camp-fire, where a kettle of game-broth simmered over the coals. The
last I saw of her she was smelling of it, and I turned my back and
advanced towards the second lady pilgrim, prepared to be civil until
snubbed.

Now, it is quite certain that never before had William Spike or I
beheld so much feminine loveliness in one human body on the back of a
mule. She was clad in the daintiest of shooting-kilts, yet there was
nothing mannish about her except the way she rode the mule, and that
only accentuated her adorable femininity.

I remembered what Professor Lesard had said about blue stockings--but
Miss Dorothy Van Twiller's were gray, turned over at the tops, and
disappearing into canvas spats buckled across a pair of slim
shooting-boots.

"Welcome," said I, attempting to restrain a too violent cordiality.
"Welcome, Professor Van Twiller, to the Hudson Mountains."

"Thank you," she replied, accepting my assistance very sweetly; "it is
a pleasure to meet a human being again."

I glanced at Miss Smawl. She was eating game-broth, but she resembled
a human being in a general way.

"I should very much like to wash my hands," said Professor Van
Twiller, drawing the buckskin gloves from her slim fingers.

I brought towels and soap and conducted her to the brook.