It seems sometimes as if a Harlequin rules the world. When once your tired eyes rest on what you know to be the last trick in his bag—lo! he turns the empty sack upside down, and it spills surprises, like the widow's cruse. Some such master jest he played on Barbara.

An absorbing interest had catapulted into her life, and wakened her like a bugle call. She had a fight on her hands and that means life to the Irish. Her extraordinary marriage made little real difference in the order of her days, except that she dined with an interesting man each night. He talked to her of the things he hoped to do, if the people of New York made him governor.

Always, except when political dinners or party caucus kept him too late, she found him pacing the corridor outside her dressing-room. Courteous, urbane, he took her to supper with friends, to a cafÉ, or back to the hotel, where they had something to eat in Bob's sitting-room. This last arrangement suited her best, for then she could lead him to talk of the fight ahead. He sometimes asked her judgment. She felt his single-purposed strength in these talks; she plumbed the force which had made him a success at forty.

"Why do you always make me talk about myself?" he asked her on one of these occasions of supper in her room.

"I want you to be interested," she retorted.

"You think me such an egotist?"

"I think all successful people are egotists. Success isn't an accident, it is plan and work. You have to focus in on yourself all the time to belong to the master-class."

"You don't talk about yourself—you're a success."

"Oh, we'll come to me. It's all 'quiet along the Potomac' with me just now, but you're going into action."

"Think of the egotists who are not a success."

"Well, of course, a man who is merely in love with himself is in danger of a mÉsalliance," she added, laughing.

"Go on! What is the saving grace for your egotists?"

"I hate to be so bromidic."

"I'm used to it."

"Oh!"

"Not in you—the rest of the world."

"New York nearly lost a governor!" she warned him. "I save my egotist with a sense of humour, which is only a sense of proportion. Humour plus purpose."

"What kind of purpose?"

"To be selfish for unselfish ends."

"Delightfully Irish," he admitted.

The talk never drifted from the impersonal. They both unconsciously fought to keep up all the barriers of their formal relationship, but they both were constantly peering over the wall into the other's personality, hoping not to be caught at it.

The day came when Trent's candidacy for governor was announced by his party. As he never saw Bob in the morning, the news came to her with her coffee and toast. She sent for all the papers and read them more diligently than she had ever searched for notices of her own triumphs. The bed looked like a sea of print, out of which she rose, a pink mermaid. When the last word was read, she took up the 'phone beside her bed and called Paul. The secretary told her he was in a conference. She asked if there was a message.

"This is— I am—Mrs. Trent," said Barbara, blushing furiously at her end of the line.

"Oh, just a minute," amended the girl. After a bit she heard his crisp, short greeting.

"Good-morning! This is Bob."

"How are you?"

"I've read every line in every paper. I'm so excited I had to call up. Could I do something—make a speech, or something like that?"

"Wish you might— I'd be nominated sure."

She resented his flippancy, she was so in earnest.

"I won't keep you; I know you're busy, Governor."

"I'll take that as a prophecy. By the way, I may not be able to dine with you to-night."

"Sorry! Good-bye."

He frowned at her abrupt dismissal as he went back to work, then he forgot all about her. Bob set down the steel bar smartly. For some reason she was irritated at the interview. She had expressed herself with such emotion, and he had received it with such cool matter of factness. She treated herself to a mental shaking, which Englished might have read thus:

"Look here, Barbara Garratry, this man is nothing to you but an interesting interlude between Now and the Hereafter. He asked you to marry him as an experiment. He laid stress on a lack of sentiment. Now don't you let your Irish feelings clutter things up. You fight for the fight's sake and leave the man out of it."

She arose with much determination. She dressed and outlined a play to be called "The Governor." She read the noon editions. She put in a busy afternoon, disciplining her mind to keep away from the danger-zone, and as punishment she went to dine with some friends, so that she might miss the chance of seeing him, if he did come back to dine.

