They had gone through what seemed to Marjorie’s city-bred eyes a dense forest, but which Francis had assured her was only a belt of woodland quite negligible. And they had come out, now, on what Francis called a clearing. It was thick with underbrush, little trees, and saplings; while bloodroot flowered everywhere, and the gleam of thickly scattered red berries showed even as they rode quickly over the grass. In the center of things were the two cabins Francis had spoken of; one quite large Francis seemed given to understatement and the other of the conventional cabin size.

“The larger one is where my men stay,” he explained. “Two of them are there now. That’s why you see a red shirt through the window. Pierre is probably leaving it there to dry. I’ll take you through if you like, but it’s just a rough sort of place. The lean-to is the cook-place. All that cabin has inside is bunks, and a table or two to play cards on, as far as I remember. The other cabin ”

He stopped short, and turned away, pretending to fuss over his motor-cycle, which he had already laid down tenderly in just the right spot and the right position. Marjorie, eager and swift, sprang close to him like a squirrel. She did not look unlike one for the moment, wrapped in the thick brown coat with its furry collar.

“The other one! Oh, show me that, and tell me all about it!” she demanded ardently.

“The other one ” he said. “Well it’s nothing. That’s where I wanted to bring you to stay before I knew there wasn’t anything to it but this. I fixed it up for us.”

In spite of all the things she had against Francis, Marjorie felt for the moment as if there was something hurting her throat. She was sorry for him, not in a general, pitying way, but the close way that hurts; as if he was her little boy, and something had hurt him, and she couldn’t do anything about it.

“I’m I’m sorry,” she faltered, not looking at him.

He had evidently expected her to be angry could she have been angry so much as all that? for he looked up with a relieved air.

“I thought you might like to go in there and rest while I went over to where the work is being done,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t get back to you or to the Lodge till just in time for Peggy’s dance. But you’ll find things in the little cabin to amuse you, perhaps.”

“Oh, I don’t need things in the cabin to amuse me!” said Marjorie radiantly. “There’s enough outside of it to keep me amused for a whole afternoon! But I do want to see in.”

He took a key out of his pocket, and together they crossed the clearing to where the little cabin stood, its rustic porch thick with vines. Francis stood very still for a moment before he bent and put the key into the padlock, and Marjorie saw with another tug at her heart that his face was white, and held tense. She felt awed. Had it meant so much to him, then?

She followed him in, subdued and yet somehow excited. He moved from her side with a sort of push, and flung open the little casement windows. The scented gloom, heavy with the aromatic odors of life-everlasting and sweet fern, gave place to the fresh keen wind with new pine-scents in it, and to the dappled sunshine.

“Oh, how lovely!” said Marjorie. “Oh, Francis! Do you know what this place is? It’s the place I’ve always planned I’d make for myself, way off in the woods somewhere, when I had enough money. Only I thought I’d never really see it, you know. . . . And here it is!”

He only said “Is it?” in a sort of suppressed way; but she said no more. She only stood and looked about her.

There was a broad window-seat under the casement windows he had just thrown open. It was cushioned in leaf-brown. A book lay on it, which Marjorie came close to and looked at curiously.

“Oh my own pet ‘Wind in the Willows!’” she said delightedly. “How queer!”

“No, not queer,” said Francis quietly, from where he was unlocking an inner door.

So Marjorie said no more. She laid the book down a little shyly and investigated further. The walls were of stained wood, but apparently there were two thicknesses, with something between to keep the heat and cold out, for she could see a depth of some inches at the door. There was a perfectly useless and adorable and absurd balcony over the entrance, and a sort of mezzanine and a stair by which you could get to it; something like what a child would plan in its ideas of the kind of house it wanted. There was a door at the farther end leading into another room, and crossing the wooden floor, with its brown fiber rug, Marjorie opened it and entered a little back part where were packed away most surprisingly a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom.

“Why, it isn’t a cabin it’s a bungalow!” she said, surprised. “And what darling furniture!”

The furniture was all in keeping, perfectly simple and straight-built, of brown-stained wood. There was a long chair at one side of the window-seat, with a stool beside it, and a magazine thrown down on the stool. Everything looked as if it had just been lived in, and by some one very much like Marjorie.

