Barbara opened her eyes wonderingly and gazed upwards into a maze of soft shimmering green. She had slept long and soundly on her improvised couch, and some moments passed ere she could collect her thoughts, and solve the mystery of her surroundings. But gradually the events of the previous night took shape from the mist of dreams that clouded her brain, and she awoke to the new day. With a prayer of thankfulness for her safety she sprang from her couch, and stepped out of her bower into the wider enclosure beyond.

But there she paused, with a quick gasp of wonder and delight at the scene which met her eyes.

She was alone in a strange, green world. The ground was carpeted with thick, springy moss. The walls were of green leafy bushes, and intertwining branches festooned with trails of creepers hanging from tree to tree. Far overhead the giants of the forest greeted each other in a close embrace, each tree trunk arching high to meet its neighbour, and all veiled in the delicate shimmer of the ever-moving leaves. Here and there a shaft of green light pierced through the branches and lit up to a brilliant sparkle the emerald dewdrops which lay thickly encrusted on the moss.

"Sure it must be even thus under the sea," murmured Barbara, "except that there, men say, is ever silence, and here is ever sound."

She paused again to hearken with wondering delight to the thousand voices of the forest, the never ceasing whisper of the leaves, the ripple of water, the songs of the birds, clear among them the trill of the robin, even then beginning his winter serenade, all the mysterious sounds heard only in the heart of woodland life.

Close at hand a spring bubbled up and trickled away in a tiny silver stream. Barbara plunged face and hands into the clear, cold water, and the blood went tingling through her veins. She hesitated a moment, glancing round to make sure she was alone. Then with a half defiant toss of her head, she drew off shoes and stockings, and sitting on the soft moss, dabbled her feet in the stream.

The fresh air of the morning blew upon her face. She was gay with freedom, with health, joy, sheer animal happiness. She laughed aloud, and flinging back her head burst into a wild song of life and love which she had heard Rupert sing a score of times, but which she had never until now fully understood.

But as she sang she stopped abruptly and sprang to her feet, crimsoning with blushes, for the bushes where she sat were parted, and Captain Protheroe stepped out and stood before her, on the other side of the tiny stream.

"Good-morning, Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily. "Is it you indeed, or has some nymph of the forest sought haven in our glade?"

Barbara looked down at her bare feet guiltily, and then as her glance travelled slowly up her figure, she gave a sudden gasp of helpless dismay.

The bottom of her skirt hung limply about her, in veritable shreds and tatters; it was covered with green and brown stains and was torn in a score of places. Her bodice was equally dishevelled, one sleeve had been pulled right out of the gathers, and her dainty lawn fichu hung round her neck in a long draggled string.

For a moment she was filled with consternation, then gradually the ridiculous in the situation tickled her humour, and after one minute's pause her face dimpled into mischief and she broke into a merry laugh.

As for Captain Protheroe, he vowed to himself that never before had she looked so lovely. Her cheeks glowed with health and freshness, and her eyes danced, her pretty feet and slender ankles peeped from beneath her skirt, and her face and figure seemed infinitely attractive, a harmonious part of the beauty around her. She was adorable, and he longed to tell her so; aye, more, he longed to tell her of his new-born love, to plead for her mercy, to lay his life, his worship in homage at her feet.

But he dared not speak his thoughts, he dared not let himself be carried away by her beauty, lest losing for a moment his self-restraint, he lose it forever, and destroy at once his honour and the hope of her love.

So with an effort he turned his gaze aside and assumed once more his customary manner of careless raillery.

"Ah! Mistress Barbara," he cried gaily, again glancing at her garments disarranged and travel-stained, "I vow 'tis too bad of me. I knew it was no path of roses we followed last night, but I little dreamed the journey was so severe an one as this betokens. It was indeed careless of me, and yet I knew no other way. I pray your forgiveness."

