"Fie, fie! sir," answered Barbara gaily, devouring her bread and blackberries with infinite gusto. "Where are your eyes? This is no wilderness, but a sweet enchanted isle. Some gentle enchantress hath led us hither, and now encloses us with a hundred magic spells safely guarded from the malice of our foes." "And here we shall dwell happily ever after. Runs not the story so? For my part I should be well content," he added softly. Again Barbara ignored the tenderness in his voice. "This is no pasty, neither is it mere greasy bacon that you eat," she continued her parable calmly, "though to your eyes so it may appear. ’Tis magic food that our enchantress hath supplied. While this water," she added, stooping with cupped hand to drink from the spring, "sure no ordinary water could have so sweet a taste. ’Tis the nectar of the gods, and whosoever drinks it shall remain forever young." "I’ faith, madame, you are a lesson in contentment. For myself, hard fare is nothing, but I feared for you. I went fishing also this morning, but with ill success, my hand has lost its cunning since boyhood. But you shall have trout for supper, or I will drown in the attempt." Barbara laughed brightly. "Tell me of your camp here when you were a boy," she commanded. So he told her of his boyhood, becoming boy again as he talked. Told of his games, adventures, beliefs, of life in those golden days when the forest had been to him a place of magic, each rock a fortress, each rotting tree-trunk a fearsome beast of prey, each flower-clad glade a dwelling for the fairies. And she listened to all with a sweet eagerness, a ready comprehension, a quick sympathy which led him to another and yet another tale, till his whole boyhood lay open before her like a book, and through the boy she learned to know the man, the man as he really was beneath his veneer of careless gallantry, brave, honest, simple, and chivalrous. For the man who looks back with love to the days of his childhood preserves one treasure in his heart which the world may never sully. Thus they talked, these two, cut off from all their world. Naturally, openly they talked, disclosing to one another their deepest, purest thoughts, for the spell of the forest was upon them, and for the nonce the man and the woman met face to face, simple and unashamed The sunlight played about them, the leaves danced and whispered, and the air thrilled with the song of the birds. [Illustration: "THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR WORLD"] "And were there no women in your camp?" asked Barbara at last, smiling.