He lifted his eyes with a shadowy pain in them to hers, and found them of serene, unconscious purity.  What she had said was straight from a kind, untainted, young heart.  She meant every word of it.  Freckles’ soul sickened.  He scarcely knew whether he could muster strength to stand.

“We must go and hunt for the carriage,” said the Angel, rising.

In instant alarm for her, Freckles sprang up, grasped the cudgel, and led the way, sharply watching every step.  He went as close the log as he felt that he dared, and with a little searching found the carriage.  He cleared a path for the Angel, and with a sigh of relief saw her enter it safely.  The heat was intense.  She pushed the damp hair from her temples.

“This is a shame!” said Freckles.  “You’ll never be coming here again.”

“Oh yes I shall!” said the Angel.  “The Bird Woman says that these birds remain over a month in the nest and she would like to make a picture every few days for seven or eight weeks, perhaps.”

Freckles barely escaped crying aloud for joy.

“Then don’t you ever be torturing yourself and your horse to be coming in here again,” he said.  “I’ll show you a way to drive almost to the nest on the east trail, and then you can come around to my room and stay while the Bird Woman works.  It’s nearly always cool there, and there’s comfortable seats, and water.”

“Oh! did you have drinking-water there?” she cried.  “I was never so thirsty or so hungry in my life, but I thought I wouldn’t mention it.”

“And I had not the wit to be seeing!” wailed Freckles.  “I can be getting you a good drink in no time.”

He turned to the trail.

“Please wait a minute,” called the Angel.  “What’s your name?  I want to think about you while you are gone.”  Freckles lifted his face with the brown rift across it and smiled quizzically.

“Freckles?” she guessed, with a peal of laughter.  “And mine is——­”

“I’m knowing yours,” interrupted Freckles.

“I don’t believe you do.  What is it?” asked the girl.

“You won’t be getting angry?”

“Not until I’ve had the water, at least.”

It was Freckles’ turn to laugh.  He whipped off his big, floppy straw hat, stood uncovered before her, and said, in the sweetest of all the sweet tones of his voice:  “There’s nothing you could be but the Swamp Angel.”

The girl laughed happily.

Once out of her sight, Freckles ran every step of the way to the cabin.  Mrs. Duncan gave him a small bucket of water, cool from the well.  He carried it in the crook of his right arm, and a basket filled with bread and butter, cold meat, apple pie, and pickles, in his left hand.

“Pickles are kind o’ cooling,” said Mrs. Duncan.

Then Freckles ran again.

The Angel was on her knees, reaching for the bucket, as he came up.

“Be drinking slow,” he cautioned her.