NEXT morning, an hour after sunrise, Master set out with the children. He promised Sinth that he would keep them near him and bring them back before noon, They shut Zeb in a cabin, and he stood on his hind feet peering out of the window and barking loudly as they went away. Master brought his blankets, rifle, books, and cooking outfit, for that day he was to take possession of the new camp. Strong had gone with the Migleys and their outfit in the trail to Nick.

It was another hot, still morning, but the eastern shore of Catamount lay deep under cool shadows when Master dropped his pack at the shanty. A deer stood knee-deep in the white border of lilies. It looked across the cove at them, walked slowly along the margin of the shaded water, and disappeared in the tamaracks. Master and the children crossed to Birch Cove, hallooed, but received no answer, and sat down upon the high, mossy bank.

"Maybe she won't come?" Socky suggested.

"She will come soon," said Master.

Sue propped her little doll against a fern leaf and said: "Oh, dear! I wish she'd never go 'way."

"She's awful good"—that was the opinion of Socky.

"She wouldn't tell no falsehoods," Sue suggested.

"I wish she'd come an' live with us; don't you?" Socky queried, turning to Master. The little Cupid was searching for another arrow.

"Wouldn't dare say—you little busybody!" the young man replied. "You'd go and tell on me."

Both looked up at him soberly. Socky was first to speak. "Where'bouts does 'the beautiful lady' live?"

"Way off in the woods."

"At the home of the fairies?"

"No, but on the road to it."

"If she'd come an' live with us, she wouldn't have to fill no wood-box, would she?" Sue inquired.

"Or pick up chips," Socky put in, brushing one palm across the other with a look of dread. The children had discussed that problem in bed the night before. Their aunt had made them fill the wood-box and bring in a little basket of chips every night and morning. It went well enough for a day or two, but the task had begun to interrupt other plans.

"Oh no," said Master. "We'll be good to her."

Socky was noting every look and word—nothing escaped him. He felt grateful to his young lieutenant, and sat for a little time looking dreamily into the air. Then, with thoughtful eyes, he felt the watch-chain of the young man.

"You'd let her wear your watch—wouldn't you?"

"Gladly."

"She could look at my aunt's album," Sue suggested, as she thought of the pleasures of the camp.

Socky looked a bit doubtful.

"She mustn't git no grease on it or she'll git spoke to," Sue went on as she thought of the perils of the camp.

"Uncle Silas has put the bear's-oil away," said Socky, in a tone of regret. He thought a moment, and then added, "Ladies don't never git spoke to."

"You'd carry her on your back—wouldn't you, Uncle Robert?" inquired little Sue. Both children fixed him with their eyes.

"Oh no—that wouldn't do," said Master.

"Men don't never carry ladies on their backs," Socky wisely assured her.

"Uncle Silas carries 'em," Sue insisted.

"That's only Aunt Sinthy," said the boy, now a little in doubt of his position.

Just then they heard the crow chattering away up the dusky trail. The children rose and ran to meet "the beautiful lady," and their voices rang in the still woods, calling, "Hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo!" Master slowly followed so as to keep in sight of them. When he saw Edith Dunmore come out of a thicket suddenly and embrace them, he turned back and stood where he could just hear the sound of their voices.

She drew them close to her breast a moment, and a low strain of song sounded within her closed lips—that unconscious, irrepressible song of the mother at the cradle.

"Dear little brownies! I love you—I love you," she said, presently. Then she whispered, "Where is he?"

"Over there," the boy answered, pointing with his finger.

"Come, I'll show you," said Sue.

"Fairy queen—I dare not follow you," the girl answered. "I am afraid."

"He wants you to come and live with us—he does," the boy declared. "He'll be awful good to you—he said he would."

"Did he say that he liked me very much?" she asked.

"I wouldn't tell," said the boy, with a winsome look as he thought of Master's reproof.

"You wouldn't tell me?"

"'Cause it's a secret."