Paul, in the meantime, worked like five men all day, with the unformed idea in the back of his brain that there was something he must do at seven o'clock. He was to speak at the Waldorf at eight, after a political dinner. The last conference was over a few minutes before seven. The unformed thought crystalized—he wanted to talk to Bob. It would rest him more than anything. He called a taxi and hurried to the hotel. He glowed with satisfaction at the thought of her, there, waiting for him. He laughed at himself and dashed to her door like an eager boy. The maid told him she had gone out to dine, and his disappointment was all out of proportion to the facts, as he told himself on his way to his room.

Why shouldn't she go out to dinner? Just because this night was an important one to him was no reason why it should be to her. He was a man she had married for an experiment. He must not let her woman-lure get between him and his purpose. It was an older, grim-faced candidate for governor who went to the Waldorf an hour later.

Bob's performance dragged that night. She had exhausted herself in forced gaiety at the dinner and she was furious at herself. When her maid reported Paul's appearance at her door, she denied to herself the wave of regret that swept over her.

A party of friends came back after the play to carry her off for supper, but she pleaded a headache and got rid of them. She said to herself over and over as she dressed for the street, "I know he won't come to-night—he's too busy to remember." But when she stepped into the hall and looked for his tall figure, she felt a swift disappointment. She sent her maid on to the hotel alone, on some excuse, and she determined to walk herself.

It was a cold, crisp night. Broadway was a blare of light, as poignant as a din of sound. Taxis honked, policemen shouted; bareheaded women and tall-hatted men hurried to the restaurants, the maelstrom of Broadway, nearing midnight, was in full tide. Bob turned from it toward the shadowy stretch of the avenue.

The moon was clear and round, the heavens a blue plush vault. The broad shining street swept its gleaming length, with the misty lights reflecting themselves. Uptown the cathedral spires pricked the skyline, downtown was lost in grayness. Bob hesitated at the corner to buy an extra from a brass-lunged newsy, then stood an instant deciding which way to go. She wanted the solitude and calm of the night.

A click of approaching footsteps caught her attention. She looked at the man who approached, head up, hands deep in his overcoat pockets, his long stride even and swift. Something about her caught his eye and he stopped before her in alarm.

"Barbara!"

"Why, it's you," she said stupidly.

"What's happened? What are you doing here alone, at this hour?"

"Trying to decide whether to walk uptown or downtown," she laughed. He drew her hand through his arm, and fell into step, facing uptown.

"But, my dear girl, I can't have you alone on the streets like this."

"Why don't you come after me then?"

"I was on my way—I was detained," he answered seriously.

"I was joking. I've always gone about alone since I was a child. I'm perfectly safe."

"I don't like it, just the same. Where's your maid?"

"Sent her home."

"You wanted to be alone?"

"Yes."

He slowed down.

"I don't mind you."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me," he remarked.

"Do you want me to say nice things to you?"

"I haven't any objection to it," he smiled.

"Tell me about your day."

"I came to tell you about it, before the banquet, and you'd flown."

"You said you wouldn't be back. I've read all the extras up to this."

She displayed the paper, and he smiled and put it in his pocket. He related the day's events; he even repeated the main points he had made in his speech, led on by her interest.

"They're a bit afraid of me, even my friends. They think I've got the reform bug, that I'll go in for a lot of things that they think unessential."

"Well, won't you?"

"Yes, but it's good politics to keep that to yourself."

"Don't you do it! Throw down all your cards and win out on what's in your hand."

"That's your advice, is it? It might lose me the office."

"I don't believe it. It takes nerve to state your intentions and invite the party to stay in or go out. The public cares more for nerve than party, I think."

They walked and talked until the black mass of the Park blocked the way. Paul told her of the reform bills he wanted to get put through, bills that would cost him dear, because there were big vested interests in opposition. Bob listened, commented, urged him to fight on principle, not politics. They were so absorbed in themselves that the midnight crowds scattered and left the world to them.

The walk downtown was over before they realized it. The cold night air, the exercise, or something had cleared the world of all difficulties for both of them.

"I'm glad I met you," she nodded to him, as she laid her hand in his for good-night.

"It was a fine walk; but no more gallivanting alone at night—without me," he warned her.

"I make no promises and take no orders. I'm a free-lance and an anarchist. I'm agin the government."

