She looked at me in surprised indignation. “What do you mean?” she said. I merely smiled. Her chin lifted and her brows drew together. I recognized that look; I had seen it before, on that afternoon when I announced my intention of carrying her from the dingy to the skiff. “Will you be good enough to let go of my rein?” she asked. Every word was a sort of verbal icicle. I felt the chill and my smile was rather forced; but I held the bridle. “No,” I said, serenely as I could. For a minute--I suppose it was not longer than that, it seemed an hour to me--we remained as we were. Then her lips began to curl upward at the corners, and, to my surprise, she burst out laughing. “Really, Mr. Paine,” she said, “you are the most impossible person I ever met. Do you always order people about this way? I feel as if I were about five years old and you were my nurse. Are we to stand here the rest of the afternoon?” “Yes; unless you permit me to go with you and show you the way.” “But I can't. I'm not going to spoil your picnic. I know you want your lunch. You must. Or, if you don't, I want mine.” “If you go alone, there are nine chances in ten that you will not get home in time for dinner, to say nothing of lunch.” She looked at me oddly, I thought, and started to speak. Whatever it was she was going to say she evidently thought better of it, for she remained silent. Then I had a new idea. Whether or not it was her look which inspired it I do not know. I think it must have been; I never would have dared such a thing without inspiration. “Miss Colton,” I said, hesitatingly, “if you really are not--if you are sure your people will not worry about you--I--I should be glad to share my lunch with you. Then we could go home together afterward.” She did not look at me now. Instead she turned her head. “Are--are you sure there is enough for two?” she asked, in a curiously choked tone. By way of answer I led the horse to the bushes, drew the lunch basket from the shade, and threw back the cover. Dorinda's picnic lunches were triumphs and she had never put up a more tempting one. Miss Colton looked down into the basket. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “There appears to be enough, doesn't there?” I observed, drily. “But--but I couldn't think of . . . Are you sure I won't be . . . Thank you. Yes, I'll stay.” Before I could offer my hand to help her from the saddle she sprang to the ground. Her eyes were sparkling. “Mr. Paine,” she said, in a burst of confidence, “it is shameless to tell you so, I know, but I was dreadfully afraid you weren't going to ask me. I am absolutely STARVED.” CHAPTER XII “And now,” continued Miss Colton, after an interval during which, I presume, she had been waiting for some reply to her frank declaration concerning mind and appetite, “what must I do to help? Shall I unpack the basket?”