calmly at the fire as
before, one hand clasped under his arm, the other holding the bowl of
his brier pipe.

"Now," said he, "I will ask a few questions. Won't this all-night
absence alarm your relatives?"

"Oh, no. I often spend the night at the Adamses'. They will think I am
there."

"Parents are apt to be anxious."

"But mine are not here, you see."

"What is your name?"

"Barbara Lowe."

He fell silent. Barbara was distinctly piqued. He might have exhibited
a more flattering interest.

"Is that all you want to know about me?" she cried in an injured tone.

"I know all about you now. Listen: Your name is Barbara Lowe; you come
from Detroit, where you are not yet 'out'; you are an only child; and
eighteen or nineteen years of age."

"Why, who has been telling you about me?" cried Barbara, astonished.

Stanton smiled. "Nobody," he replied. "Don't you know that we woodsmen
live by our observation? Do you see anything peculiar about that tree?"

Barbara examined the vegetable in question attentively. "No," she
confessed at last.

"There is an animal in it. Look again."

"I can see nothing," repeated Barbara, after a second scrutiny.

Stanton arose. Seizing a brand from the fire, he rapped sharply on the
trunk. Then slowly what had appeared to be a portion of the hole began
to disintegrate, and in a moment a drowsy porcupine climbed rattling to
a place of safety.

"That is how I know about you," explained the woodsman, returning to the
fire. "Your remark about staying overnight told me that you were
visiting the Maxwells rather than the Adamses; I knew the latter must be
relatives, because a girl who wears pretty summer dresses would not
visit mere friends in the wilderness; you would get tired of this life
in a few weeks, and so will not care to stay longer; you wear your
school-pin still, so you are not yet 'out'; the maker's name in your
parasol caused me to guess you from Detroit."

"And about my being an only child?"

"Well," replied Stanton, "you see, you have a little the manner of one
who has been a trifle----"

"Spoiled!" finished Barbara, with wicked emphasis.

Stanton merely laughed.

"That is not nice," she reproved, with vast dignity.

A cry, inexpressibly mournful, quivered from the woods close at hand.

"Oh, what is that?" she exclaimed.

"Our friend the porcupine. Don't be frightened."

Down through the trees sighed a little wind. "_Whoo! whoo! whoo_!"
droned an owl, monot