"Not agin the Governor, I hope?"

"No such animal is dreamt of in my philosophy!" quoth she.

II

The months that followed that midnight walk were difficult ones. Trent had his law business to attend to, and endless demands were made upon his time and strength by political banquets and speechmaking. Bob felt as if she were primitive woman, tending the pot in the tent, waiting for her brave to rush in with news of war. Then she laughed at her own thoughts. A modern New York hotel was a poor substitute for a tent. She was not even of use as pot-tender, the chÊf had succeeded to that profession.

Paul fell into the habit of coming for short breathing spells between appointments. He reported every move to her and they talked each one over. Her counsel was often sure and wise. Barbara felt that he respected her intuitions, if not her judgment.

"May I come in?" he asked one day at her door. "I have half an hour before I'm due in court, and I thought you might let me have a bite of lunch here with you, in peace and quiet."

She crossed to the telephone and ordered the luncheon sent up at once.

"You look very tired, Paul. Lie down there and be quiet until the lunch comes."

He went to her couch and obeyed. His eyes closed.

"Talk to me."

She blushed for some reason, and went to throw a rug across his feet. He looked up at her smiling.

"How shall I ever catch up with you, Barbara Garratry?"

"Catch up?"

"I make unconscionable demands on your time and patience. I ask myself what possible right I have to do it, assure myself I have none, and go right on imposing on you."

"I'm glad to help—if I do. I told you I liked a fight."

"Just at this moment peace seems the only good gift desirable to me."

"Don't talk—rest."

"Your voice rests me."

"All right. Be quiet and I'll talk. I'll tell you the story of a play I'm going to do. It's called The Governor."

He opened his eyes at that.

"Yes, you suggested it to me, but you're not the hero."

"Let's hear," he said.

She outlined the situation and set the characters up before him. Her hero was to be a young ardent reform candidate for governor, visioning big things which he could do with his power of office. The party leaders let him talk—they winked and said the reform stuff was popular with the people just now, but when they got him to Albany they'd teach him a new song. The chief contributor to his campaign fund was to be a corporation which wanted the governor's veto to a bill infringing their absolutism. They convinced the young enthusiast of their absolute sympathy with his aims, as well as their own integrity of purpose, and then he is elected and goes to Albany.

She was interrupted by the waiter with the lunch. She directed him to serve them.

"Never mind the lunch—go on with 'The Governor'!" commanded Trent.

"That's enough for this session. Come and eat your brief repast—time is nearly up."

"But what are you going to have him do when he finds out the corporation is rotten?"

While he ate his lunch he plied her with questions and objections. When he had finished, he hesitated at the door.

"Let's talk about the play to-night. I'll come after you. For this relief much thanks; it was both mental and physical."

This play, introduced as a soporific by Bob, proved a real bond. Trent became deeply interested in it, talked it, thought about it, contended fiercely over points. When Bob remarked that it was, after all, her play, and she would do with it as she saw fit, he always defended himself gravely.

He debated the necessity of the love story. It took time which might be used for preachment.

"Oh, you mere man," she exploded, "you can't go on disregarding women in this way. We're here, we've got to be admitted and considered."

"Well, but——"

"The governor's love affair will be of much more interest to an audience than the reform bills he puts through."

"Stupid cattle!"

"Of more interest to the governor, too," she added.

"Heretic! You don't believe that."

"Certainly I do."

"You think that his courting a woman and having a few children is as important as what he can do for the whole State of New York?"

She hesitated a moment, chin in hand.

"I think that in so far as a man is normal he understands the needs of the people. It's normal for a man to marry and have a family. My governor will be a bigger man, if he wins this girl in the play."

"But all that interrupts him, takes his mind off his bigger usefulness."

"The bigger the man, the bigger his usefulness. Don't you see, you've got to feed all a man's needs, or a woman's, to get the highest results?"

"Do you think everybody needs this, this food, as you call it?"

"Do I think every baby needs mother's milk?" she inquired.

"They don't all get it, and they live just the same."

"Yes, but you can never say how much stronger they would have been with it," she smiled.

