"If I whisper something to you," said Barton quite impulsively, "will
you promise to remember it to your dying day?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Barton," droned little Eve Edgarton.

Abruptly Barton reached out and tilted her chin up whitely toward him.
"In this light," he whispered, "with your hat pushed back
like--that!--and your hair fluffed up like--that!--and the little
laugh in your eyes!--and the flush!--and the quiver!--you look like
an--elf! A bronze and gold elf! You're wonderful! You're magical! You
ought always to dress like that! Somebody ought to tell you about it!
Woodsy, storm-colored clothes with little quick glints of light in
them! Paquin or some of those people could make you famous!"

As spontaneously as he had touched her he jerked his hand away, and,
snatching up the lantern, flashed it bluntly on her astonished face.

For one brief instant her hand went creeping up to the tip of her
chin. Then very soberly, like a child with a lesson, she began to
repeat Barton's impulsive phrases.

"'In this light,'" she droned, "'with your hat pushed back like
that--and your hair fluffed up like that--and the--the--'" More
unexpectedly then than anything that could possibly have happened she
burst out laughing--a little low, giggly, school-girlish sort of
laugh. "Oh, that's easy to remember!" she announced. Then, all one
narrow black silhouette again, she crouched down into the
semi-darkness.

"For a lady," she resumed listlessly, "who rode side-saddle and really