for his, and when he finds that humbleness, and begging, and gentleness,
and persuasion are of no avail--why, then if he's a man he _makes_ her
love him, _makes_ her marry him."

"I hope, my dear Wilmot," she said, "that you are speaking from a very
limited experience."

"From the experience of ten million years. I have only one life to live.
Somehow I will make you love me, make you belong to me. Just because I
eat with a fork, do you think my heart is really any different from that
of the cave-man from whom it descended to me, or that your heart is any
different from that of the girl he wanted, who kept him guessing and
guessing until he couldn't stand it, and then turned and ran and ran
through the woods, and swam rivers and climbed trees and jumped down
precipices until he caught her?"

There was something in Wilmot's lowered brows, a certain jerking, broken
quality in his utterance, that was new to Barbara--that at once
frightened her a little, and caused her heart to beat with a sort of
wild triumph. But she did not guess that the old cave-man was at that
moment actually looking out through her old friend's eye-places, and
that ten thousand years of civilization are but a thin varnish over the
rough and splendid masterpiece that God made in his image.

There was a knock at the door. It was Scupper returning. He had left his
beloved pipe (on purpose). His shrewd, bloodshot little eyes took in the
situation at a glance. In two beats his little heart was wild
with jealousy.

"I beg _everybody's_ pardon," he said. "I didn't know, I--er--wouldn't