“When did you do all this?” she asked curiously.

“I didn’t know you’d had any time for ages and ages. Was it ”

“Was it for some other girl,” was hovering on her lips. But she did not ask the question. As a matter of fact, she didn’t want to hear the answer if it was affirmative. “You don’t remember,” he said quietly. “I put in some time training recruits not far from here. No, of course you don’t remember, because I never told you. It was in between my first seeing you, and the other time when I was going around with you and Billy and Lucille. After I saw you that first time, when I had to come back here, near as it was to my old haunts, well, I didn’t know, of course, whether I was ever going to marry you or not. But there was the cabin, my property, and I had time off occasionally and nothing to do with it. So well, it was for the you I thought might possibly be. It made you realer, don’t you see?”

Marjorie sank down as he finished, on the broad, soft window-seat; and began to cry uncontrollably.

“Oh oh it seems so pitiful!” he made out that she was saying finally. “I I’m so sorry!”

Francis laughed gallantly.

“Oh, you needn’t be sorry!” he said, smiling at her, though with an obvious effort. “I had a mighty good time doing it, my dear. Why, the things you said, and the way you acted while I was doing it for you you’ve no idea how nice they were. You sat just ”

“Oh, that was why the book was on the window-seat, and the other things ”

“That was why,” nodded Francis.

“And the stool close up to the lounge-chair ”

He nodded.

“You lay there and I sat by you on the stool,” he said. “And you whispered the most wonderful things to me ”

“I didn’t!” said Marjorie, flushing suddenly. “You know perfectly well all the time that was going on I the real Me was being a filing-clerk in New York, and running around with Lucille, and being bored with fussy people in the office, and hunting up letters for employers and hoping they wouldn’t discover how much longer it took me to find them than it did really intelligent people ”

“No,” said Francis, suddenly dejected, “you didn’t. But it was a nice dream. And I think, considering all that’s come and gone, you needn’t begrudge it to me.”

“I don’t,” said Marjorie embarrassedly. “I I only wish you wouldn’t talk about it, because it partly makes me feel as if my feelings were hurt, and partly makes me feel terribly self-conscious.”

“Then perhaps it was you, a little,” said Francis quietly.

Marjorie moved away from him, and went into the kitchen again, with her head held high to hide the fact that her cheeks were burning. He hadn’t any right to do that to her. Why, any amount of men might be making desperate love to dream-Marjories Mr. Logan, for instance, only his love-making would probably be exceedingly full of quotations, and rather slow and involved.

She turned, dimpling over her shoulder at Francis, who had been standing in rather a dream, where she had left him.

“Francis! Do you suppose any other men are doing that?” she asked mischievously. “Supposing our good friend Mr. Logan, for instance, has installed me in a carved renaissance chair in his apartment, and is saying nice things to me ”

“Marjorie!”

“Well, you see!” said Marjorie. “It isn’t a good precedent.”

“Well, I’m your husband,” muttered Francis quite illogically.

“Oh, this has gone far enough,” said Marjorie with determination. And she went back to the kitchen.

“I’ll leave you here, if that’s the case,” said Francis in a friendly enough way. “I have to go over to the other cabin and see how things are and then out to where some work is going on. Can you find amusement here for awhile?”

“Oh, yes,” said Marjorie. She felt a little tired, after all; and a little desirous of getting away from Francis.

“Well, if you’re hungry, I think there are some things in the kitchen; and the stove is filled, and there are matches,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. She wondered if he intended her to get herself a large and portentous meal. She did not feel at all hungry.

“If you’ll tell me when you think you’ll be back for me I’ll have a little lunch ready for you before we go,” she was inspired to say.

“That’s fine,” said Francis with the gratitude which any mention of food always inspires in a man. “Don’t overwork yourself, though. You must be tired yet from your trip.”

She smiled and shook her head. She went over to the door with him, and watched him as he went away, as bonny and loving a wife to all appearances as any man need ask for. Pierre, who had been dwelling in the cabin along with his red shirt, for the purpose of doing a much-needed housecleaning for himself and his mates, looked out at them with an emotional French eye.

“By gar, it’s tarn nice be married!” he sighed, for his last wife had been dead long enough to have blotted out in his amiable mind the recollection of her tongue, and he was thinking over the acquirement of another one.

