“Say no more: you are quite welcome,” he replied, going over to the fireplace and touching a match to the light wood ready placed for a fire. “It will take the dampness out of the air, and—of your garments,” he added, with a furtive glance at the tall figure in the window. “Thank you, you are very kind,” said Dorothy, drawing nearer. The movement brought her close to the mantel, and she picked up one of the shells. “Did you gather these yourself?” she asked, wondering at the light that leaped into his eyes at the question. Ethel, turning round a minute later, found them talking like old friends together. She even caught herself listening breathlessly to a story he was telling of an Indian arrow he held in his hand. A sudden glance in her direction from the man’s dark eyes sent her back to her old position with an abruptness that surprised as well as displeased her. The storm was not a long one. The clouds were already lifting in the west and the rain was less flood-like in its descent. Finally the sun peeped out and flashed for a moment in Ethel’s eyes. Dorothy and their host were over at the bookcase deep in a discussion of the respective merits of Scott and Dickens, when Ethel crossed the room and came toward them. “I think,” she said, with the slightest of inclinations in Hustler Joe’s direction, “that the storm is over. We can go now.” “So it is,” said Dorothy; then turning to the man at her side she held out a cordial hand. “Thank you very much. You have been very kind.” “Yes, very kind—thank you,” murmured Ethel, bowing slightly and turning toward the door. “We shall have to go home by the road,” she announced regretfully a moment later, as she stood outside looking longingly at the hillside path where the wet grass sparkled in the sun. For a time the two girls walked on in silence, then Dorothy murmured softly: “Not a word of English—not a word!” Ethel gave a sidelong look from her lowered lids. “Well, I didn’t suppose they could!” she said petulantly. “I wouldn’t trust my life near one of them,” continued Dorothy in the same low voice. Ethel shrugged her shoulders and a faint pink showed on her forehead. “Don’t!” she protested. “How could you talk with him so?—what dreadful boots he wore!” Dorothy laughed outright. “My dear, his boots do not cover his head. Would you have a man dig coal in patent-leathers?” Ethel made a wry face and was silent. “Seriously, dear,” Dorothy went on, “he was very interesting to me. His knowledge of books was most amazing. What he is doing here I can’t imagine—he’s no common miner!” “Oh, of course not,” laughed Ethel mockingly. “No doubt he’s a college president in disguise! But really, I’m not in the least interested. Let’s talk of something else.” And she changed the subject. And yet it was Ethel who, at dinner that night, turned to Mr. Barrington with the abrupt question: “Father, who is living in the old shanty just beyond the Deerfield woods?”