* * * * *

On his return ramble, just as Bart was about to emerge from the woods into the opening made by the old road from the west, he was surprised to see Julia approaching him, going along that track towards home.  She was alone, and walking with a quick step.  Lifting his hat, he stepped forward towards the path in which she was walking.  The meeting in the wild, still woods, under the deepening shades of approaching night, was a surprise to both; and, by the light in the eyes of the youth, and warmer color in the face of the maiden, seemed not unpleasant to either.

“This is a surprise, meeting you here alone,” said Barton, stepping to the side of the footway, a little in advance of her.

“It must be,” answered Julia.  “Poor old lady Coe is quite ill, and I’ve been around there, and, as it was latish, I have taken this short way home, rather than go all the way around the road.”

“Indeed, if you are really going this way you must permit me to attend you,” said Bart, placing his gun against a stump.  “It is a good half-mile to the path that leads out to your father’s, and it is already darkening;” and he turned and walked by her side.

“It is really not necessary,” said the girl, quite decidedly.  “I know the way, and am not in the least afraid.”

“Forgive me, Miss Markham, but I really fear that you must choose between my attendance out of these woods and turning back around the road,” replied Bart.

His manner, so frank and courteous, and his voice, so gentle, had nevertheless, to her woman’s ear, a vibration of the man’s nerve of force and will, to which the girl seemed unconsciously to yield.  They walked along.  The mystery of night was weaving its weird charm in the forest, and strange notes and sounds came from its depths, and these young, pure natures found an undefined sweetness in companionship.  On they walked in silence, as if neither cared to break it.  The young girl at length said: 

“Mr. Ridgeley”—­not Barton, or his first name, as in her childhood—­what a heart-swoon smote the youth at the formal address!—­“Mr. Ridgeley, there is something I must say to you.  My father does not care to have me in your company, and I must not receive the most ordinary attention from you.  He would not, I fear, like to know that you were at our house.”

Did it cost her anything to say this?  Apparently not, though her voice and manner diminished its sting.  A moment’s pause, and Barton’s voice, cold and steady, answered back: 

“I know what your father’s feelings towards me are,” and then, with warmth, “but I am sure that he would think less of me, if possible, were I to permit any woman to find her way, at this hour, out of this wilderness.”

It was not much to say, but it was well said, and he turned his face towards her as he said it, lit up with a clear expression of man’s loyalty to woman—­not unpleasant to the young girl.  Why could not he leave it there and to the future?  They walked on, and the shadows deepened.