water from my socks and
pouring it from my boots.

"Thank you for keeping me dry," said she. "You did it very nicely. And
now you must stay in the wagon while I dry your socks and boots for
you--you poor wet boy!"

3

She had not objected to my holding her so long; she rather seemed to
like it; she seemed willing to go on camping here as long as I wished;
she was wondering why I was so backward and so bashful; she was in my
hands; why hold back? Why not use my power? If I did not I should make
myself forever ridiculous to all men and to all women--who, according to
my experience, were never in higher feather than when ridiculing some
greenhorn of a boy. This thing must end. My affair with Virginia must be
brought to a crisis and pushed to a decision. At once!

I wandered off again and from my vantage-point I began to watch her and
gather courage from watching her. I could still feel her in my arms--so
much more of a woman than I had at first suspected from seeing her about
the camp. I could see her in my mind's eye wading the stream like a
beautiful ghost. I could think of nothing but her all the time,--of her
and the wild life of boats and backwoods harbors.

And at last I grew suddenly calm. I began to laugh at myself for my lack
of decision. I would carefully consider the matter, and that night I
would act.

I took my gun and wandered off across the prairie after a few birds for
our larder. There were upland plover in great plenty; and before I had
been away from the camp fifteen minutes I had several in my pockets. It
was early in the afternoon; but instead of walking back to camp at once
I sat down on a mound at the mouth of the old den of a wolf or badger
and laid my plans; much as a wolf or badger might have done.

Then I went back. The sun was shining with slanting mid-afternoon rays
down among the trees by the creek. I looked for Virginia; but she was
not about the wagon, neither sitting in the spring seat, nor on her
box-by the fire, nor under her favorite crabapple-tree. I looked boldly
in the wagon, without the timid tapping which I had always used to
announce my presence--for what did I care now for her privacy?--but she
was not there. I began searching for her along the creek in the secluded
nooks which abounded, and at last I heard her voice.

I was startled. To whom could she be speaking? I would have nobody
about, now. I would show him, whoever he was! This grove was mine as
long as I wan