g that she had slept well and had not been uncomfortable at all.
The flap of the tent was discreetly closed. When ready she peeped
through the crack and saw Stanton bending over the fire.

In a moment he straightened and approached the tent. When within a few
feet he paused. Through the hollow of his hands he cried out the long,
musical, morning call of the woodsman.

"R-o-o-oll out!" he cried. The forest took up the sound in dying
modulations.

For answer Barbara threw aside the tent-flap and stepped into the sun.

"Good-morning," said she.

"_Salut!_" he replied. "Come and I will show you the spring."

"I am sorry I cannot offer you a better variety for your breakfast. It
is only the supper over again," he explained, after she had returned,
and had perched like a fluffy bird of paradise on the log. Her cheeks
were very pink from the cold water, and her eyes were very beautiful
from the dregs of dreams, and her hair very glittering from the kissing
of the early sun. And, wonderful to say, she forgot to thrust out her
pointed chin in the fashion so entirely adorable.

She ate with relish, for the woods-hunger was hers. Stanton said
nothing. The time was pregnant with unspoken things. All the charming
elements of the little episode were crystallising for them, and
instinctively Barbara felt that in a few moments she would be compelled
to read their meaning.

At last the man said, without stirring:

"Well, I suppose we'd better be going."

"I suppose so," she replied.

They sat there some time longer, staring abstractedly at the kindly
green forest; then Stanton abruptly arose and began to construct his
pack. The girl did not move.

"Come," he said at last.

She arose obediently.

"Follow close behind me," he advised.

"Yes," said she.

They set off through the greenery. It opened silently before them.
Barbara looked back. It had already closed silently behind them,
shutting out the episode forever. The little camp had ceased to exist;
the great, ruthless, calm forest had reclaimed its own. Nothing was
left.

Nothing was left but the memory and the dream--yes, and the Beginning.
Barbara knew it must be that--the Beginning. He would come to see her.
She would wear the chiffon, another chiffon, altogether glorious. She
would sit on the highest root of the old elm, and he would lie at her
feet. Then he could tell her of the enchanted land, of the life of the
winds of heaven. He would be her knight, to