aotic; sometimes clear. The emotions which
had awakened in him within the week were complex enough to stagger a
more intelligent man. And Marche was not a fool; he was the typical
product of his environment--the result of school and college, and a New
York business life carried on in keenest competition with men as
remorseless in business as the social code permitted. Also, he went to
church on Sundays, read a Republican newspaper, and belonged to several
unexceptionable clubs.

That was the kind of a man he had been only a week ago--a good fellow in
the usual sense among men, acceptable to women, kind hearted, not too
cynical, and every idea in his head modeled upon the opinions he heard
expressed in that limited area wherein he had been born and bred.

That was the kind of a man he had been a week ago. What was he
now--to-night--here in this waste corner of the world with the light
from a kitchen window blazing on him as though it were the flashing
splendor streaming through the barred portals of paradise? Was it
possible that he, John Benton Marche, could be actually in love--in love
with the daughter of his own game warden--with a girl who served him at
supper in apron and gingham, who served him further in hip boots and
ragged jacket--this modern Rosalind of the marshes, as fresh and
innocent, as modest and ardent, as she of the Arden glades?

The kitchen door opened, and Molly Herold came down the steps and
straight toward him, unthinkingly, almost instinctively, laying her
hands in his as he met her under the leafless China tree in the yard.

"I was longer than usual to-night," she said, "trying to soften my hands
with that cold cream you so kindly sent for." She lifted them in the
starlight with a little laugh. "They're a trifle better, I think," she
said, "but they're always in water, you know, either there," she glanced
around at the kitchen, "or yonder with the decoys. But thank you all the
same," she added brightly. "Are you going to have another delightful
talk, now?"

"Do you care to?"

"Of course. The idea of my not caring to talk to you," she said,
laughing at the absurdity. "Shall we go into the sitting room, or walk
in the starlight? There are no snakes out, yet," she assured him,
"though if this weather holds, the moccasins will come out."

"We'll walk down to the shore," he said.

"One moment, then." She turned and sped to the house, reappearing, after
a few minutes, wearing her ragged shoot