me buy the furnishings for the new rooms," I said almost at once.

"I shall be glad to help," she replied in the most natural way.

Evidently, _she_ saw nothing especially significant in my request, but
to me it was a subtle stratagem. To have her take part in my
bargain-hunting was almost as exciting as though we were furnishing OUR
home, but I dared not assume that she was thinking along these dangerous
lines. That she was genuinely interested in my household problems was
evident, but I was not justified in asking anything further. She was
distinctly closer to me that day, more tenderly intimate than she had
ever been before, and her womanly understanding of my task--the deep
sympathy she expressed when I told her of my mother's recent
illness--all combined to give me comfort--and hope!

A few days later we rode back to Eagle's Nest Camp together, and all
through those three hours on the train a silent, subconscious, wordless
adjustment went on between us. That she was secretly debating the
question of accepting me was certain, and there was nothing in her
manner to dishearten me; on the contrary, she seemed to enjoy playing
round the perilous suggestion.

We dined at "the Castle" as usual, and late that night, as we walked
slowly over to the camp through the odorous woods, hearing the
whippoorwill's cry and the owlets hoot from their dark coverts, I was
made aware that my day's work had drawn her closer into my life. I had
made her aware of my need.

The day which followed our return to camp was my thirty-ninth birthday,
and I celebrated it by taking a long walk and talk with her. She took
some sewing with her, and as we rested under a great oak tree, we spoke
of many intimate, personal things, always with the weight of our
unsolved problem on our mind.

At last, in approaching my plea for help, I stated the worst of my case.
"I am poor and shall always remain poor," I said. "My talent is small
and my work has only a very limited appeal. I see no great improvement
in my fortunes. I have done an enormous amount of work this year (I've
written three volumes), but all of them conjoined will not bring in as
much cash as a good stone-mason can earn. But that isn't the worst of
it! The hopeless part of it is--I _like_ my job. I wouldn't change to a
more profitable one if I could. I have only one other way of earning
money, and that is by physical labor. If the worst comes to the worst, I
can farm or do carpenter work