“Here, let me show you,” she laughed, pulling off one glove. Her white fingers grasped the silver button-hook, and flashed in and out of the velvet holes, knitting the little shoe to the foot in no time. He watched the process in humble wonder, and she would not have been a human girl not to have been flattered with his interest and admiration. For the minute she forgot who and what he was, and let her laugh ring out merrily; and so with shy audacity he assayed to take off the other shoe. They really felt quite well acquainted and as if they were going on a day’s picnic, when they finally gathered up their belongings and started down the road. Gordon summoned all his ready wit and intellect to brighten the walk for her, though he found himself again and again on the brink of referring to his Washington life, or some other personal matter that would have brought a wondering question to her lips. He had decided that he must not tell her who he was until he could put her in an independent position, where she could get away from him at once if she chose. He was bound to look after her until he could place her in good hands, or at least where she could look after herself, and it was better to carry it out leaving her to think what she pleased until he could tell her everything. If all went well, they might be able to catch a Pittsburgh train that night and be in Washington the next day. Then, his message delivered, he would tell her the whole story. Until then he must hold his peace. They went gaily down the road, the girl’s pale cheeks beginning to flush with the morning and the exercise. She was not naturally delicate, and her faint the night before had been the result of a series of heavy strains on a heart burdened with terrible fear. The morning and his kindness had made her forget for the time that she was supposed to be walking into a world of dread and sacrifice. “The year’s at the spring, The day’s at the morn,” quoted Gordon gaily, “Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearled----” He waved an umbrella off to where a hill flashed back a thousand lights from its jewelled grass-blades thickly set. “The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn,” went on Celia suddenly catching his spirit, and pointing to a lark that darted up into the blue with a trill of the morning in his throat. Gordon turned appreciative eyes upon her. It was good to have her take up his favorite poet in that tone of voice--a tone that showed she too knew and loved Browning. “God’s in his heaven, All’s right with the world,” finished Gordon in a quieter voice, looking straight into her eyes. “That seems very true, to-day, doesn’t it?” The blue eyes wavered with a hint of shadow in them as they looked back into the brown ones. “Almost--perhaps,” she faltered wistfully.