"Then tell me you trust me," he returned, leaning toward her.

She raised her eyes frankly to his own.

"I do--I do trust you, but I do not trust myself. Now keep your
promise--I insist on it. Believe me, it is better--wiser for us both."

"Come, then," he said, laying his hand tenderly on her shoulder--it
had grown dark in the teakwood room--"let me tell you a story--a fairy
tale."

She looked at him with a mute appeal in her eyes. Then with a half
moan she said: "I don't want any story; I want your help and never so
much as now. Think of something that will help me! Be quick! No more
dreams--our minutes are too valuable; I must send you away at six."

For some minutes he paced the room in silence. Then, as if a new
thought had entered his mind, he stopped and resumed his professional
manner.

"What about Margaret?" he asked quietly. "Is she fond of the woods?"

"Why--she adores them." She had regained her composure now. "The child
was quite mad about that wretched Long Lake. What a summer we had--I
shudder when I think of it!"

"Did it ever occur to you, my dear friend, that Margaret _needed_ the
woods?" His eyes were searching hers now as if he wanted to read her
inmost thought.