Barbara sat down on the rock as she spoke, and unfastening the clasp of her scarlet cloak, allowed it to fall loosely around her. Philip flung himself on the grass at her feet, kindling up its green with the gorgeousness of his savage raiment. Seated thus, they could catch gleams of blue water under the willow branches, and watch the broad lily pods heaving softly up and down as if stirred with human pulses. Barbara's face brightened, and her lips parted with smiles. She was naturally of a cheerful disposition, and such beauty as this gladdened her whole being. "It seems like enchantment," she said; "some beautiful witchcraft has been at work here." "It has brought a smile to that face, and I am happy," answered the young man. "Have you known this spot long?" asked Barbara. "It looks like a corner in some English park. The clearing must have been made years ago, for, save that once massive stump, which is now more than half moss, no trace of the axe is visible." "It was cleared years ago, lady, for I was born here." "Here!" "Yes, my father was out hunting with the chiefs of his tribe. He never went even to the war-path that his wife did not follow and rest somewhere near him. That year he built her lodge in this spot. A few of the old logs lie in the clearing yonder even yet, held together by the moss that has been years and years creeping over them. When Wahpee told me that you would ride through the forest, I directed him to bring you along this trail. But you look tired and must be hungry." "Yes, a little tired, and not a little hungry," answered Barbara. "In my anxiety I quite forgot that food might be needed on the way." "Would to heaven that I could always think for you!" was the humble reply. "Oh, lady, how lovely these forests would be if you never left them!" Barbara looked around, and her eyes filled with tears. "If you were my son." The young man made an impatient gesture. "Or my brother," she added. "Then, Philip, I might find that rest here which all other places in the world deny me. But my destiny leads me into the world, where I shall be far more alone than you can be here." The young man looked searchingly into Barbara's face, and saw how honestly she spoke. "I know! I knew from the first how hopeless this fatal love was," he said, passionately. "Yet spite of every thing it will break forth to offend you." "No, I am not offended," answered the lady. "God forbid that honest affection should anger me! I am only sorrowful that my destiny is always to give pain. I do not even reason with you, Philip, knowing well that human love is not the growth of human will. But you must learn patience, my friend, and strive, as I must, to be useful, and with God's help happy, without love."