down in the kitchen louise adjusted the generator of a small oil stove on which most of the household cooking was done. there was an old wood range in the kitchen also, but that was used only for baking. it generally smoked and occasionally went out—sometimes almost miraculously.

louise turned up the wicks of the stove burners, made sure that the fuel began soaking freely up into them, and finally applied the flame of a match. then she put on the teakettle and fetched a frying pan from a hook nearby. not even young ladies flying grandly off to meet their lovers ought to go without breakfast.

louise, though she might, perhaps, have been pardoned for overlooking so merely sensible a detail as this, was really treating the whole situation most rationally. it was part of her fine, mature calmness—the calmness she so wished richard might behold. playing now—and very convincingly, too—the rôle of cook, she measured coffee, got out eggs, cut some bread. yes, all this was part of her magnificent calmness. it was indeed a pity richard couldn't be here to see how altered she was—how unlike the [pg 26]impulsive, unschooled, hyper-romantic girl who had submitted to his fickle attractions. her cheeks would burn, even now, with inextinguishable chagrin, when she reflected how painfully one-sided the wretched affair had been. ah, it had constantly been he who did the attracting, she who fluttered about like a silly, puzzled moth. she would have gone without her breakfast every day in the week for richard. but with lynndal, thank heaven, all was quite different. now it was obviously and admittedly she who was doing the attracting. of course she admired lynndal tremendously, and loved him. oh, of course she loved him. she even loved him very much, else would she be engaged? no, but the point was that this time her eyes were open. they were wide open, as eyes should be. she wasn't, this time, blinded by a fatal glitter of wit and the subtle persuasion of manners other and more exquisite than any she had hitherto encountered. lynndal was totally unlike richard. lynndal steadfastly adored her. he even worshipped her. he said so, though with homely and restrained rhetoric, in his letters. yes, she knew that lynndal was deeply and lastingly in love with her. so this affair couldn't, it was plain to be seen, turn out the way the other had.

she sang, though very judiciously, under her breath, as she sped about preparing the hurried meal. the water boiled in the kettle. she poured it on the coffee grounds, tossed in an eggshell, left[pg 27] the pot to simmer. louise was really quite a skilful cook. even the rev. needham had to admit that this much, at any rate, had been gained from the unfortunate eastern schooling. she set some cups, saucers, and plates on the kitchen table. then she slipped out the back door of the cottage and along a path to a little rustic pavilion which they called a "tea-house"—though, as a matter of fact, tea never figured in its usefulness. in the "tea-house" leslie now was waiting. the path leading to it had been blazed through thick forest growth. dewy shoots and leaf clusters brushed her as she skipped by. the sun was already up, but under the trees, and especially down in the little hollow she had to cross, all was dusky and still night-touched.

leslie saw her coming and jumped up. he waited for her in the rustic doorway.

"good morning!" she called to him out of the tiny valley. "we mustn't wake the cottagers," she cautioned, coming to him and dropping for a moment, rather breathless, on one of the rustic benches.

"people ought to get up earlier," observed leslie in a voice he just noticeably wanted to keep quite as usual. "they don't know what they miss."

"it is lovely, isn't it?" the girl agreed, abruptly turning and looking off to sea.

the view from this perch was quite extensive. it was a nook particularly popular with admirers of sunsets. at this early hour the sun was not high enough to touch the smooth beach below, but it[pg 28] lighted the sky, in a lustrous, haunting way, and flashed against the wings of skimming gulls.

however, exquisite though the morning undeniably was, it did not seem the proper occasion for any rhapsodising. indeed, the occasion did not afford even space for decent enjoyment at all. to louise the morning appeared busy rather than fair. she was still sufficiently young, for all her esteemed calmness, to look upon life, and in this case especially the operations of the natural world, with intensely personal eyes. nature was rather an adjunct, even a casual one at that, than something infinitely greater than herself. she and her interests must come first. if convenience permitted, the glory of the sunrise might be saluted in passing. it could be said of miss needham that she had a bowing acquaintance with the universe.

