Nothing was left but the memory and the dream--yes, and the Beginning. Barbara knew it must be that--the Beginning. He would come to see her. She would wear the chiffon, another chiffon, altogether glorious. She would sit on the highest root of the old elm, and he would lie at her feet. Then he could tell her of the enchanted land, of the life of the winds of heaven. He would be her knight, to plunge into the wilderness on the Quest, returning always to her. The picture became at once inexpressibly dear to her. Then she noticed that he had stopped, and was looking at her in deprecation, and was holding aside the screen of moose-maples. Beyond she could see the familiar clearing, and the smoke from the Maxwell cabin. She had slept almost within sight of her own doorstep. "Please forgive me," he was saying. "I meant it only as an interesting little adventure. It has been harmless enough, surely--to you." His eyes were hungry. Barbara could not find words. "Good-by," he concluded. "Good-by. You will forgive me in time--or forget, which is much the same. Believe me, if I have offended you, my punishment is going to be severe. Good-by." "Good-by," said Barbara, a little breathlessly. She had already forgotten the trick. She could think only that the forest, the unfriendly forest, was about to recall her son. "Good-by," he repeated again. He should have gone, but did not. The situation became strained. "When are you coming to see me?" she inquired at length. "I shall be here two weeks yet." "Never," he replied. "What do you mean?" she asked after a moment. "After Painted Rock, the wilderness," he explained, almost bitterly, "the wilderness and solitude for many years--forever!" "Don't go until to-morrow," she urged. "I must." "Why?" "Because I must be at Painted Rock by Friday, and to reach it I must travel fast and long." "And if you do not?" "My mission fails," he replied. They stood there silent. Barbara dug tiny holes with the tip of her parasol. "And that is ruin?" she asked softly, without looking up. "I have struggled hard for many years. The result is this chance." "I see," she replied, bending her head lower. "It would be a very foolish thing for you to stay, then, wouldn't it?" He did not reply. "But you are going to, aren't you?" she went on in a voice almost inaudible. "You must not go like that. I ask you to stay." Again the pause. "I cannot," he replied. She looked up. He was standing erect and tall, his face set in the bronze lines of a resolution, his gray eyes levelled straight and steady beyond her head. Instantly her own spirit flashed. "I think now you'd better go!" said she superbly. They faced each other for a moment. Then Barbara dropped her head again, extending her hand. "You do not know," she whispered, "I have much to forgive."