Meanwhile Marjorie went back to the cabin that had been built around the dream of her, picked up “The Wind in the Willows,” and tried to read. But it was difficult. Life, indeed, was difficult but interesting, in spite of everything. Francis was nice in places, after all, if only he wouldn’t have those terrifying times of being too much in earnest, and over her. It was embarrassing, as she had said. She rose up and walked through the place again. It was so dainty and so friendly and so clean, so everything that she had always wanted how had Francis known so much about what she liked?

She curled down on the window-seat, tired of thinking, and finally slept again. It was the change to the crisp Canada air that made her sleep so much of the time.

She sprang up in a little while conscious that there was something on her mind to do. Then she remembered. She had promised to get luncheon or afternoon tea or a snack for Francis before he went. She felt as if she could eat something herself.

“At this rate,” she told herself, “I’ll be as fat as a pig!”

She thought, as she moved about, to look down at the little wrist-watch that had been one of Francis’s ante-bellum gifts to her. And it was half-past five o’clock. Then it came to her that by the time she had something cooked and they had made the distance back to the lodge it would be time for the dance, and therefore that this meal would have to be supper at least. It was more fun than cooking in the kitchenette of the apartment, because there was elbow-room. Marjorie’s housewifely soul had always secretly chafed under having to prepare food in a kitchen that only half of you could be in at a time.

There was a trusty kerosene stove here, and a generous white-painted cupboard full of stores and of dishes. She had another threatening of emotion for a minute when she saw that the dishes were some yellow Dutch ones that she remembered admiring. But she decided that it was no time to feel pity or indeed any emotion that would interfere with meal-getting and continued prospecting for stores. Condensed milk, flour, baking-powder, and a hermetically-sealed pail of lard suggested biscuits, if she hurried; cocoa and tins of bacon and preserved fruit and potatoes offered at least enough food to keep life alive, if Francis would only stay away the half-hour extra that he might.

Heaven was kind, and he did. The biscuits and potatoes were baked, the fruit was opened and on the little brown table with the yellow dishes, and the bacon was just frizzling curlily in the pan when Francis walked into the kitchen.

If it seemed pleasantly domestic to him he was wise enough not to say so. He only stated in an unemotional manner that there were eggs put down in water-glass in the entry back; and as this conveyed nothing to Marjorie he went and got some and fried them, and they had supper together.

“You’re a bully good cook,” he told her, and she smiled happily. Anybody could tell you that much, and it meant nothing. Sometimes dealing with Francis reminded her of a Frank Stockton fairy-tale in her childhood, where some monarch or other went out walking with a Sphinx, and found himself obliged to reply “Give it up!” to every remark of the lady’s, in order not to be eaten.

“We won’t have time to clear up much,” was his next remark, looking pensively at a table from which they had swept everything but one biscuit and a lonely little baked potato which had what Marjorie termed “flaws,” and they had had to avoid. “But then, I suppose you might say there wasn’t much to clear. We’ll stack these dishes and let Pierre or somebody wash ’em. Us for the dance.”

They piled the yellow dishes in a gleeful hurry, and Francis went out and disposed of the scraps and did mysterious things to the kerosene stove. They were whizzing back the way they had come before Marjorie had more than caught her breath.

“We’ll be a little late, if you have to do anything in the dressing line. I have to shave,” said Francis.

Marjorie, who really wasn’t used to men, colored a little at this marital remark, and then said that she supposed that it must have been hard not to do it in the trenches.

“Oh, that was only the poilus,” said Francis, and went on into a flood of details about keeping the men neat for the sake of their morale. It was interesting; but Marjorie thought afterward that perhaps it was because anything would have been while she was whirring along through the darkening woods in the keen, sharp-scented air. She loved it more and more, the woods and the atmosphere, and the memory of the little cabin. She promised herself that she would try some day to find the place by herself. Maybe she could borrow a horse or a bicycle or some means of locomotion and go seeking it in the forest.

“Now hurry!” admonished Francis as he landed her neatly by the veranda. “Don’t let them stop you for anything to eat, as Mother O’Mara will want to.”