"i'm getting us a bite of breakfast, les," she told him. "you don't mind eating in the kitchen?"

"hardly!" replied her companion, with the reckless air of one who would possibly like to explain that even kitchens would lose any customary odium which might attach to them, were she to grace them with her presence. of course leslie didn't voice any such sentimental and flamboyant thought. there was surprisingly little mawkishness about leslie, despite his dangerous age. he seemed a serious fellow, though not perhaps exceptionally so. it was a seriousness which embraced all the lighter moods. leslie was the sort of chap who could [pg 29]converse intelligently with older people, yet lure out the best laughs, too, from a juvenile crowd. it was this fortunate poise that guarded him, generally, against pitfalls of the heroic.

"i suppose we might have been able to get some breakfast in beulah," he said doubtfully.

but he smiled with louise as she shook her head. breakfast would be more reliable in the needham kitchen. and she rose and led the way back down the path.

"you're sure the boat's in good condition for the run?" she asked anxiously over her shoulder.

"oh, yes."

"it would be awful to break down half way over and miss the train."

"it won't, louise. you won't miss your train." he spoke a little bitterly.

as a matter of fact, leslie had been up half the night tinkering with his engine—which accounted for his fine assurance. louise was painfully aware that the engine couldn't be consistently banked on. it didn't, as a general thing, receive the most scrupulous sort of care. the leslian poise had its lapses.

they crept with admirable stealthiness into the kitchen, whose habitual odour of spices and damp cereal products was now broken by the livelier aroma of steaming coffee. there was only one chair in the kitchen. when eliza the cook received her young man, who was the porter of a resort hotel[pg 30] in beulah, it was invariably in what the rev. needham liked to call god's great out-of-doors—that most capacious and in many respects best furnished of receiving parlours, after all. invariably—that is, of course, except when it rained. when it rained eliza and her young man had an entrancing way of conceiving the single chair sufficient.

louise signified with a wave of the hand that leslie was to go into the dining room, ever so quietly, and fetch another chair. he did so, and set both chairs beside the kitchen table, at the places marked out already with plates, cups, and imitation silver. then he sat down, thrust his elbows on the oilcloth, and gazed ruefully between his fists at the young lady who, still in the guise of cook, was fluttering about in the manner of young ladies who do not perhaps feel quite at home in their work, yet who would defy you to point out one single item not accomplished according to the very best methods. he watched her with a mournful intensity, which, had it possessed a little less positive feeling, would surely be called a fixed stare. she turned round presently and discovered his attitude.

"for goodness' sake," she whispered, "what makes you look at me that way?"

he shifted his gaze to the still trees outside and began humming.

"i didn't know i was looking at you any special way. and anyhow, if i was, you know why," he told her, with a slight effect of baffled yet defiant[pg 31] contradiction which was immediately muffled by a renewed humming.

"leslie, you know we talked it all over yesterday."

"i know, i know."

"and you said it was all right. you said you understood. there wasn't going to be any kind of misunderstanding...."

"there isn't any misunderstanding. why do you jump on me? i didn't begin talking about it."

this was manifestly true. however, she handled it deftly. "you don't have to talk when you look that way."

"sorry!" snapped leslie, who began moodily tapping with his fingers on the oilcloth. without realizing it, he was tapping the same tune he had just been humming.

she flushed a little, and felt a brief angriness toward him. had she given words to what was, for a moment, really in her mind, she would have maintained, and not without honest warmth, that a man you have jilted hasn't any right to feel hurt. but a moment later this conception did not seem quite so honest. no, it didn't honour her. she knew it didn't. and ere she had drawn three breaths she was thinking of leslie with considerably more tenderness. however, in this connection, as with the momentary impatience, sentiment did not spend itself in words. she merely asked him, in a very kindly way, how he liked his eggs best.

[pg 32]

"i don't care," he replied, employing the colourless masculine non-assertiveness usual in such cases.

"do you like them scrambled?"

he nodded drearily.

