The hot summer day was over and the light beginning to fade when Evelyn came down the steps of a country house in northern Maine. Banner's Post stood at the foot of a hillside among the dark pines, and the murmur of running water echoed about its walls. It belonged to Mrs. Willans, Mrs. Cliffe's sister, for Willans, who had bought the house at his wife's command, seldom came there and did not count. Mrs. Willans wanted a peaceful retreat where she and her friends, when jaded by social activities, could rest and recuperate in the silence of the woods. She had many interests and what she called duties, but she had of late felt called upon, with her sister's full approval, to arrange a suitable marriage for her niece. Henry Cliffe was not really rich.

Evelyn was dressed in the latest summer fashion, and the thin, light clothes became her. The keen mountain breezes had given her a fine color, and she looked very fresh and young by contrast with the jaded business man at her side. Cliffe wore an old gray suit that Evelyn had never seen and shabby leggings. A creel hung round his shoulders, and he carried a fishing-rod. His face was lined and pale, but when they left the garden and entered the woods Evelyn was surprised to note that his thin figure harmonized with the scattered boulders and the ragged pines. To some extent, this might be accounted for by the neutral tint of his clothes, but he somehow looked at home in the wilderness. Though he had once or twice gone off with an old friend on a shooting trip, she had never thought of her father as a sport.

"It is curious that you make me feel you belong to the bush," she said.

"I used to go fishing when I was a boy," Cliffe replied with a deprecatory smile. "I've never had much time for it since; but there's nothing I'm fonder of."

Evelyn found something pathetic in his answer. He had very few opportunities for indulging in the pastimes he liked, and now he was going out to fish with a keen eagerness that showed how scarce such pleasures were. His enjoyment was essentially natural; her friends' enthusiasm for the amusements Mrs. Willans got up was artificial and forced. They had too much, and her father not enough.

"I hope the trout will rise well," she said. "We were surprised to hear that you were coming down."

"I found I could get away for the week-end. Have you been having a good time?"

"Yes, in a way. I have everything I ought to like; something amusing to do from morning to night, the kind of people I've been used to about me, and Aunt Margaret sees that nobody is dull."

She had had more than she mentioned, for Gore was staying at Banner's Post, and had devoted himself to her entertainment with a frank assiduity that had roused the envy of other guests. Evelyn admitted feeling flattered, for Gore had many advantages, and his marked preference had given her an importance she had not always enjoyed.

"And yet you're not quite satisfied?" Cliffe suggested with a shrewd glance.

"Perhaps I'm not, but I don't know. Is one ever satisfied?"

"One ought to be now and then when one is young. Make the most of the pleasures you can get, but aim at the best."

Evelyn mused for a few minutes. She could treat her father with confidence. He understood her, as her mother seldom did.

"What is the best?" she asked.

"To some extent, it depends on your temperament; but it goes deeper than that. There's success that palls and gratification that doesn't last. One soon gets old and the values of things change; you don't want to feel, when it's too late, that there's something big and real you might have had and missed."

"Have you felt this?"

"No," Cliffe answered quietly; "I get tired of the city now and then and long for old clothes, a boat, and a fishing-rod, but these are things it doesn't hurt a man to go without. I have a home to rest in and a wife and daughter to work for. An object of that kind helps you through life."

"My trouble is that I don't seem to have any object at all. I used to have a number, but I'm beginning now to doubt whether they were worth much. But I'm afraid you have made a sacrifice for our sakes."

Cliffe looked at her thoughtfully.

"My belief is that you always have to make some sacrifice for anything that's worth while." He laughed. "But right now fishing is more in my line than philosophy!"

He followed the little path that led to the stream, and Evelyn turned back slowly through the quiet woods. Her father's remarks had led her into familiar but distasteful thought. It was perhaps true that one must make some sacrifice to gain what was best worth having; but she had been taught to seize advantages and not to give things up. Now she could have wealth, a high position, and social influence, which were of value in her world, and in order to gain them she had only to overcome certain vague longings and the rebellious promptings of her heart. Gore wanted her, and she had been pleasantly thrilled to realize it; perhaps she had, to some extent, tried to attract him. It was foolish to hesitate when the prize was in her reach; but she did not feel elated as she went back to the house.

She lingered among the last of the trees. They lifted their black spires against the sky, the air was filled with their resinous scent, and faint, elfin music fell from their tops. Far above, the bald summit of Long Mountain shone a deep purple, though trails of mist that looked like lace were drawn about its shoulders. Then the pines rolled down, straggling at first, but growing thicker and taller until they merged into the dark forest that hid the giant's feet. The wild beauty of the scene and the calm of the evening reacted upon the girl; she felt it was a trivial life that she and her friends led.