"Indeed, there is nought to forgive. Is it not ever a path of thorns that leads to Paradise, and methinks e'en Paradise can scarce be more lovely than this."

He flushed with pleasure.

"You like our camp, madame!"

"'Tis perfection. I have never seen aught so lovely. The forest is a new world to me."

"A new world, and you the queen on't."

"A pretty queen i' faith, in rags and tatters. More like a beggar-maid methinks."

"An all beggar-maids were so, madame, one would judge King Cophetua a man of infinite discernment, and wisest choice."

Her eyes danced in recognition of the compliment, but meeting his glance she deemed it wiser to bring him back to earth.

"An I be queen, prithee, fair subject, give me my breakfast, for I am hungry as a trooper."

"'Twill be a somewhat cheerless meal, I fear," he muttered discontentedly; "I have been abroad in search of something better to offer than the cold bacon and pasty we purloined from the inn, but I met with little success. Here are all my spoils."

He unfolded two large leaves filled with wild plums and berries, and together they sat down to the meal. Barbara laughed lightly at the extraordinary collection of viands her companion produced from his bundle, but Captain Protheroe regarded the food scattered about on the ground with a rueful countenance.

"'Tis poor fare indeed, Mistress Barbara. But that foul witch, Misfortune, has driven us forth into the wilderness, and we must needs endure the distresses she showers on us with as bold a heart as we may."

"Fie, fie! sir," answered Barbara gaily, devouring her bread and blackberries with infinite gusto. "Where are your eyes? This is no wilderness, but a sweet enchanted isle. Some gentle enchantress hath led us hither, and now encloses us with a hundred magic spells safely guarded from the malice of our foes."

"And here we shall dwell happily ever after. Runs not the story so? For my part I should be well content," he added softly.

Again Barbara ignored the tenderness in his voice.

"This is no pasty, neither is it mere greasy bacon that you eat," she continued her parable calmly, "though to your eyes so it may appear. 'Tis magic food that our enchantress hath supplied. While this water," she added, stooping with cupped hand to drink from the spring, "sure no ordinary water could have so sweet a taste. 'Tis the nectar of the gods, and whosoever drinks it shall remain forever young."

"I' faith, madame, you are a lesson in contentment. For myself, hard fare is nothing, but I feared for you. I went fishing also this morning, but with ill success, my hand has lost its cunning since boyhood. But you shall have trout for supper, or I will drown in the attempt."

Barbara laughed brightly.

"Tell me of your camp here when you were a boy," she commanded.

So he told her of his boyhood, becoming boy again as he talked. Told of his games, adventures, beliefs, of life in those golden days when the forest had been to him a place of magic, each rock a fortress, each rotting tree-trunk a fearsome beast of prey, each flower-clad glade a dwelling for the fairies. And she listened to all with a sweet eagerness, a ready comprehension, a quick sympathy which led him to another and yet another tale, till his whole boyhood lay open before her like a book, and through the boy she learned to know the man, the man as he really was beneath his veneer of careless gallantry, brave, honest, simple, and chivalrous. For the man who looks back with love to the days of his childhood preserves one treasure in his heart which the world may never sully.

Thus they talked, these two, cut off from all their world. Naturally, openly they talked, disclosing to one another their deepest, purest thoughts, for the spell of the forest was upon them, and for the nonce the man and the woman met face to face, simple and unashamed The sunlight played about them, the leaves danced and whispered, and the air thrilled with the song of the birds.
"THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR WORLD"
"THUS THEY TALKED, THESE TWO, CUT OFF FROM ALL THEIR WORLD"

"And were there no women in your camp?" asked Barbara at last, smiling.

"Yes, one. We would have appointed her our cook, our slave, as is the manner of lads towards most maids of their age. But not she! How that chit of a maiden ruled us, and how presently we worshipped her! She would sit here, our queen, enthroned and crowned, while we must scour the forest for fruit and flowers, rare gifts for her Majesty. We must wait upon her pleasure, fight for her favours, be in all things her slaves. Young as she was, she knew her power well, she tyrannised over us even then, and we—we loved her for it with all our hearts."