"then we'll have them scrambled," she announced with a cheerful smile, breaking several eggs across the edge of a bowl, adding a little milk, as carefully measured off as though it were vanilla for a cake, and proceeding slightly to beat the combination. there seemed something ungraspably and very subtly characteristic in the decision to scramble them....

in no time the two were seated at breakfast.

she grew chatty. "i'm sorry there isn't any toast, les. we can't make decent toast over an oil fire. we've tried it," she expanded with labelled significance, spreading butter on a rather dry slice of bread.

the bread that was dry today might be soggy tomorrow. it should be noted in passing that up here in the woods the supplies showed a tendency to grow either very soggy or very dry. in fact, the bread and pastry boxes were often the most infallible of barometers.

leslie perjured himself with an assurance that the bread was delicious.

"in town," she went on, pouring the coffee, "we have an electric toaster. we have it on the table and make toast as we want it. i wish we had it up here!"

[pg 33]

"could you make it work with oil?" asked her companion with sweet maliciousness.

"of course not," she sighed. "i always forget. i wish they'd run wires out here to the point. i have an electric curler at home, too. it's such a bother sticking your iron down the chimney of a lamp."

"i should think it would be," agreed leslie, stirring his coffee and shepherding such of the grounds as floated upon the surface over to the edge of the cup, where they were scooped up and deposited on the saucer.

they conversed for a time on casual and every-day topics, as people, even involved in mighty issues, have rather a way of doing, after all. she kept warning him, with pretty, prohibitive gestures, not to speak above the safe pitch established upon their entry. the warning was more picturesque than really necessary, however, for leslie, just then, happened to be in a mood far from boisterous.

"oh, dear! i forgot to dash cold water into the pot before i took it off!" she cried in some dismay, as she observed his slightly exaggerated preoccupation with the floating intruders. "it boiled the last thing. i thought the fire was turned out under it, but it wasn't."

"what difference does it make?" the lad protested with lugubrious gallantry.

and he desisted from his efforts and drank his coffee down, grounds and all, in rather impolite gulps.

[pg 34]

louise, just at this stage, turned her attention to her own cup. there was one lonesome ground drifting aimlessly and forlornly round and round in obedience to the impetus of a current set in motion by the recent stirring. she had poured her own cup last, which explained its being so much clearer than his.

"oh, look here, les!" she exclaimed, following the solitary coffee ground in the air with the tip of her spoon. "there's just one. that means a visitor, doesn't it?" she coloured a little, and lifted the oracle up gently.

leslie shrugged, conspicuously bored, and devoted himself moodily to what remained of his share of the eggs. "i don't know," he said.

but she couldn't be swayed from her zeal. she was determined to be agreeable—especially when it was possible to come upon such agreeable speculations as this. "there's something about finding money on top of your coffee," she embroidered, "though you can always make some come if you hold the pot high enough as you pour. but you see you can't make a visitor unless there is one."

and leslie heroically refrained from suggesting that even visitors might be warded off if one didn't forget the dash of cold water. however, he did remind her that there needed no signs to tell her there was a visitor on the way. and he added, with rather juvenile petulance: "i guess he'd come if there weren't any grounds in the pot!"

[pg 35]

but this riled her. "i don't mean to sit here and listen to you speaking disrespectfully of mr. barry! he's much older, and you can't treat him as you would one of the boys."

"i don't want to," her friend returned, vaguely, yet still somehow pointedly.

she smiled, erasing the friction from their talk. "in the case of the coffee grounds, as i understand it, if it seems soft it's a lady, and if it's hard it's a man. am i all wrong? is it tea leaves i'm thinking of? at any rate, we'll experiment!" she eyed her companion with coy and almost vicious pleasure. "perhaps this one's only aunt marjie, who's already here."

she carried the problematical atom to her teeth. the test, which she strove to make momentous, was one to which leslie brought only a melancholy interest. she set her teeth firmly together. there was a little brittle crack. the indisputable fact that it was lynndal barry thrust between them a short silence.