"May I?"

"Please do. I am in chastened mood."

"I wish I was skilled in the trick of words, then I might say
something real cute. As it is, I can only supply a sort of condensed
statement,--something about a nymph, a moonlit lake, the spirit of the
glen,--nice catchy phrases every one,--with a line thrown in from
Shelley about an 'orbed maiden with white fire laden.' Let me go back
a hundred yards, Miss Wynton, and I shall return with the whole thing
in order."

"With such material I believe you would bring me a sonnet."

"No. I hail from the wild and woolly West, where life itself is a
poem; so I stick to prose. There is a queer sort of kink in human
nature to account for that."

"On the principle that a Londoner never hears the roar of London, I
suppose?"

"Exactly. An