So she scurried up to her room, not even waiting to hear the voice of temptation, and began hunting her belongings through for something. It was foolish, but she was more excited over the thought of this rough, impromptu backwoods dance than she ever had been in the city by real dances, or out with Cousin Anna at the carefully planned subscription dances where you knew just who was coming and just what they were going to wear.

Finally she gave up her efforts at decision, and went out to find Peggy. Her room, she knew, was on the third floor.

“Come in!” said Peggy’s joyous voice. Marjorie entered, and found Peggy in the throes of indecision herself.

“You’re just what I wanted to see!” said she. “Would you wear this green silk that’s grand and low, but a bit short for the last styles, or this muslin that I graduated in, and it’s as long as the moral law, and I slashed out the neck but a bit plain?”

“Why, that’s just what I came to ask you,” said Marjorie. “What kind of clothes do you wear for dances like these?”

“Well, the grander the better, to-night, as I was telling everybody over the telephone. Mrs. Schneider, now, the priest’s housekeeper, she has a red satin that she’ll be sure to wear, and the saints keep her from wearing her pink satin slippers with it, but I don’t think they can. It would be a strong saint at the least,” said Peggy thoughtfully. “I’d better be in my green.”

“Then I can wear ” said Marjorie, and stopped to consider. She had one frock that was very gorgeous, and she decided to wear it. It would certainly seem meek contrasted with Mrs. Schneider’s red satin.

“Come on, and I’ll bring this, and we can hook each other up,” Peggy proposed ardently, and followed her down in a kimono.

So they hooked each other up, except where there were snappers, and admired each other exceedingly. Marjorie’s frock was a yellow one that Lucille had hounded her into buying, and she looked as vivid in it as a firefly.

Francis had been given orders to wear his uniform, which he was doing. He looked very natural that way to Marjorie; there were others of the men in uniform as well. There were perhaps twenty people already arrived when the girls came downstairs, seven or eight girls and twelve or fourteen men. And Marjorie discovered that young persons in the backwoods believed in dressing up to their opportunities. Some of the frocks were obviously home-made, but all were gorgeous, even in the case of one black-eyed habitant damsel who had constructed a confection, copied accurately and cleverly from some advanced fashion-paper, out of cheesecloth and paper muslin!

One of the men was sacrificed to the phonograph, and for hours it never stopped going. Records had been brought by others of the men and girls, and Marjorie had never seen such gay and unwearied dancing. She was tossed and caught from one big backwoodsman to another, the dances being “cut-in” shamelessly, because the women were fewer than the men. They nearly all danced well, French or Yankee or Englishmen. There were a couple of young Englishmen whom she particularly liked, who had ridden twenty miles, she heard, to come and dance. And finally she found herself touched on the shoulder by her own husband, and dancing smoothly away with him.

“This isn’t much like the last time and place where we danced,” he said, smiling down at her and then glancing at the big, bare room with its kerosene lamps and bough-trimmed walls. “Do you remember?”

She laughed and nodded. “Maxim’s, wasn’t it? But I like this best. There’s something in the air here that keeps you feeling so alive all the time, and so much like having fun. In spite of all our tragedies, and your very bad temper” she laughed up at him impertinently “I’m enjoying myself as much as Peggy is, though I probably don’t look it.”

“There isn’t so much of you to look it,” explained Francis. Their eyes both followed young Peggy, where, magnificent in her green gown and gold slippers, she was frankly flirting with a French-Canadian who was no match for her, but quite as frankly overcome by her charms. “But what there is,” he added politely, “is very nice indeed.”

They laughed at this like a couple of children, and moved on toward a less frequented part of the floor, for there was a big man in khaki, one of Francis’s men, who was coming dangerously near, and had in his eye a determination to cut in. Francis and Marjorie moved downwards till they were almost opposite the door. And as they were dancing across the space before the door there was a polite knock on it. They stood still, still interlaced, as an unpartnered man lounging near it threw it open. And on the threshold, like a ghost from the past, stood Mr. Logan. In spite of his mysterious nervous ailment he had nerved himself to make the journey after Marjorie, and walked in, softly and slowly, indeed, and somewhat travel-soiled, but very much himself, and apparently determined on a rescue. Marjorie stared at him in horror. Rescue was all right theoretically; but not in the middle of as good a party as this. And what could Francis do to her now?

