"I hate New York," she repeated impetuously, her brown hands trembling after the tears. "If you had to go out--out--out--all the time to stupid teas and dances, you would hate it too. It was hard waiting for the camp. I--I--used to count the days--longing for the days you promised it would be ready. It was so hard to wait--but I knew you were doing your best, and daddy knew it too." Holcomb reddened. "I'm glad you trusted me," he said, and added, "I hope you will trust me always." "Why, yes, of course I will!" she exclaimed, brightening. "Oh, you know I will, don't you?" Holcomb was conscious of a sudden sensation of infinite joy; it seemed to spring up like an electric current from somewhere deep within him, and tingled all over him. "I'm glad you'll always trust me," he said, as he rose suddenly from his chair and, going over to her, held out his hand. The words he had just spoken he was as unconscious of as his impulsive gesture. "I hope you'll always trust me," he repeated. "You see I wouldn't like to disappoint you _ever_" he went on gently. She gave the strong fingers that held her own a firm little squeeze, not knowing why she did it. "Of course I will. Oh, you know I'll trust you--always--always." She said it simply--like a child telling the truth. "I must be going," she ventured faintly. "You will come to the dinner--I mean--to dine with us as long as they are here--promise me!" Again she looked appealingly into his eyes as if she were speaking in a dream. "Yes, if you want me," he said softly, almost in a whisper, still thrilled by the pressure of her warm little hand. He stood watching her as she slowly re-crossed the compound. Then he went in and shut the door of his cabin and stood for some moments gazing at the chair in which she had been seated--his heart beating fast. * * * * * The dinner was all that Thayor could have wished it. In this he had consulted Blakeman, and not Alice. The soup was perfect; so were a dozen young trout taken from an ice-cold brook an hour before, accompanied by a dish of tender cucumbers fresh from the garden and smothered in crushed ice; so was the dry champagne--a rare vintage of hissing gold poured generously into Venetian glasses frail as a bubble, iridescent and fashioned like an open flower; so was the saddle of mutton that followed--and so, too, were the salad and cheese--and the minor drinkables and eatables to the very end.