“Don’t cry,” I said.  “If you are lost, I can direct you to a settlement.”

She looked up at me, and from being very red and suffused she went quite pale.  It seems that with my bare legs and sandals and my hair down, which was Tish’s idea for making it come in thick and not gray, and what with my being sunburned and stained with berries, she thought I was a wild woman.  I realized what was wrong.

“Don’t be alarmed,” I said somewhat grimly.  “I’m rational enough; if I hop about instead of walking, it’s because I’m the tomb of more rabbits than I care to remember, but aside from that I’m all right.  Are you lost?”

She sat up, still staring, and wiped her eyes.

“No.  I have a machine over there among the trees.  Are there—­are there plenty of rabbits in the woods?”

“Thousands.”  She was a pretty little thing, very young, and dressed in a white motor coat with white shoes and hat.

“And—­and berries?”

“There aren’t many berries,” I admitted.  “The birds eat ’em.  We get the ones they don’t fancy.”

Now I didn’t think for a moment that she was worried about my diet, but she was worried about the food supply in the woods, that was sure.  So I sat down on a stump and told her about puffballs, and what Tish had read about ants being edible but acid, and that wood mice, roasted and not cooked too dry, were good food, but that Aggie had made us liberate the only ones we had caught, because a man she was once engaged to used to carry a pet mouse in his pocket.

Nothing had really appealed to her until I mentioned Mr. Wiggins.  Then unexpectedly she began to cry again.  And after that I got the whole story.

It seems she was in love with a young man who was everything a young man ought to be and had money as well.  But the money was the barrier really, for the girl’s father wouldn’t believe that a youth who played polo, and did not have to work for a living, and led cotillons, and paid calls in the afternoon could have really good red blood in him.  He had a man in view for her, she said, one who had made his money himself, and had to have his valet lay out his clothes for fear he’d make a mistake.  Once the valet had to go to have a tooth pulled and the man had to decline a dinner.

“Father said,” finished the little girl tearfully, “that if Percy—­that’s his name, and it counted against him too—­that if Percy was a real man he’d do something.  And then he hap-happened on a book of my small brother’s, telling how people used to live in the woods, and kill their own food and make their own fire—­”

“The ‘Young Woodsman,’ of course,” I put in.

“And how the strong survived, but the weak succumbed, and he said if Percy was a man, and not a t-tailor’s dummy, he’d go out in the woods, j-just primitive man, without anything but a pair of bathing trunks, and keep himself alive for a month.  If he s-stood the test father was willing to forget the ‘Percy.’  He said that he knew Mr. Willoughby could do it—­that’s the other man—­and that he’d come in at the end of the time with a deed for the forest and mortgages on all the surrounding camps.”