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."