"You will have to wait until I go to the spring," replied the man without stirring. Barbara elevated her small nose in righteous indignation. After a long time she just peeped in his direction. He was laughing to himself. She hastily elevated her nose again. After all it was very lonely in the woods. "Supper is ready," he announced after a time. "I do not think I care for any," she replied, with dignity. She was very tired and hungry and cross, and her eyes were hot. "Oh, yes you do," he insisted, carelessly. "Come now, before it gets cold." "I tell you I do not care for any," she returned, haughtily. For answer he picked her up bodily, carried her ten feet, and deposited her on another log. Beside her lay a clean bit of bark containing a broiled deer-steak, toasted bread, and a cup of tea. She struggled angrily. "Don't be a fool," the man commanded, sternly, "you need food. You will eat supper, now!" Barbara looked up at him with wide eyes. Then she began to eat the venison. By and by she remarked, "You _are_ rather nice," and after she had drained the last drop of tea she even smiled, a trifle humbly. "Thank you," said she. It was now dark, and the night had stolen down through the sentry trees to the very outposts of the fire. The man arranged the rubber blanket before it. Barbara sat upon the blanket and leaned her back against the log. He perched above her, producing a pipe. "May I?" he asked. Then, when he had puffed a few moments in quiet content, he inquired: "How did you come to get lost?" She told him. "That was very foolish," he scolded, severely. "Don't you know any better than to go into the woods without your bearings? It was idiotic!" "Thank you," replied Barbara, meekly. "Well, it was!" he insisted, the bronze on his cheek deepening a little. She watched him for some time, while he watched the flames. She liked to see the light defining boldly the clean-shaven outline of his jaw; she liked to guess at the fire of his gray eyes beneath the shadow of his brow. Not once did he look toward her. Meekly she told herself that this was just. He was dreaming of larger things, seeing in the coals pictures of that romantic, strenuous, mysterious life of which he was a part. He had no room in the fulness of his existence for such as she--she, silly little Barbara, whose only charm was a maddening fashion of pointing outward her adorable chin. She asked him about it, this life of the winds of heaven. "Are you always in the woods?" she inquired. "Not always," said he. "But you live in them a great deal?" "Yes." "You must have a great many exciting adventures." "Not many." "Where did you come from just now?" "South." "Where are you going?" "Northwest." "What are you going to do there?" There ensued a slight pause before the stranger's reply. "Walk through the woods," said he. "In other words, it's none of my business," retorted Barbara, a little tartly. "Ah, but you see it's not entirely mine," he explained.