"Four," repeated Burleson. "Now just see how simple it is. The law allows thirty woodcock, thirty partridges, and two deer to every hunter. That makes eight deer and two hundred and forty birds out of the preserve, which is very little--if you shoot straight enough to get your limit!" he laughed. "But it being a private preserve, you'll do your shooting on Saturdays, and check off your bag at the gate of the lodge--so that you won't make any mistakes in going over the limit." He laughed again, and pointed at a lean hound lying under the counter. "Hounds are barred; only 'smell-dogs' admitted," he said. "And"--he became quietly serious--"I count on each one of you four men to aid my patrol in keeping the game-laws and the fire-laws and every forest law on the statutes. And I count on you to take out enough fox and mink pelts to pay me for my game--and you yourselves for your labor; for though it is my game by the law of the land, what is mine is no source of pleasure to me unless I share it. Let us work together to keep the streams and coverts and forests well stocked. Good-night." About eleven o'clock that evening Abe Storm slunk into the store, and the community rose and fell on him and administered the most terrific beating that a husky young man ever emerged from alive. III In October the maple leaves fell, the white birches showered the hill-sides with crumpled gold, the ruffed grouse put on its downy stockings, the great hare's flanks became patched with white. Cold was surely coming; somewhere behind the blue north the Great White Winter stirred in its slumber. As yet, however, the oaks and beeches still wore their liveries of rustling amber, the short grass on hill-side pastures was intensely green, flocks of thistle-birds disguised in demure russet passed in wavering flight from thicket to thicket, and over all a hot sun blazed in a sky of sapphire, linking summer and autumn together in the magnificence of a perfect afternoon. Miss Elliott, riding beside Burleson, had fallen more silent than usual. She no longer wore her sombrero and boy's clothes; hat, habit, collar, scarf--ay, the tiny polished spur on her polished boot--were eloquent of Fifth Avenue; and she rode a side-saddle made by Harrock. "Alas! alas!" said Burleson; "where is the rose of yesterday?" "If you continue criticising my habit--" she began, impatiently. "No--not for a minute!" he cried. "I didn't mention your habit or your stock--" "You are always bewailing that soiled sombrero and those unspeakable breeches--" "I never said a word--" "You did. You said, 'Where is the rose of yesterday?'" "I meant the wild rose. You are a cultivated rose now, you know--" She turned her face at an angle which left him nothing to look at but one small, close-set ear. "May I see a little more of your face by-and-by?" he asked. "Don't be silly, Mr. Burleson." "If I'm not, I'm afraid you'll forget me."