onously. The sparks from the fire shot up and
eddied. A chill was in the air. Barbara's eyes grew heavier and heavier.
She tucked her feet under her and expanded in the warmth like a
fireside kitten. Then, had she known it, the man was looking at her,
looking at her with a strange, wistful tenderness in his gray eyes.
Dear, harmless, innocent little Barbara, who had so confidingly trusted
in his goodness!

"Come, little girl," he said, softly, at last.

He arose and held out his hand. Awakened from her abstraction, she
looked at him with a faint smile and eyes from which all coquetry had
gone, leaving only the child.

"Come," he repeated, "time to turn in."

She arose dutifully. The little tent really looked inviting. The balsam
bed proved luxurious, soft as feathers.

"When you are ready," he told her, "let me know. I want to open the
tent-flap for the sake of warmth."

The soft woollen blanket was very grateful. When the flap was open,
Barbara found that a second fire had been built with a backing of green
logs so arranged as to reflect the heat directly into her shelter.

She was very sleepy, yet for a long time she lay awake. The noises of
the woods approached mysteriously, and drew about the little camp their
mystic circle. Some of them were exceedingly terrifying, but Barbara
did not mind them, for he sat there, his strong, graceful figure
silhouetted against the light, smoking his pipe in contemplation.
Barbara watched him for a long time, until finally the firelight
blurred, and the great, solemn shadows stopped dancing across the
forest, and she dozed.

Hours later, as it seemed, some trifling sound awakened her. The heat
still streamed gratefully into the tiny shelter; the solemn shadows
still danced across the forest; the contemplative figure still stared
into the embers, strongly silhouetted by the firelight. A tender
compunction stole into Barbara's tender little heart.

"The poor dear," said she, "he has no place to sleep. He is guarding me
from the dangers of the forest." Which was quite ridiculous, as any
woodsman will know.

Her drowsy eyes watched him wistfully--her mystery, her hero of romance.
Again the fire blurred, again the solemn shadows paused. A last thought
shaped itself in Barbara's consciousness.

"Why, he must be very old," she said to herself. "He must be
twenty-six."

So she fell asleep.

III

Barbara awoke to the sun and the crisp morning air and a delightful
feelin