t of some fair, fadeless land of promise."

He was silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone,

"Felicity, you loved the scent of dying fir. If you were here tonight
with me--Felicity--Felicity!"

Something in his voice made me suddenly sad. I was comforted when I felt
the Story Girl slip her hand into mine. So we walked out of the woods
into the autumn dusk.

We were in a little valley. Half-way up the opposite slope a brush fire
was burning clearly and steadily in a maple grove. There was something
indescribably alluring in that fire, glowing so redly against the dark
background of forest and twilit hill.

"Let us go to it," cried Uncle Blair, gaily, casting aside his sorrowful
mood and catching our hands. "A wood fire at night has a fascination not
to be resisted by those of mortal race. Hasten--we must not lose time."

"Oh, it will burn a long time yet," I gasped, for Uncle Blair was
whisking us up the hill at a merciless rate.

"You can't be sure. It may have been lighted by some good, honest
farmer-man, bent on tidying up his sugar orchard, but it may also, for
anything we know, have been kindled by no earthly woodman as a beacon or
summons to the tribes of fairyland, and may vanish away if we tarry."

It did not vanish and presently we found ourselves in the grove. It was
very beautiful; the fire burned with a clear, steady glow and a soft
crackle; the long arcades beneath the trees were illuminated with a
rosy radiance, beyond which lurked companies of gray and purple shadows.
Everything was very still and dreamy and remote.

"It is impossible that out there, just over the hill, lies a village of
men, where tame household lamps are shining," said Uncle Blair.

"I feel as if we must be thousands of miles away from everything we've
ever known," murmured the Story Girl.

"So you are!" said Uncle Blair emphatically. "You're back in the youth
of the race--back in the beguilement of the young world. Everything
is in this hour--the beauty of classic myths, the primal charm of the
silent and the open, the lure of mystery. Why, it's a time and place
when and where everything might come true--when the men in green might
creep out to join hands and dance around the fire, or dryads steal from
their trees to warm their white limbs, grown chilly in October frosts,
by the blaze. I wouldn't be much surprised if we should see something
of the kind. Isn't that the flash of an ivory shoulder through yonder
gloom?