MEANWHILE Socky and Sue, in Sunday costume, had gone out with their aunt for a holiday picnic in the forest. Sinth had been busy until ten o'clock preparing a sumptuous dinner of roasted wild fowl and jelly, of frosted cake and sugared berries and crab-apple tarts. They went to the moss-covered banks of a little brook over in Peppermint Valley, half a mile or so from the camp. Master's man carried their dinner and blankets, upon which they could repose without impairing the splendor of their dress. Sinth had put on her very best attire—a sacred silk gown and Paisley shawl which had come on a cheerful Christmas Day from her sister.

"Might as well show 'em to the birds an' squirrels," said she. "There ain't nobody else t' dress up for 'cept the little fawns."

The man left them, to return later for their camp accessories. Sinth played "I spy" and "Hide the penny" and other games of her childhood with Socky and Sue. She had brought some old story-papers with her, and when the little folks grew weary they sat down beside her on the blankets while she read a tale. To her all things were "so" which bore the sacred authority of print, and she read aloud in a slow, precise, and responsible manner.

It was a thunderous tale she was now reading—a tale of bloody swords and high-sounding oaths and epithets. Socky began to feel his weapon. Master had shaped a handle on a piece of lath and presented it for a sword to the little "Duke of Hillsborough." Since then it had trailed behind the boy, fastened by a string to his belt. He sat listening with a serious, thoughtful look upon his face. At the climax of the tale he raised his weapon. Presently, unable to restrain his heroic impulse, he sprang at Zeb, sword in hand, and smote him across the ribs, shouting, "Defend yourself!" Zeb retreated promptly and took refuge in a fallen tree-top, out of which he peered, his hair rising. Soon he satisfied himself that the violence of the Duke was not a serious matter. Socky ran upon him, waving his sword and crying, in a loud voice, "You're a coward, sir!" Zeb rushed through the ferns, back and forth around the boy, growling and grimacing as if to show that he could be a swashbuckler himself.

On his merry frolic he ran wide in thickets of young fir. Suddenly he began barking and failed to return. They called to him, but he only barked the louder, well out of sight beyond the little trees. Socky went to seek him, and in a moment the barking ceased, but neither dog nor boy came in sight of the others. Sinth followed with growing alarm.

Back in a mossy glade, not a hundred feet from where they had been sitting, she stopped suddenly and grew pale with surprise. There sat a beautiful maiden looking down at the boy, who lay in her arms. Sue, who had followed her aunt, now sprang forward with a cry of delight. The maiden rose, her cheeks crimson with embarrassment.

"Oh, aunt," said the boy, as he clung fondly to the hand of Edith Dunmore, "this is the beautiful lady."

"What's your name?" Sinth demanded.

"Edith Dunmore." The girl's voice had a note of sadness.

"My land! Do you go wanderin' all over the woods like a bear?" Sinth inquired.

The maiden turned away and made no answer.

"Land sakes alive! you 'ain't got no business goin' around these woods an' meetin' strange men."

"Oh, silly bird!" croaked the little crow from a bough near them.

"Mercy!" exclaimed Sinth, as she looked up at the ribboned crow. "It's enough to make the birds talk."

There were tears in the maiden's eyes, and the children glanced from her to their aunt, sadly and reprovingly.

Sinth, now full of tender feeling, put her arms around the neck of the girl in a motherly fashion. "Poor, poor child!" said she, her voice trembling. "I've laid awake nights thinkin' of you."

Something in the tone and touch of the woman brought the girl closer. Another great need of her nature was for a moment satisfied. She leaned her head upon the shoulder of Sinth, and her heart confessed its loneliness in tears and broken phrases.

"I—I followed you. I couldn't—couldn't help it," said she.

"Poor girl!" Sinth went on, as she patted the head of the maiden. "I've scolded Mr. Master. He oughter let you alone, 'less he's in love, which I wouldn't wonder if he was."

"Ah-h-h!" croaked the bird, as if to attract his mistress.

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Sinth, looking up at the crow with moist eyes. "That bird is like a human bein'. Hush, child, you mus' come an' help us celebrate. Come on now; we'll all set down an' have our dinner."

Socky and Sue stood by the knees of the maiden looking up at her.

Gently the woman led her new acquaintance to their little camp, and bade her sit with the children. Sinth had a happy look in her face while she hurried about getting dinner ready.

"Jes' straighten the end, please—that's right," said she as Edith Dunmore put a helping hand on the snowy table-cloth.

Sinth began to spread the dishes, and the maiden furtively embraced Socky and Sue. "My land! you do like childem—don't ye? So do I. They's jes' nothin' like 'em in this world."

"Dinner's ready," said Sinth, when all the dainties had been set forth. "Heavens an' earth! I'm so glad t' see a woman I could lay right down an' bawl."

"You have made me as happy as a young fawn," said Miss Dunmore. "I am not afraid of you or the children."

"Are you afraid of him?"

The maiden looked down, blushing, and almost whispered her answer. "Yes; I am afraid."

"He wouldn't hurt ye—he's jest as gentle as a lamb," said Sinth. She paused to cut the cake, and added, with a far-away look in her eyes, "Still an' all, I dunno what I'd do if he was to make love to me."

Sinth ate in silence for a moment and remarked, dreamily, "Men are awful cur'is critters when they git love in 'em."

For a little, one might have heard only the chatter of the children and the barking of Zeb. By-and-by the maiden said, "I am sure that Mr. Master is—is a good man."

"No nicer in the world," Sinth answered. "Pleasant spoke, an' he don't set around as if he wanted ye t' breathe fer him. He'll be a good provider, too."

After a few moments the children took their cake and went away to share it with Zeb and the tame crow.

"Do you—do you think he would care to see me again?" Edith Dunmore asked, blushing and looking down as she touched a wild rose on her breast.

"'Course he would," Sinth answered, promptly. "Can't sleep nights, an' looks kind o' sick an' dreamy, like a man with a felon." Sinth looked into the eyes of the girl and added, soberly, "I guess you're in love with him fast enough."

"I do not know," said Miss Dunmore, with a sigh. "I—I know that all the light of the day is in his eyes—that I am lonely when I cannot find him."

Sinth nodded. "It's love," said she, decisively—"the real, genuwine, pure quill. Don't ye let him know it."

She sat looking down for a moment with a dreamy look in her eyes. "I know what 'tis," she went on, sadly. "Had a beau myself once. Went off t' the war." After a little pause she added, "He never come back—shot dead in battle." She began to pick up the dishes. Having stowed them in a pail, she turned and said, in a solemn manner: "He was goin' t' bring me a gold ring with a shiny purple stone in it. Not that I'd 'a' cared for that if I could have had him."

That old look of sickliness and resignation returned to the face of Sinth.

"Folks has to give fer their country," she added soon. "My father an' my gran'father an' my oldest brother an' my true love all died in the wars. I hope you'll never have to give so much."

A great, earth-quaking roar from far down the valley of Lost River sped over the hills, and shook the towers of the wilderness and broke the peace of that remote chamber in which they stood. It was Business breaking through the side of a mountain to make a trail for the iron horse.

"Blastin'!" Sinth exclaimed.

"It's the king of the world coming through the woods—so my father tells me," said Miss Dunmore.

Then, as if fearful that he might arrive that day, she rose quickly and said:

"I—must go home. I must go home."

Sinth kissed her, and the children came and bade her good-bye and stood calling and waving their hands as Edith Dunmore, with the ribboned crow, slowly went up the trail to Catamount.

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