His voice was soft and tender, and a shadow fell on Barbara's heart.

"Where is she now?" she asked, with eager, too eager, Interest.

Again he hesitated, and answered in a cold, slightly restrained voice:

"She hath been, for some years, at the court of his Majesty, King Louis."

Then there fell a silence between them, but no longer the silence of sympathy, for he was lost in recollection, and she in wondering doubt.

Presently he rose abruptly to his feet.

"I think, Mistress Barbara, 'twere well I should go and reconnoitre. I will soon return; but I would fain see, if possible, what our enemies are about. Are you afraid to stay here alone?"

"Afraid?" she asked in astonishment, "why, what should harm me?"

"Yes, 'twas a foolish question to ask you, Mistress Barbara, I might have known the answer," he replied admiringly.

He paused a moment, smiling down at her, turned with a nod, and vanished into the wood.

For some time after his departure Barbara lay still, nestling in the luxurious couch of moss, wrapt in dreams. But the fresh joy of the morning had passed, and her dreams grew less bright.

She remembered now for the first time the helplessness of her position; an outcast, with no shelter save such as Captain Protheroe might provide, no escape save through his contrivance, no protection save his arm; she was utterly dependent upon him.

And then she remembered, with a sudden hot rush of blood to her cheeks, that it was she herself who had brought this about.

For he had not offered to take her with him, rather had he advised her to seek out the Lanes and take shelter with them; but she in her heedlessness had refused his advice, had forced her company upon him. And he could not in courtesy refuse, but was bound by his honour to undertake the task, to provide for her, and protect her, even at the risk of his life.

No, she had thrust herself, unwelcome, upon him, and had now no hope save in him.

So she mused, growing each moment more ashamed, more angry, her pride stinging her afresh at each recollection of his kindness and her dependence on it.

For this dependence, which might once perchance have been a sweet thought to her, was now turned to gall and bitterness by the shadow of another, the aforetime queen of the forest, whose presence seemed to her to haunt the little glade, the girl who had claimed his homage, whom he had loved with all his heart.

For if he loved the girl of whom he spoke so tenderly, then she, Barbara, could be nothing to him, save that perchance her beauty gratified his eyes; her presence was but an aggravation of his distresses, her helplessness a burden, unwelcome as unsought.

Her first impulse, nay, her firm intention was to flee from him at once, relieve him from his forced task, and win or lose her safety for herself. Thus her pride urged her to act.

But more gentle thoughts held sway. For Barbara was practical, and above all things, just. She saw clearly that to leave him now, in secret, would but add to his troubles, since he would without doubt seek her again, nor rest until he found her, fearing for her safety. Further, to urge him to leave her were useless; such a man as he did not lightly relinquish a task he had once taken in hand.

No, clearly she could not escape from the position in which she had thrust herself, her punishment must be to remain with him, dependent on his care. Nor must she accept his kindness grudgingly, but with a free heart, simply, confidently, else her conduct were indeed unjust. For since she had imposed the task upon him, she must not make it bitter by any act of hers.

So she resolved, though it hurt her pride sorely to accept his favours, deeming that she had nought to give in turn. For the Winslows were ever proud folk, giving gift for gift, blow for blow, in fair exchange, and Barbara had by no means consented to give nought and receive all at the hands of any man, save that her wonderful sense of fairness (no such common attribute of her sex), forced her to give his feelings the consideration she felt was but his due.

But for that other woman! The woman who had once sat there, enthroned, accepting his homage, perchance in the very spot where new she lay. She rose abruptly and walked to the far side of the hollow, where she seated herself stiffly on a fallen tree, and glanced distastefully at the soft bank of moss that had lately formed her couch.

Presently she grew restless, and so to escape from the folly of her thoughts, she resolved to make a short voyage of exploration on her own account.

