of birch-bark and roasted potatoes, or made tea in
the little earthen pot that Mrs. Taft loaned her. Or
they waited for the stage in the early morning, and
went half a dozen miles down the valley to paint some
waterfall Oliver had seen the day he drove up with
Marvin, or a particular glimpse of Moose Hillock
from the covered bridge, or various shady nooks and
sunlit vistas that remained fastened in Oliver's mind,
and the memory of which made him unhappy until
Margaret could enjoy them, too.

The fact that he and a woman whom he had known
but a little while were roaming the woods together,
quite as a brother and sister might have done, never
occurred to him. If it had it would have made no
difference, nor could he have understood why any
barrier should have been put up between them. He
had been taking care of girls in that same way all his
life. Every woman was a sister to him so far as his
reverent protection over her went. The traditions
of Kennedy Square had taught him this.

As the joyous weeks flew by, even the slight reserve
which had marked their earlier intercourse began
to wear off. It was "Oliver" and "Margaret"
now, and even "Ollie" and "Madge" when they
forgot themselves and each other in their work.

To Margaret this free and happy life together
seemed natural enough. She had decided on the