In the dusk, near a little river which came tumbling down from the mountainside, they stopped and prepared their camp for the night. Rogue was unharnessed, led to water, and turned to roam where the grass seemed most toothsome. Jean FranÇois knew that she would be standing by the van at morning waiting with patience for her measure of oats. After building a crackling fire of sticks and limbs of dead trees, he went in search of a spring. Some minutes later a great black pot, taken from a hook beneath the cart, was swinging over the flames, the sparkling water beginning to bubble within it.

It was then the pedler climbed upon the wheel, removed the pair of steps from the top, adjusting them at the rear door so one might easily climb in and out of the cart. Next he proceeded to remove many things from the mysterious depths of Columbine. Nance stood by receiving them. Among many things were these: a smoke-cured old ham, doubtless taken in trade from some lusty farmer; a basket of eggs and a bucket of milk bought at the last farmhouse on the road; a huge loaf of what the housewives term "salt-rising" bread; a flagon of Burgundy wine; a skillet, a coffee-pot, and a teakettle. Then came bundles, boxes, and drawers containing the knick-knacks of the pedler's pack. These he lifted to the earth himself, placing them softly beneath a near-by tree, covering them with a heavy canvas. Afterward, from the front end of the almost empty small room, he produced bedding which he spread down upon one side of the floor. Next, from the side near the open door, he let down a table hinged to the wall and supported by a prop. Above it he hung a mirror; upon it he laid a brush, comb, and a basin; before it he placed an open camp-stool. He had done his best.... Turning to Nance with a characteristically elaborate bow, he said:

"Now, Titania, ascend the steps of your castle. To your right you will find your dressing-room; to the left, your bed-chamber. Your supper will be served al fresco.... Will you deign to share it with me?"

"With all of my heart, Robin Goodfellow," cried Nance as she walked airily into Columbine.

Jean FranÇois poked the mysterious pot, fried ham, scrambled eggs, made coffee, and toasted bread. This they ate by the light of the fire and the stars.

After the meal the pedler filled his pipe, lighted it with an ember, and stretched himself full length upon the earth with his ugly red head propped by his arm. Nance sat gazing into the fire, her knees hugged against her stooping figure, a dream upon her face. The darkness about was intense. The light flickered in ghostly shadows upon the yellow sides and spokes of the van. The steady munching of Rogue, the occasional popping of the fire, the murmuring of the river with the melancholy song of a thousand insects, now loud, now still, as the breeze came and went, made the sleepy music of the night.

Thus they sat for two hours, neither of them speaking a word. Jean FranÇois was occupied with a choice entertainment in which he often indulged. To begin with, in imagination he went over the whole matter of Nance's escapade with Doctor Longstreet and Charles King. He explained her temperament, defending her nobly with a delicate suggestion of his own attitude toward her. Then, again in fancy, he talked of young Dr. King to the jade. All to himself he became quite an old match-maker. This was followed by witnessing them as the occupants of the old home of the many pillars. Here his dreams took unusual liberty; he peopled the house with other and tinier folk than the father and mother.... Here he smiled as he thought of Nance's chagrin could she but see his mind. He looked up and caught her gaze bent upon him.

"Did you ever hear the story of 'The King of Bohemia and the Beggar from Bagdad'?" he asked as he knocked his pipe, to empty it, upon the heel of his boot, and dropped it into his pocket.

"Never," she said, looking at him interestingly. "If there isn't any moral to it, tell it."

"I'm afraid there is," said he. "It is about a sleepy monarch—"

"O," she exclaimed, light breaking on her face as she remembered an old trick of the childhood days which he had used a hundred times to send her and Charles to bed, "and you dream the tale?... I remember."

"That's right," said the pedler.

"But you say that I am now grown up.... The stars are very bright, the fire is in a friendly communicative mood, I think I shall go to my bed when it pleases me, Monsieur le debonair pedler!"

"Very well," said he, with his accustomed shrug of indifference. Then, after a moment's study of Nance, who had resumed her gazing into the fire:

"Of what has the fire been speaking to-night?... Yes?"

"I have been thinking all evening of babies," she replied with charming candor.

"What ever made you think of babies?" he asked quickly.

"Did you notice that dear dimpled little red one at the house where we bought the milk?" was her reply.

"I must confess that I did not see the little Indian," he answered.

"Just like a man," said Nance, ignoring his levity, a trifle of scorn in her voice.

"Little babies in the utterly helpless stage," was Jean FranÇois' remark, "have always been just without the limit of my appreciation."

"That's because you are a man," she explained.

"Great heavens!" he exclaimed. "'Because you are a man.'... 'Just like a man.' Nance, your phrases show intelligence! I might reply, 'Just like a woman.'... Bah, it positively sounds bourgeois.... Now, honest, lady, don't you really suppose that there are men who actually like infants in their crinkly state?"

"I've always wanted a baby," said Nance irrelevantly, "and some day I mean to have one."

"Thank God!" was Jean FranÇois' very serious ejaculation.

A moment later Nance was upon her feet ready to say good night and away to the pleasant land of sleep.

"Good night, dear Jean FranÇois," said she with gaiety. "May your dreams be of your beloved roads of Picardy."

She threw him an elfish kiss from her finger-tips and hastened into her airy improvised bedroom.

"And you, my daughter," murmured Jean FranÇois, as he turned upon his back and sought the stars between the interlacing boughs of the sheltering trees, "may you dream of Charles King, the old home of many pillars, of romping merry children, and a great love."