I went in after that. Miss Barrison was sitting before the oven, knees gathered in her clasped hands, languidly studying the fire. She looked up as I appeared, opened the oven-doors, sniffed the aroma, and resumed her attitude of contented indifference. "Where is the professor?" I asked. "He has retired. He's been talking in his sleep at moments." "Better take it down; that's what you're here for," I observed, closing and holding the outside door. "Ugh! there's a chill in the air. The dew is pelting down from the pines like a steady fall of rain." "You will get fever if you roam about at night," she said. "Mercy! your coat is soaking. Sit here by the fire." So I pulled up a bench and sat down beside her like the traditional spider. "Miss Muffitt," I said, "don't let me frighten you away--" "I was going anyhow--" "Please don't." "Why?" she demanded, reseating herself. "Because I like to sit beside you," I said, truthfully. "Your avowal is startling and not to be substantiated by facts," she remarked, resting her chin on one hand and gazing into the fire. "You mean because I went for a stroll by moonlight? I did that because you always seem to make fun of me as soon as the professor joins us." "Make fun of you? You surely don't expect me to make eyes at you!" There was a silence; I toasted my shins, thoughtfully. "How is your burned finger?" I asked. She lifted it for my inspection, and I began a protracted examination. "What would you prescribe?" she inquired, with an absent-minded glance at the professor's closed door. "I don't know; perhaps a slight but firm pressure of the finger-tips--" "You tried that this afternoon." "But the dog interrupted us--" "Interrupted _you_. Besides--" "What?" "I don't think you ought to," she said. Sitting there before the oven, side by side, hand innocently clasped in hand, we heard the drumming of the dew on the roof, the night-wind stirring the palms, the muffled snoring of the professor, the faint whisper and crackle of the fire. A single candle burned brightly, piling our shadows together on the wall behind us; moonlight silvered the window-panes, over which crawled multitudes of soft-winged moths, attracted by the candle within. "See their tiny eyes glow!" she whispered. "How their wings quiver! And all for a candle-flame! Alas! alas! fire is the undoing of us all." She leaned forward, resting as though buried in reverie. After a while she extended one foot a trifle and, with the point of her shoe, carefully unlatched the oven-door. As it swung outward a delicious fragrance filled the room. "They're done," she said, withdrawing her hand from mine. "Help me to lift them out." Together we arranged the delicious pastry in rows on the bench to cool. I opened the door for a few minutes, then closed and bolted it again. "Do you suppose those transparent creatures will smell the odor and come around the cabin?" she suggested, wiping her fingers on her handkerchief.