"Irish sophistry," he remarked, but he found that talk recurring to him. She had phrased his own suspicion.

"I take your advice about my campaign," he said.

"So do I take yours about the play."

"But you fight every step of the way."

"That's the way the Irish show they're grateful," she laughed. But in her heart she was glad that at last her work began to interest him as much as his interested her. Of course this particular problem in the play was his own problem, so his interest was easily aroused. She saw how it rested him to forget entirely about his own work and take up this other man's difficulties.

As the hot weather came upon them they debated the wisdom of moving out of town. Bob's season was running very late, holding on from week to week, so long as the audiences held. Trent was rushed to death. They met only for brief visits at odd hours. Even week-ends were occupied; he caught up with his correspondence on that holiday.

"You look very pale these last few days, Barbara. Do go off to your bungalow, or to mine."

"Will you come, too?"

"Whenever I can. You see how my time is eaten up. But you could motor out at night, and spend your days out in the open. Don't think of me, you go—and be comfortable."

"Do I get on your nerves?"

He hesitated a moment.

"I wonder sometimes what my nerves would have done without you. You are the only tonic they have."

"Thanks. I'll stay until my season closes, then we can decide."

He breathed a sigh which she flattered herself was relief. Two weeks later the theatre closed. The days were hot and dry. Bob was tired, and determined not to be worried about Trent, who was working to the limit of his endurance. When he came into her room the Sunday morning after her closing, she was shocked by him.

"Well, Saint Francis, you look as if you had fasted forty days and forty nights."

"I feel it—I'm all in."

"I am going to leave you to-morrow."

"What?"

"I hate to think of you dying alone—better come along."

"Where?"

"I don't know. I'd like to go to some perfectly new place."

"So would I. Is there such a thing?"

"I'd like to rough it. Camp, skies for roof, all that kind of differentness."

"Where could we go?"

"I knew some people who went to Estes Park and loved it. How about that?"

"Actual tents? You don't seem to suggest that sort of thing."

"Log cabin, cook in the open, all day in the saddle. Come on, let's go!"

"I'm nearly through with all I can do now. How long will it take you to get ready?"

"Me? Oh, a day."

"A day? Really?"

"I'll take a steamer trunk——"

"And a maid?"

"No."

"You'll go off gypsying with me alone, Barbara?"

"Yes."

"Give me directions. I'll get tickets to-morrow."

So it was decided. Barbara plunged into dismantling her rooms and packing her things. She dispatched the maid and many trunks to the country. The next night, when Paul came in, she stood in the midst of the denuded rooms.

"You actually did it. You Irish do put things through!" he exclaimed.

"We do. Get the tickets?"

"I did, and wired the ranchman. We go on the Century to Chicago."

"Good!"

"You're not afraid of this new experiment?"

"Which one?"

"Going off alone into the wilderness with me. We will be dependent on each other. No little 'convenances' in the woods, you know."

"I'm not afraid. I'd go alone with my maid, and you would be some protection."

He laughed, but not too readily.

They set out next day, both too tired for any sense of adventure. Bob had the drawing-room, and Paul wandered in and out, interrupting her reading. The trip west, beyond Chicago, was uneventful and hot. It was only when they arrived at Loveland, where they took the motor into the Park, that their interest began to awaken.

The ride into Estes along the narrow roads, winding between high cliffs on one side, the roaring, foaming, booming Big Thompson River on the other—higher and higher and wilder as it winds—whipped Bob's spirits into a froth of talk and laughter. Paul was conscious of a sense of peril in her nearness, in her charm. He warned himself of the great disadvantage of being the one of them who cared. "We start even," he had said on that eventful day. "I wonder how we'll end?" he mused, looking into her vivid face.

"Odds on the Irish," she laughed, reading his thoughts. Whereupon he blushed guiltily.

III

They came into the valley itself, beyond the town of Estes, at sunset, and Bob gasped with the glory of it. A long strip of fertile green land, with the river winding across it many times, like a satin ribbon. The massive mountains of the Great Divide, snow-capped, pink-tipped, in the setting sun, stood guard over the valley like watchmen. As Paul watched Barbara's face he thought it was like a prayer of exultation.

