Margot had dropped upon the floor before the wide fireplace, her favorite seat. Her arms clasped her strange pet’s body, while his white head rested lovingly upon her shoulder. His eyes were fixed upon the blazing logs, and the yellow irises gleamed as if they had caught and held the dancing flames. But at her command he shook himself free, and extended one mighty wing, while she stretched out the other. Their tips were full nine feet apart and seemed to fill and darken the whole place. In spite of this odd girl’s fearless handling of the bird, it looked most formidable to the visitor, who retreated again to a safe distance, though he had begun to advance toward her. And again he implored her to put the uncanny monster out of the house. Margot laughed, as she was always doing; but, going to the table, filled a plate with the fragments from the stew, and, calling Tom, set the dish before him on the threshold. “There’s your supper, Thomas the King! Which means, no more of Angelique’s chickens, dead or alive.” The eagle gravely limped out of doors and the visitor felt relieved, so that he cast somewhat longing glances upon the table, and Margot was quick to understand them. Putting a generous portion upon another plate, she moved a chair to the side nearest the fire. “You’re so much stronger, I guess it won’t hurt you to take as much as you like now. When did you eat anything before?” “Day before yesterday--I think. I hardly know. The time seems confused. As if I had been wandering, round and round, forever. I--was almost dead, wasn’t I?” “Yes. But ’twas Angelique who was first to see it was starvation. Angelique is a Canadian. She lived in the woods long before we came to them. She is very wise.” He made no comment, being then too busy eating; but at length even his voracity was satisfied, and he had leisure to examine his surroundings. He looked at Margot as if girls were as unknown as eagles; and, indeed, such as she were--to him, at least. Her dress was of blue flannel, and of the same simple cut that she had always worn. A loose blouse, short skirt, full knickers, met at the knees by long shoes, or gaiters of buckskin. These were as comfortable and pliable as Indian moccasins, and the only footgear she had ever known. They were made for her in a distant town, whither Mr. Dutton went for needed supplies, and like the rest of her costume, after a design of his own. She was certainly unconventional in manner, but not from rudeness so much as from a desire to study him--another unknown specimen from an outside world. Her speech was correct beyond that common among school girls, and her gaze was as friendly as it was frank. Their scrutiny of each other was ended by her exclaiming:-- “Why--you are not old! Not much older than Pierre, I believe! It must be because you are so dirty that I thought you were a man like uncle.” “Thank you,” he answered, dryly.