He was summoned in a few moments by the same girl who had greeted him; and she also waited on him at table, placing before him in turn his steaming soup, a platter of fried bass and smoking sweet potatoes, then the inevitable broiled canvas-back duck with rice, and finally home-made preserves--wild grapes, exquisitely fragrant in their thin, golden syrup. Marche was that kind of a friendly young man who is naturally gay-hearted and also a little curious--sometimes to the verge of indiscretion. For his curiosity and inquiring interest in his fellow-men was easily aroused--particularly when they were less fortunately situated than he in a world where it is a favorite fiction that all are created equal. He was, in fact, that particular species of human nuisance known as a humanitarian; but he never dreamed he was a nuisance, and certainly never meant to be. Warmth and food and the prospects of to-morrow's shooting, and a slender, low-voiced young girl, made cheerful his recently frost-nipped soul, and he was inclined to expand and become talkative there in the lamplight. "Has the shooting been pretty good?" he asked pleasantly, plying knife and fork in the service of a raging appetite. "It _has_ been." "What do you think of the prospects for to-morrow?" [Illustration: "She said gravely: 'I am afraid it will be blue-bird weather.'"] She said gravely: "I am afraid it will be blue-bird weather." It was a new, but graphic, expression to him; and he often remembered it afterward, and how quaintly it fell from her lips as she stood there in the light of the kerosene lamp, slim, self-possessed, in her faded gingham gown and apron, the shapely middle finger of one little weather-tanned hand resting on the edge of the cloth. "You are Miss Herold, I suppose?" he said, looking up at her with his pleasant smile. "Yes." "You are not Southern?" "No," she said briefly. And he then remembered that the Hon. Cicero W. Gilkins, when he was president of the now defunct club, had installed a Northern man as resident chief game-protector and superintendent at the Foam Island Club House. Marche had never even seen Herold; but, through lack of personal interest, and also because he needed somebody to look out for the property, he had continued to pay this man Herold his inconsiderable salary every year, scarcely knowing, himself, why he did not put the Foam Island shooting on the market and close up the matter for good. "It's been five years since I was here, Miss Herold," he said, smiling. "That was in the old days of the club, when Judge Gilkins and Colonel Vyse used to come here shooting every season. But you don't remember them, I fancy." "I remember them." "Really! You must have been quite a child." "I was thirteen." "Oh, then you are eighteen, now," he said humorously. Her grave, young lips were only slightly responsive to his smile. "You have been here a long time," he said. "Do you find it lonely?" "Sometimes," she admitted.