Rousing herself with an effort, she left the woods and entered the well-kept garden. It had an exotic look; the bright-colored borders that edged the lawn jarred upon the austere beauty of the wilderness. Banner's Post was tamely pretty, and Nature had meant the spot to be grand. Still, the nickeled sprinklers that flung glistening showers across the smooth grass, and the big gasolene mower, belonged to her world, in which Nature was kept in her place by civilized art.

She saw Gore at the bottom of the steps in the midst of a group which included two attractive girls, and she was conscious of some satisfaction when he left his companions and came toward her.

"Luck has been against me all day," he said when he came up. "It seemed impossible to find you except in the center of what was going on. Now we'll run away for a little while."

His manner suggested a right to her society, and he turned toward the woods without waiting for her consent, but Evelyn thought he would have acted more wisely had he chosen a quiet nook on the veranda. Reggie was a product of his luxurious age; he was in his right place in a comfortable chair or moving gracefully about a polished floor with smartly dressed people in the background. Though not wholly artificial, and having some force of character, he failed to harmonize with the note of primitive grandeur struck by the rugged pines.

It was different with Evelyn when they sat down on a boulder. Her dress was in the latest fashion, but she had the gift of revealing something of her real personality through her attire. Its blue-gray tint matched the soft coloring of the lichened rock, and the lines of her tall figure were marked by a classical severity of grace. Then, her eyes were grave and her face was calm. It was her misfortune that she had not yet realized herself, but had accepted without much question the manners of her caste and the character Mrs. Cliffe had, so to speak, superimposed upon her.

"It's good to be quiet for a change," Gore said. "When I'm with you I feel that I needn't talk unless I want to. That's a relief, because it's when I feel least that I talk the most. You're tranquilizing."

"I'm not sure you're complimentary. Nowadays a girl is expected to be bright if she can't be brilliant."

"That's not your real line. Brilliance is often shallow, a cold, reflected sparkle. One has to get beneath the surface to understand you."

"Perhaps it's true of everybody," Evelyn answered with a smile. "Still, we're not taught to cultivate virtues that can't be seen."

"You can't cultivate the best of them; they've got to be an inherent, natural part of you. But I'm getting off the track—I do now and then."

Evelyn guessed what he meant to say, but although it would mark a turning-point in her life, and she did not know her answer, she was very calm. While she had, for the most part, allowed her mother to direct her actions, she had inherited Cliffe's independence of thought and force of will. So far, she had not exerted them, but she meant to do so now.

Looking up, she saw Long Mountain's towering crest cut in lonely grandeur against the fading green and saffron of the sky. The mist upon its shoulders shone faintly white against blue shadows; the pines had grown taller and blacker, and the sound of running water alone broke the silence. The resinous smells were keener, and there was a strange repose in the long ranks of stately trees. Nature had filled the stony wilds with stern beauty, and Evelyn instinctively felt the call of the strong, fruitful earth. One must be real and, in a sense, primitive, here.

"This," she said, indicating the shadowy landscape, "is very grand. We don't give much thought to it, but it has its influence."

"I guess it's all quite fine," Gore agreed absently. "It would make a great summer-resort if they ran in a branch-railroad. In fact, I've imagined that Willans had something of the kind in view; he has a genius for developing real estate."

"An unthinkable desecration!" Evelyn exclaimed.

"Well," he said in a quiet voice, "if it would please you, I'd buy Banner's Post and all the land back to the lake, and nobody but my game-wardens should disturb it except when you let me come up here with you. Then you could teach me to appreciate the things you like."

The girl was touched, for he belonged to the cities, and had nothing in common with the rocky wilds, but she knew that he would keep his word and indulge her generously. Nor was she offended by the touch of commercial spirit, though she would rather he had offered something that would cost him effort of body or mind.

"I'm afraid you wouldn't find me worth the sacrifice you would have to make," she said. "Your tastes don't lie that way."

He made a gesture of dissent.

"None of them are very strong, and I know that you go farther in everything than I can. You're elusive, but I've felt, for a long time, that if I could reach and win you, you'd help me along. That's my strongest argument and what I really meant to say. Surely, you have seen that I wanted you."

Evelyn felt guilty, because she had seen this and had not repulsed him. She did not love the man, but love was not thought essential in her circle and she had never been stirred by passion.

"I felt that I couldn't get hold of you," he went on; "you were not ready. We were friends and that was something, but I was looking for a change in you, some hint of warmth and gentleness."

"And do you think I am ready now?"