She had no difficulty in discovering the opening in the bushes which enclosed the hollow, and passing through she found herself on a narrow green path leading through the forest. The brambles crept close to her side, and at times even stretched their long arms across her path, but in the clear light of day she had no great difficulty in making her way along a road which in the darkness of the previous night had appeared fraught with almost insuperable difficulty.

She tripped along at a fair pace beneath the towering branches, pausing ever and anon to gaze with wondering delight at some newly opening scene of woodland beauty.

Now she would pass a stretch of bracken, higher than her head, through which the sunlight streamed in a blaze of emerald fire. Anon she came to pause in a grove of beeches, gazing up in awe at the giant branches above her, curving in graceful arches far above her head; or she stooped in delight over some gnarled old tree-stump, alive with feathery ferns and delicately coloured lichens; and once she came to a wide, green bank o'ercovered quite with delicate cobwebs, dew-flecked, shimmering like silken gauze, beneath which swayed the tender lily-plants, like the slender forms of eastern beauties, dancing in their jewelled veils.

It was a world of magic delight, and as she wandered on, she fell again beneath the forest spell, and forgot her cares in the sheer joy of beauty. For the forest has a magic charm for all who will yield to its influence. The song of the sea is restlessness; the teaching of the hills is aspiration, but the spell of the forest is peace.

But suddenly she stopped, with a quick indrawing of the breath, for close beside her, separated only by a leafy screen, she heard a deep, shuddering sigh.

Her first impulse was to flee at once along the road she had come, back to the safe shelter of the hollow. But her curiosity stayed her, and she waited, hand on heart, for what should follow.

Again came the groan, and this time she could distinguish some muttered words.

"My God! I will endure no more. It must end now."

Barbara had been no true woman had she turned back now. But it was perhaps as much pity as curiosity that prompted her to push gently aside the branches, and peer through them at the speaker of these despairing words.

Before her, on a fallen tree sat the dismallest figure of a man she had ever seen. Pale, emaciated, with haggard face half concealed by a tangle of matted hair, and clad in that most melancholy of apparels—soiled and tattered finery. His right arm hung limply at his side, a pistol in the hand. His head was bowed upon his breast, but even as Barbara looked, he raised it, and she marked his desperate glance, his eyes hardened in despair.

As she looked upon his face the beauty of the forest vanished, it showed but as a drear wilderness of thorn and bramble, a fit setting to the desperate figure of the man before her; even so does the sight of a drowned corpse rob the sea of all its glory.

The man raised his face for a minute to the heavens, as though he would fling a look of defiance at the pitiless gods; then slowly lifted the pistol in his hand and turned the muzzle towards his temple, curling his finger round the trigger.

Without thought of aught save that the deed must be prevented, Barbara did not pause to consider her best course of action; she sprang through the bushes and confronted the sufferer, holding out her hands entreatingly towards him, and, with a sudden flash of instinct, crying in half-pleading, half-commanding tones:

"Hold, sir, hold. I require your protection."

The man sprang to his feet, and stood for a moment staring in amazement at this unexpected apparition. Then he fell on his knees before her, his eyes fixed adoringly upon her eager face.

"Barbara," he whispered, "Barbara! You! You!"

It was the girl's turn to be astonished. She drew back a step, and regarded the speaker with a frown of bewilderment.

"Do you not know me, Barbara?" he whispered again. "You can't have forgotten me, Ralph Trevellyan."

"Ralph!" she cried in amazement. "Is it possible?" It was indeed difficult to recognise in this haggard figure the gay debonair youth she had known in former days, her brother's boon companion, and a favourite playmate of her childhood.

"Ralph Trevellyan!" she repeated again doubtfully.

Then glancing down quickly at the pistol still in his hand, she cried reproachfully, "Oh, Ralph!"

He understood her meaning, and flushed hotly.

"And why not, Barbara?" he quest............