was a little rush to the place, and with it a rustle of skirts
that sounded authentic. Jeff began to believe that his nymphs were not
born of fancy. He opened his eyes languidly to examine a strange world
upon which he had not yet focused his mind.

Out of the ferns a dryad was coming toward him, lance straight, slender,
buoyantly youthful in the light tread and in the poise of the golden
head.

At sight of him she paused, held in her tracks, eyes grown big with
solicitude.

"You are ill."

Before he could answer she had dropped the anemones she carried, was on
her knees beside him, and had his head cushioned against her arm.

"Tell me! What can I do for you? What is the matter?"

Jeff groaned. His head was aching as if it would blow up, but that
was not the cause of the wave of pain which had swept over him. A
realization had come to him of what was the matter with him. His eyes
fell from hers. He made as if to get up, but her hand restrained him
with a gentle firmness.

"Don't! You mustn't." Then aloud, she cried: "Girls--girls--there's a
sick man here. Run and get help. Quick."

"No--no! I--I'm not sick."

A flood of shame and embarrassment drenched him. He could not escape
her tender hands without actual force and his poignant shyness made that
impossible. She was like a fairy tale, a creature of dreams. He dared
not meet her frank pitiful eyes, though he was intensely aware of them.
The odor of violets brings to him even to this day a vision of girlish
charm and daintiness, together with a memory of the abased reverence
that filled him.

They came running, her companions, eager with question and suggestion.
And hard upon their heels a teamster from the road broke through
the thicket, summoned by their calls for help. He stooped to pick up
something that his foot had struck. It was a bottle. He looked at it and
then at Jeff.

"Nothing the matter with him, Miss, but just plain drunk," the man said
with a grin. "He's been sleeping it off."

Jeff felt the quiver run through her. She rose, trembling, and with one
frightened sidelong look at him walked quickly away. He had seen a wound
in her eyes he would not soon forget. It was as if he had struck her
down while she was holding out hands to help him.

CHAPTER 5

Lies need only age to make them respectable. Given that,
they become traditions and are put upon a pedestal. Then the
gentlest word for him who attacks them is traitor.--Fr