This hastened matters considerably and the secretary’s note-book was soon busy.  Spence felt his oldtime keenness revive.  And Desire was happy for was not this her work at last?  It was a profitable day.  Should anyone care to know its results, and the results of others like it, they may look up chapter six, section two, of Spence’s Primitive Psychology, unabridged edition.  Here they will find that the fables of Hawk-Eye Charlie, properly classified and commented upon, have added considerably to our knowledge of a fascinating subject.  But far be it from us to steal the professor’s thunder.  We are not writing a book upon primitive psychology.  We are interested only in the sigh of pleasurable satisfaction with which the professor’s secretary closed her fat note-book and called it a day.

From that point our interest leads us back to camp along the trail through the warm June woods with the late sunlight hanging like golden gauze behind the fretted screens of green.  We are interested in sunsets and in basket suppers eaten in the dim coolness of a miniature canyon through which rushed and tumbled an icy stream from, the snow peaks far above.  We are interested in a breathless race with a chattering squirrel during which Desire’s hair came down—­a bit of glorious autumn in the deep green wood—­and the tying of it up again (a lengthy process) by the professor with cleverly plaited stems of tender bracken.  All these trifles interest us because, to those two who knew them, they remained fresh and living memories when the note-book and its contents were buried in the dust of yesterday.

It was twilight when they came out of the wood.  The sun had gone and taken its golden trappings with it.  A clear, still light was everywhere and, in the brilliant green of the far sky, a pale star shone.  They watched it brighten as the green grew dark.  A wonderful purple blueness spread upon the distant hills.

Desire sighed happily.

“It is the end of the first day of real work,” she said.  “The end and the beginning.”

Her companion, usually like wax to her moods, made no answer.  He did not seem to hear.  His gaze seemed drowned in that wonderful blue.  Desire, who had been unaccountably content, felt suddenly lonely and disturbed.

“What is it?” she asked.  Her voice had fallen from its glad note.  She put out her hand, touching his coat sleeve timidly.  It was the first time she had ever touched him save in service.  But if her touch brought a thrill there was no> sign of it.  Her voice dropped still lower, “What are you thinking of?” she almost whispered.

The professor did not answer.  Instead he turned to her with a sad smile. (Very well done, too!)

Desire dropped her hand with a sharp exclamation.  “Oh,” she said, “I forgot!  You were thinking—­”

The professor’s smile smote her.

“Her eyes were blue like that!” he said.

Desire tripped over a fallen branch.  And, when she recovered herself, “Purple, do you mean?” she asked.  “I have always thought purple eyes were a myth.”