They drew up to the long, low brown ranch house and were welcomed by the proprietor.

"Mighty glad to meet ye and have ye with us. Ye didn't say what size cabin ye wanted, but I took ye for a bride an' groom, and gave ye what the boys call the 'Bridal soot.'"

Trent laughed and assured him they were easily "suited," so the man led them down the valley, beyond all the outhouses, tents, cabins, and shacks to a log cabin cut off from the rest by a strip of woods.

"Nobody to interfere with ye here—lonesome as the top of Mill's Mountain," remarked their host at parting.

Bob led the way about and Paul followed her. There were two rooms: one with a fireplace, intended for a sitting-room; it had a couch bed, however, and the minimum of furniture. The bedroom beyond was equally bare. A sort of shed, used by some former tenant as a kitchenette, was shut off by a low door. But out of the broad windows and the open doors was a glory that made man-made comforts seem unessential details. They made the circuit of their new domain, and laughed.

"Are you frightened?" he asked her.

"Not of this shack, nor the big mountains, nor you. It's fun."

"I can get along, of course, but you don't seem to fit."

"Wait till I get on my mountain clothes, then I'll fit. These Fifth Avenue things look so ridiculous. But you're not to fret about me, Paul. I've had plenty of roughing it. I have faced life without a bathroom before. If I'm not a good enough Roman to stand it, I'll go back east."

"Let's go engage a guide and see what horses they have for us."

They started for the corral back of the ranch house, where the ponies were grazing. They had to step off the road several times to let parties of laughing men and girls gallop past. A cowboy volunteered to bring in some ponies, and while they waited, a big, loose-jointed man sauntered over to them.

"Howdy?" said he.

"Good evening."

"Strangers, ain't ye?"

"Yes, we've just come."

"East'ners?"

"Tenderfeet from New York," laughed Bob.

"We're gettin' used to you folks out here. Purty nigh all Noo Yawk State has been out here. Them your ponies?" he added, as the cowboy came up.

"Yes, I telegraphed to have some reserved for us."

Their new acquaintance gave the boy an order.

"I'll show ye the pony you want, Ma'am. This here one is all right fer yer man, but that old sawbuck won't do fer ye."

The cowboy came up with a fresh pony, ears back, eyes wide. He investigated the party thoroughly before he permitted Bob to rub his nose.

"You're right, Mr.—a——"

"Bill—Bill Hawkins. Sure I'm right. That's the pony fer her."

"We want to make a good many trips around here, and we'll need a guide. Could you go with us?" Paul asked.

"Yep."

"All right, we want you," said Bob.

"All ye got to do is to holler. When ye cal'clatin' to start?"

"To-morrow. Let's go for two days up that biggest one," said Bob.

"Cripes! She ain't goin' to lose no time. It'll hustle me some to git the camp outfit and the grub ready fer to-morrow."

"All right, Bill, hustle!" smiled the lady.

"Better be ready to start 'bout five o'clock. We can git breakfast up the mounting."

Trent questioned her silently and she nodded. Supper at the ranch house was poor, and on the way back to their cabin Bob announced that hereafter she and Bill Hawkins would serve meals from the kitchenette on the cabin porch.

They sat for a while on the tiny veranda, watching the dark shut down and lock in the valley. Then a new moon slid over a mountain peak into view, big yellow stars, close overhead, burst through the sky.

"My! what stars! They are like yellow coryopsis flowers leaning out of the sky garden!" exclaimed Bob.

"Shall I pick you a few to wear in your hair?"

"'Twould be a pity to have them fade."

"Then I'll get you the moon."

"It's no good unless you get it for yourself, Governor."

They talked casually and comfortably for half an hour, and then Bob announced that she was going to bed, so that she might get strength to face a five o'clock rising. They groped about for the candles, and by the dim light of one Paul lighted her to the bare bedchamber.

"We'd better pack our knapsacks to-night. I'll get out the steamer rugs, too. I know you'll need one on that bunk of yours. Go see what is on it."

He reported a cotton blanket and a comfortable made of pig iron. In due course of time they got things organized, and lights were out in the cabin at nine o'clock.

