This offered a new field. "Then you are on a mission?" "Yes." "Is it important?" "Yes." "How long is it going to take you?" "Many years." "What is your name?" "Garrett Stanton." "You are a gentleman, aren't you?" A flicker of amusement twinkled subtly in the corner of his eye. "I suppose you mean gently bred, college-educated. Do you think it's of vast importance?" Barbara examined him reflectively, her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee. She looked at his wavy hair, his kindly, humorous gray eyes, the straight line of his fine-cut nose, his firm lips with the quaint upward twist of the corners, the fine contour of his jaw. "No-o-o," she agreed, "I don't suppose it does. Only I know you _are_ a gentleman," she added, with delightful inconsistence. Stanton bowed gravely to the fire in ironic acknowledgment. "Why don't you ever look at me?" burst out Barbara, vexed. "Why do you stare at that horrid fire?" He turned and looked her full in the face. In a moment her eyes dropped before his frank scrutiny. She felt the glow rising across her forehead. When she raised her head again he was staring calmly at the fire as before, one hand clasped under his arm, the other holding the bowl of his brier pipe. "Now," said he, "I will ask a few questions. Won't this all-night absence alarm your relatives?" "Oh, no. I often spend the night at the Adamses'. They will think I am there." "Parents are apt to be anxious." "But mine are not here, you see." "What is your name?" "Barbara Lowe." He fell silent. Barbara was distinctly piqued. He might have exhibited a more flattering interest. "Is that all you want to know about me?" she cried in an injured tone. "I know all about you now. Listen: Your name is Barbara Lowe; you come from Detroit, where you are not yet 'out'; you are an only child; and eighteen or nineteen years of age." "Why, who has been telling you about me?" cried Barbara, astonished. Stanton smiled. "Nobody," he replied. "Don't you know that we woodsmen live by our observation? Do you see anything peculiar about that tree?" Barbara examined the vegetable in question attentively. "No," she confessed at last. "There is an animal in it. Look again." "I can see nothing," repeated Barbara, after a second scrutiny. Stanton arose. Seizing a brand from the fire, he rapped sharply on the trunk. Then slowly what had appeared to be a portion of the hole began to disintegrate, and in a moment a drowsy porcupine climbed rattling to a place of safety.