"You are like the little god I have read of!" Miss Dunmore exclaimed, drawing him closer. "Will you never stop wounding me?"

"Please come," said Sue. "You can sleep in our bed an' hear Uncle Silas sing."

"Where is your mother?"

"Dead," Sue answered, cheerfully.

"'Way up in heaven," said Socky, as he pointed aloft with his finger.

"And your father?"

"Gone away," said the boy. "I give him all my money—more'n a dollar."

"And you live at Lost River camp?"

Socky nodded.

"Are they good to you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I wonder why he doesn't come?" said Miss Dunmore, impatiently.

"'Fraid—maybe," Sue suggested.

"Pooh! he ain't'fraid," Socky declared, as he broke away and ran down the trail. Miss Dun-more tried to call him back, but he did not hear her.

"'The beautiful lady'! She wants to see you," he said to Master, his eyes glowing with excitement.

The young man took the boy's hand. They proceeded up the trail in the direction whence Socky had come.

"You ain't'fraid, are you, Uncle Robert?" the boy asked, eager to clear his friend of all unjust suspicion.

"Oh no," Master answered, with a nervous laugh.

"He ain't 'fraid," the boy proclaimed as they came into the presence of Edith Dunmore. "He can kill a bear."

"Afraid only of interrupting your pleasure," said the young man as he approached her. She retreated a step or two and turned half away. The children began to gather flowers.

"I tremble when I hear you coming," said she, timidly. "You are so—" She thought a moment. "Strange," she added, with a smile. She looked up at him curiously. "So very strange to me, sir."

"You are strange to me also," he answered. "I have seen no one like you, and I confess to one great fear."

"What fear?"

"That I may not see you again," the young man answered, with a smile.

She stooped to pick a flower. Every movement of her lithe, tall figure, every glance of her eye seemed to tighten her hold upon him. He stood dumb in the spell of her beauty, until she added, sorrowfully, "I am afraid of you, sir—I cannot help it."

"I wish I were less terrible," he answered, with a sigh.

"I will not see you again."

"But—but I love you," he said, simply.

"When I am here I am afraid—when I go away I am sorry." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I have no peace any more. I cannot enjoy books or music. I cannot stay at home. I wander—all day I wander, and the night is long—and I hear the voices of children—like those I have heard here—calling me."

There was a note of sympathy in his voice when he answered, "It is the same with me, only it is your voice that I hear."

She looked up at him, her face full of wonder.

"I think no more of the many things I have to do, but only of one," he said, with feeling.

Miss Dunmore seemed not to hear him.

"I think only of coming here," he added.

She stepped away timidly, and turned and stood straight as the young spruce, looking into his eyes.

"I, too, have no more peace," he said, restraining his impulse to go further.

"I must leave you—I must not speak to you any more," she answered.

"Stay," he pleaded. "I will be silent—I will say not a word unless you bid me speak—but let me look at you."

She stood a moment as if thinking.

"Do you hear that bird song?" she asked, looking upward.

"Yes, it has a merry sound."

"It is my answer to you," said she.

"Then I am sure you love me."

As he came nearer she retreated a little.

"I give you everything—everything but myself," said she.

"And why not yourself?"

Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she said to him, "There are those who need me more."

"I offer myself to you and to them also."

She stood with averted eyes. In a moment she said, "Tell me what are we to do when those we love die?"

"I, too, and all the children of men have that same worry," said he. "There's an old Eastern maxim, 'Love as many as you can, so that death may not make you friendless.'"

She walked away slowly. She stopped where the children sat playing and embraced them.

"Will you not say that you love me?" the young man urged.

The girl went up the gloomy trail with lagging feet as if it were steep and difficult. That clear-voiced love-call of the children halted her, and she looked back. Again the bird flung his song upon the silence. The sweet voice of the maiden rang like a bell in the still forest, as if answering the bird's message. "I love you—I love you," it said. Then she turned quickly and ran away.