The stuffy little shed kitchen was no longer occupied.  A floor had been laid between the bases of four huge trees, and walls enclosing three sides to the height of about eight feet had been erected.  The affair had no roof.  Inside these three walls were the stove, the kitchen table, the shelves and utensils of cooking.  Miss Thorne, her sunbonnet laid aside from her glossy black braids, moved swiftly and easily here and there in this charming stage-set of a kitchen.  About ten feet in front of it, on the pine needles, stood the dining table, set with white.

[Illustration:  “I beg pardon,” said he.  The girl turned]

The girl nodded brightly to Bob.

“Finished?” she inquired.  She pointed to the water pail:  “There’s a useful task for willing hands.”

Bob filled the pail, and set it brimming on the section of cedar log which seemed to be its appointed resting place.

“Thank you,” said the girl.  Bob leaned against the tree and watched her as she moved here and there about the varied business of cooking.  Every few minutes she would stop and look upward through the cool shadows of the trees, like a bird drinking.  At times she burst into snatches of song, so brief as to be unrecognizable.

“Do you like sticks in your food?” she asked Bob, as though suddenly remembering his presence, “and pine needles, and the husks of pine nuts, and other debris? because that’s what the breezes and trees and naughty little squirrels are always raining down on me.”

“Why don’t you have the men stretch you a canvas?” asked Bob.

“Well,” said the girl, stopping short, “I have considered it.  I no more than you like unexpected twigs in my dough.  But you see I do like shadows and sunlight and upper air and breezes in my food.  And you can’t have one without the other.  Did you get all the weeds out?”

“Yes,” said Bob.  “Look here; you ought not to have to do such work as that.”

“Do you think it will wear down my fragile strength?” she asked, looking at him good-humouredly.  “Is it too much exercise for me?”

“No—­” hesitated Bob, “but—­”

“Why, bless you, I like to help the babies to grow big and green,” said she.  “One can’t have the theatre or bridge up here; do leave us some of the simple pleasures.”

“Why did you want me to finish for you then?” demanded Bob shrewdly.

She laughed.

“Young man,” said she, “I could give you at least ten reasons,” with which enigmatic remark she whipped her apron around her hand and whisked open the oven door, where were displayed rows of beautifully browned biscuits.

“Nevertheless——­” began Bob.

“Nevertheless,” she took him up, raising her face, slightly flushed by the heat, “all the men-folks are busy, and this one woman-folk is not harmed a bit by playing at being a farmer lassie.”

“One of the rangers could do it all in a couple of hours.”