But she had no intention of offense. Accustomed all her own life to the utmost cleanliness, in the beginning insisted upon by Angelique because it was proper, and by her guardian for health’s sake, she had grown up with a horror of the discomfort of any untidiness, and she felt herself most remiss in her attentions that she had not earlier offered soap and water. Before he realized what she was about, she had sped into the little outer room which the household used as a lavatory, and whirled a wooden tub into its centre. This she promptly filled with water from a pipe in the wall, and, having hung fresh towels on a chair, returned to the living room. “I’m so sorry. I ought to have thought of that right away. But a bath is ready now, if you wish it.” The stranger rose, stammered a little, but accepted what was in truth a delightful surprise. “Well, this is still more amazing! Into what sort of a spot have I stumbled? It’s a log house, but with apparently several rooms. It has all the comforts of civilization, and at least this one luxury. There are books, too. I saw them in that inner apartment as I passed the open door. The man looks like a gentleman in the disguise of a lumberman, and the girl--what’ll she do next? Ask me where I came from, and why, I presume. If she does, I’ll have to answer her, and truthfully. I can’t fancy anybody not telling the truth to those blue eyes. Maybe she won’t ask.” She did, however, as soon as he reëntered the living room, refreshed and certainly much more attractive in appearance than when he had the soil and litter of his long wandering upon him. “Oh! how much more comfortable you must be. How did you get lost? Is your home far from here?” “A long, long way,” and for a moment something like sadness touched his face. That look passed quickly and a defiant expression took its place. “What a pity! It will be so much harder to get word to your people. Maybe Pierre can carry a message, or show you the road, once you are strong enough again.” “Who’s Pierre?” “Mother Ricord’s son. He’s a woodlander and wiser even than she is. He’s really more French than Indian, but uncle says the latter race is stronger in him. It often is in his type.” “A-ah, indeed! So you study types up here, do you?” “Yes. Uncle makes it so interesting. You see, he got used to teaching stupid people when he was a professor in his college. I’m dreadfully stupid about books, though I do my best. But I love living things; and the books about animals and races are charming. When they’re true, that is. Often they’re not. There’s one book on squirrels uncle keeps as a curiosity, to show how little the writer knew about them. And the pictures are no more like squirrels than--than they are like me.” “A-ah!” said the listener, again. “That explains.” “I don’t know what you mean. No matter. It’s the old stupidity, I suppose. How did you get lost?”