Trent woke to a sound of laughter—peal after peal on the morning air. He sat up, listened, looked at his watch, sprang up and dressed. He went out around the cabin to the spot from which the laughter came, punctuated by a strange and unidentified noise. A slight boy in khaki breeches, shirt, and boots, with a wide-brimmed hat pulled down on his head, was conversing with a small gray burro, who lifted his long neck and emitted unearthly sounds, at which the boy laughed.

"If that pet belongs to you, young man, you might lead him off my premises."

"He's singing a hymn to the rising sun," said Bob, turning to him.

"My word, you are Bob sure enough now," he exclaimed.

"Comfy! No matter, you men like it."

"We certainly like it on you," he remarked in surprised admiration.

"Here's Bill," she interrupted him, as the guide rode up leading the ponies. He stared at Bob with delight.

"Got an extry boy in this party, ain't we? How many of ye is there?"

"According to my appetite there's six of me," she laughed. "I can't wait to go up any mountain before breakfast."

"Wa'al, I got to thinkin' 'bout that, and I jest made a camp up the trail 'bout a mile, and the coffee's bilin' right now. Git yer blankets and knapsacks out, and we'll strop 'em on, an' git up there before it biles over."

In ten minutes they were off after Bill, the ponies on the run. The air nipped with a touch of frost in it. The mountains stood out as clear as if they were cut out of coloured paper and pasted on the flat sky. As they neared Bill's camp the smell of coffee and bacon greeted them.

"All the perfumes of Arabia can't touch that for smell," laughed Paul.

Bill and a cowboy assistant served a breakfast that no New York hotel could surpass; the mountain air gave a zest that no hothouse fruit ever produced, as appetizer. They ate like hungry hounds, and an hour later, all packed and mounted, they said good-bye to the cowboy chÊf and started on their way.

Bill rode well in advance, then Bob, then Paul. Bob's pony was a constant amusement, he was too nervous for the average, inexperienced rider, so he had not been ridden much. He had a distinct suspicion of rocks, overhanging trees, and things that darted across the road.

"He's a dancer. The equine Vernon Castle," Bob laughed, after a pas seul in a narrow and most inconvenient spot.

"Little too fresh. Don't you want to change with me?"

"Not I."

Sometimes the trail permitted them to ride side by side for a few minutes, and look off over the world spread below.

"It's incredible—such peace," he said, as they drew their ponies to a halt.

"That passeth understanding," she nodded.

"I suppose this sense of awe, of rest, is worship, is religion."

Barbara took a deep breath.

"Yes, it makes you feel purified."

The trail wound up and up. Every instant the view changed. There were difficulties to be met, where washouts had made the road almost impassable. It seemed only an hour or two later that they caught up with Bill, clearing a space to make a fire and cook the lunch.

"Not lunch! Why, what time is it?" cried Bob.

"One o'clock by my watch, ten minutes since we started by my mind, and six o'clock to-night by my appetite," said Paul.

Seated on the ground, eating a thick sandwich and devouring Heinz's pickles, Barbara sighed ecstatically.

"There never was such food," said she.

"And that for your sated New York appetite!" laughed Paul.

After lunch Bill decreed a rest for man and beast. He made a couch of pine needles for Bob, threw down her blanket on it, and betook himself off with the ponies. Bob stretched out on her bed, Trent sitting beside her to smoke.

"Better take a nap," he suggested.

"Oh, I'm not at all sleepy," said she, and was off before she finished the sentence.

Trent sat, smiled, puffed, and looked off to the end of the world and back again at the sleeping girl. He lay on his back and stared up at the sky, glad of life, of health, glad, yes—he admitted it—glad of Barbara.

When Bill came back Paul laid his hand on Bob's and brought her to a sitting position, rubbing her eyes and blinking from deep sleep.

"I must have dropped off for a minute," she apologized.

"Yes, an hour or two."

"What?"

"You've been asleep for an hour."

"The divil I have! Did I miss anything?"

"A million-dollar panorama."

"Don't you let me sleep like that again, Paul Trent. I can sleep in a New York hotel to the tune of the Elevated. Did you sleep?"

