With a good-natured shrug of his shoulders, the Journalist turned to his more sophisticated neighbor, and left her quite piteously alone once more. An enamored-looking man and woman at her right were talking transmigration of souls, but whenever she tried to annex herself to their conversation they trailed their voices away from her in a sacred, aloof sort of whisper. Across the table the people were discussing city politics in a most clandestine sort of an undertone. Altogether it was almost half an hour before the Journalist remembered to smile at her again. The very first flicker of his lips started her red mouth mumbling inarticulately. "Were you going to say something?" he asked. She shook her head drearily. "No," she stammered. "I've tried and tried, but I can't think of anything at all to say. I guess I don't know any secrets." The Journalist's keen eyes traveled shrewdly for a second round the cautious, worldly-wise table, and then came narrowing back rather quizzically to the Woodland Girl's flushing, pink and white face. "Oh, I don't know," he smiled. "You look to me like a little girl who might have a good many secrets." She shook her head. "No," she insisted, "in all the whole wide world I don't know one single thing that has to be whispered." "No scandals?" teased the Journalist. "No!" "No love affairs?" "No!" The Journalist laughed. "Why, what do you think about all day long up in your woods?" he quizzed. "Anglo-Saxon and Chemistry and Hindoo History and Sunsets and Mountains and Moose," she repeated glibly. "Now you're teasing me," said the Journalist. She nodded her head delightedly. "I'm trying to!" she smiled. The Journalist turned part way round in his chair, and proffered her a perfectly huge olive as though it had been a crown jewel. When he spoke again, his voice was almost as low as the voice of the man who was talking transmigration of souls. But his smile was a great deal kinder. "Don't you find any Romance at all in your woods?" he asked a bit drawlingly. "No," said the Girl; "that's the trouble. Of course, when I was small it didn't make any difference; indeed, I think that I rather preferred it lonesome then. But this last year, somehow, and this last autumn especially--oh, I know you'll think I'm silly--but two or three times in the woods--I've hoped and hoped and hoped--at the turn of a trail, or the edge of a brook, or the scent of a camp fire--that I might run right into a real, live Hunter or Fisherman. And--one night I really prayed about it--and the next morning I got up early and put on my very best little hunting suit--all coats and leggings and things just like yours, you know--and I stayed out all day long--tramping--tramping--tramping, and I never saw _any one_. But I did get a fox. Yes!--and then--" "And then what?" whispered the Journalist very helpfully.