replied Barbara, meekly.

"Well, it was!" he insisted, the bronze on his cheek deepening a little.

She watched him for some time, while he watched the flames. She liked to
see the light defining boldly the clean-shaven outline of his jaw; she
liked to guess at the fire of his gray eyes beneath the shadow of his
brow. Not once did he look toward her. Meekly she told herself that this
was just. He was dreaming of larger things, seeing in the coals pictures
of that romantic, strenuous, mysterious life of which he was a part. He
had no room in the fulness of his existence for such as she--she, silly
little Barbara, whose only charm was a maddening fashion of pointing
outward her adorable chin. She asked him about it, this life of the
winds of heaven.

"Are you always in the woods?" she inquired.

"Not always," said he.

"But you live in them a great deal?"

"Yes."

"You must have a great many exciting adventures."

"Not many."

"Where did you come from just now?"

"South."

"Where are you going?"

"Northwest."

"What are you going to do there?"

There ensued a slight pause before the stranger's reply. "Walk through
the woods," said he.

"In other words, it's none of my business," retorted Barbara, a little
tartly.

"Ah, but you see it's not entirely mine," he explained.

This offered a new field.

"Then you are on a mission?"

"Yes."

"Is it important?"

"Yes."

"How long is it going to take you?"

"Many years."

"What is your name?"

"Garrett Stanton."

"You are a gentleman, aren't you?"

A flicker of amusement twinkled subtly in the corner of his eye. "I
suppose you mean gently bred, college-educated. Do you think it's of
vast importance?"

Barbara examined him reflectively, her chin in her hand, her elbow on
her knee. She looked at his wavy hair, his kindly, humorous gray eyes,
the straight line of his fine-cut nose, his firm lips with the quaint
upward twist of the corners, the fine contour of his jaw.

"No-o-o," she agreed, "I don't suppose it does. Only I know you _are_ a
gentleman," she added, with delightful inconsistence. Stanton bowed
gravely to the fire in ironic acknowledgment.

"Why don't you ever look at me?" burst out Barbara, vexed. "Why do you
stare at that horrid fire?"

He turned and looked her full in the face. In a moment her eyes dropped
before his frank scrutiny. She felt the glow rising across her forehead.
When she raised her head again he was staring