What he did was to release her with decision, and come forward with the courtesy he was quite capable of at any crisis, and welcome Logan to their home.

“You’ve caught us in the middle of a party,” he concluded cordially, “but I don’t suppose you feel much like dancing. Perhaps after a little something to eat and drink you’d like to rest a bit. Come speak to Mr. Logan, my dear,” he finished, with what Marjorie stigmatized as extreme impudence; and Marjorie, in her firefly draperies, came forward with as creditable a calm as her husband, and greeted Mr. Logan, after which Francis called Mrs. O’Mara to show him to a room where he could rest.

“I came to talk to you ” began Mr. Logan as he was led hospitably away.

“I’ll be at your service as soon as you’ve had a little rest and food,” said Francis in his most charming manner.

He actually put his arm about Marjorie again and was going on with the dance, when the telephone rang. The woman nearest it answered it, and called Francis over excitedly. Marjorie, too proud to ask any questions, was nevertheless eaten up with curiosity, and finally edged near enough to hear above the phonograph.

“You’ll be all right till to-morrow? Very well I’ll be out then and see what to do.”

“What’s the matter?” demanded Peggy, who had no pride to preserve.

Francis smiled, but looked a little worried, too.

“Nothing very serious, but inconvenient. Pierre, the cook for the outfit, suddenly decided to leave to-day, and did. He said he thought it was time he got married again, and has gone in quest of a bride, I suppose. The deuce of it is, we’re so short-handed. Well, never mind ”

“If mother wasn’t so silly about the ghosts,” began Peggy.

“Well, she is, if ye call it silly,” said Mrs. O’Mara from where she stood with her partner in all the glory of a maroon satin that fitted her as if she were an upholstered sofa. “I’d no more go live in that clearin’ with the Wendigees, or whatever ’tis the Canucks talk about, than in Purgatory itself. Wendigees is Injun goblins,” she explained to her partner, “and there’s worse nor them, too.”

She crossed herself expertly, and in almost the same movement swept her partner, not of the tallest, away in a fox-trot. She fox-trotted very well.

Marjorie went on dancing, and hoping that Mr. Logan would go to bed and to sleep, or have a fit of nerves that would incapacitate him from further interfering with her. But the hope was in vain, for Francis appeared from nowhere in about fifteen minutes, and beckoned her to follow him to where she knew Logan was waiting.

The two men sat down gravely in the little wooden room where Logan had been shown. It was Francis who spoke first.

“Mr. Logan insists, Marjorie, that you appealed to him for rescue. He puts it to me, I must say, very reasonably, that no sensible man would travel all this way to bring back a girl unless she had asked him to. He says that you wrote him that you were being treated severely.”

“I didn’t! I never did!” exclaimed outraged Marjorie, springing up and standing before them. “Show me my letter!”

“Unfortunately,” said Mr. Logan wistfully, “I destroyed it, because I have always found that the wisest thing to do with letters. But I am prepared to take my oath that you wrote me, asking me to help you. I am extremely sorry to find that you are in such a position as to forgive me, Mr. Ellison, but it seems rather like it to be so dominated by this gentleman as not to even admit ”

“You see what it looks like,” broke in Francis, turning to his wife furiously. “Never ask me to believe you again. I don’t trust you I never will trust you. Nobody will, if you keep on as you’ve begun. Go back with him, then you’re not my slave, much as you may pretend it.”

“I won’t!” said Marjorie spiritedly. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll stay here, if it takes ten years, till you admit that you’ve treated me horribly, and misjudged me. I’ve played fair. I’ve no way of proving it, against you two men, but I have! I’ll prove it by any test you like.”

“There’s only one way you can convince me that one word you’ve said since you came up here was the truth,” he told her, suddenly quiet and cold. “If you stay, of your own free will, out there in the clearing; if you take over the work that Pierre fell down on this evening, and stay there looking after me and my men I’ll believe you. There’s no fun to doing that, just work; it stands to reason that you wouldn’t do that for any reason unless to clear yourself. If you don’t want to do that, you may go home with this gentleman; indeed, I won’t let you do anything else. Take your choice.”

Marjorie looked at him for a moment as if she wanted to do something violent to him. Then she spoke.