"Yes."

"That helps some."

They rode through the late afternoon, when the air was like amber; through the time of the setting sun, when the world was like a glass prism of many colours; through the shadow time, when long bars of blue lay below in the valley to mark the mountains. Then, just before the red disk burned into the mountain top and disappeared, Bill announced camp for the night.

A mountain stream bounded and roared along beside the place. A hut had been set up by a logging gang, and a thick bed of hardwood chips and bark powder marked the spot where the forest giants had met their inglorious end. Bill attended to the ponies while Bob and Paul collected firewood.

Supper was a silent function—the silence of people who understand each other and need not talk. Bob smiled at Paul when their eyes met, and for the rest, they looked off over a sample of God's handiwork that made man-talk as futile as monkey chatter.

"Do ye want to sleep in the cabin, Mrs. Bob?"

They both smiled at his appropriation of her name.

"No, Bill, I want to sleep on that bank, in the tanbark beside the brook."

"It'll keep ye awake. Awful noisy critter."

"I don't care if it does. Besides, it won't. I'll pretend I'm a goldfish, and the mountain torrent is my home."

Bill grinned at that.

"Ye goin' to be a goldfish, too, Mr. Trent?"

"I'll roll up here by the fire."

"I'll take the cabin myself, then. Can ye keep awake till I clean up camp, or shall I shake down some beds now?"

"No, no, you go ahead with the housekeeping. We won't go to bed for hours," Bob answered.

She led the way up the trail a bit, Paul following.

"Bill has real tact—he's there when you want him, and only then."

"It is as near ideal as it can be," Paul assented. "You and I, and the world away," he added.

"There isn't any world—there's just earth and sky and God," said Bob softly.

"What about us?"

"We aren't us. We're blue shadows; the night will sap us up."

"No, no, I'm just beginning to be glad I'm I—to know what it means to live," he protested.

"I wonder if that is something to be glad for?" she mused.

It grew so dark that when Bill's shout reached them Paul had to grope his way down the trail first, Bob's hands on his shoulders as she came after him. Bill ordered them to turn in. They were to get an early start, and they needed sleep, because they were not broken in yet, they were still soft.

"There's a rocky bowl full of mounting water down there, where ye can wash," he said, pointing. "Here's yer bed, Mrs. Bob, and yer blankets is over there by the fire, Mr. Trent. I'll call ye in the mornin', if the sun don't git ye up."

He disappeared into the cabin, where a candle showed through the door.

"Let's go look at the bath-tub," said Bob. They clung together and made their way to the spot where the rocks made a pool. The moon was up, but the trees threw mysterious shadows across the water. Bob took a stick and plumbed it.

"It isn't deep."

"No, only noisy, I think."

"Paul, I'm going in. You go off up there in that clump of trees, so I can call you, if I drown."

"You aren't going into that torrent now, in the dark!"

"Yes, I am."

"You're crazy!"

"Please let me. It's perfectly safe, and I never wanted to do anything so much in my life."

"You funny child!" he said, and walked off, according to orders.

Bob slid out of her clothes and plunged boldly into the icy torrent. She jumped up and down and squealed, she tried to swim, she laughed up at the moon, and was back into her clothes in a jiffy. At her call Paul plunged out of the trees to the rescue.

"Lost your nerve, did you?"

"No, I've been in. It's wonderful. Now, I want a drink of brandy, and my bark bed."

He laughed, came to the rescue with a flask, and led her to the place where Bill had spread her blankets.

"Good-night, Undine Goldfish," said Paul, and left her.

Presently, wrapped in her steamer rugs, she slid into sleep, like a mermaid into the sea. About three o'clock Paul turned over to throw a log on the fire, when a small figure, dragging blankets, came into view.

"What's the matter?"

"Oh, the night is so big and there's so much sky, it scares me."

"Is the night sapping you up?"

"Yes. I want to lie near the fire and you."

"Poor kid, she wants the lights o' home. Lie here where it's warm."

So until morning she lay on one side, and Paul on the other, while he tended the fire that was between them.

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