"No; I only hoped so. I feared I might be wrong. But I began to find holding myself back was getting too hard, and I was afraid somebody else might come along who had the power to rouse you. I believe you can be roused."

"I wonder!" she said in a curious tone.

"You make people love you," he broke out. "That's a proof that when the time comes you're capable of loving. But I only ask to be near you and surround you with what you like best. There's a rare aloofness in you, but you're flesh and blood. When you have learned how I love you, you can't hold out."

Evelyn was silent, hesitating, with a troubled face. She liked him; he was such a man as her mother meant her to marry and, until the last few weeks, she had acquiesced in her obvious fate. Now, however, something prompted her to rebel, although prudence and ambition urged her to yield.

As he watched her in keen suspense, Gore suddenly lost his head. The next moment his arm was round her and he drew her forward until she was pressed against him with her face crushed against his. At first she did not struggle, and he thought she was about to yield, until he felt her tremble and her face was suddenly turned away. Then she put her hand on his shoulder and firmly held him back while she slipped from his relaxing grasp. Gore knew that he had blundered. Letting his arms drop, he waited until she turned to him, without anger, although her eyes were very bright and her color was high.

"I'm sorry, Reggie, but it's impossible for me to marry you."

"You are sure?" he asked rather grimly. "This is important to me, you know."

"Yes," she said with signs of strain; "I am sure. I think I wish it had been possible, but it isn't. You have convinced me."

He was silent for a moment.

"It cuts pretty deep," he said slowly. "I've been afraid all along that even if you took me you'd never be really within my reach. I guess I've got to bear it and let you go."

He rose and stood looking at her irresolutely, and then, with a gesture of acquiescence, abruptly turned away.

When he had gone, Evelyn sat still in the gathering dusk. She had, at first, submitted to his embrace, because she wished to find in any emotion he was capable of arousing an excuse for marrying him. But she had felt nothing except repulsion. Then in a flash the truth was plain; any closer relationship than that of friend would make her loathe the man she in some ways admired. This was disturbing, but little by little she began to realize that his touch had a strange after-effect. It had stirred her to warmth, but not toward him. Longings she had not thought herself capable of awoke within her; she was conscious of a craving for love and of a curious tenderness. Only, Reggie was not the man. He had roused her, but she did not know whether she ought to be grateful for that. She blushed as she struggled with her rebellious feelings, and then resolutely pulled herself together. Her mother must be told.

Mrs. Cliffe was resting before dinner when Evelyn entered her room and sat down without speaking.

"What is the matter?" Mrs. Cliffe asked with a premonition that something had gone wrong. "Why do you come in, in this dramatic way?"

"I didn't mean to be dramatic," Evelyn answered quietly. "Still, perhaps I was rather highly strung. Reggie asked me to marry him, and I told him I could not."

Mrs. Cliffe sat up suddenly, and there was an angry sparkle in her eyes.

"Then I think you must be mad! What led you to this absurd conclusion?"

"It's hard to explain," Evelyn answered with a faint smile. "I suppose I couldn't give you any very logical reasons."

"Then it may not be too late to put things right!" Mrs. Cliffe saw a ray of hope.

"I'm afraid it is. I think Reggie knows that—he was very considerate. There is no use in your trying to do anything; I must have my own way in this."

Mrs. Cliffe was painfully surprised. The girl had suddenly developed and revealed unsuspected capacities. She had grown like her father, who, for all his patience, was sometimes immovable. There was inflexibility in Evelyn's attitude; her face was hard and determined.

"Very well," she acquiesced. "Your father must be told, and I don't know what he will do about it."

"I would rather tell him myself," Evelyn said.

This was not what Mrs. Cliffe wanted, but the girl moved to the door as she finished speaking, and her mother sat down, burning with indignation. Her authority had been outraged, she felt overcome, and did not leave her room all evening.

Evelyn found Cliffe on the veranda, and took him down the steps before she told him what she had done. He listened without surprise; indeed, she thought his manner was rather curiously sympathetic.

"Well," he said, "in a way I'm sorry. Reggie's a good fellow as far as he goes. But I imagined you liked him. Why did you refuse?"

"It isn't very plain," Evelyn answered. "I felt I had to. Perhaps Long Mountain had something to do with it."

Cliffe smiled, but not with amusement, and Evelyn saw that he understood. Somehow she had expected him to do so and she was touched when he gently pressed her arm.

"After all, you're the person most interested, and you must please yourself—though your mother will be badly disappointed," he said. "It's possible we're wiser in the woods than in the city. One sees the things that matter more clearly away from the turmoil."