knew nothing at all."

"Yes, it's all very well to say that," shrewdly, "but you don't mean
it. Besides, even if you don't know anything, you have glimpses of
all sorts of wonderful things which might be known. You can go on,
and it's the going on that matters."

"But I can't carry wood."

A little smile curled the corners of Desire's lips. He did not see
it because she had turned to the fire again and, with that
deliberate unself-consciousness which characterized her, was
proceeding to unpin and dry her hair. Spence had not seen it undone
before and was astonished at its length and lustre. The girl shook
it as a young colt shakes its mane, spreading it out to the blaze
upon her hands.

"I know what you mean, though," admitted Spence, "there is nothing
like the fascination of the unknown. It very nearly did for me."

Desire looked up long enough to allow her slanting brows to ask
their eternal question.

"Too much inside, not enough outside," he answered. "I ought to have
made myself a man first and a student afterward. Then I might have
been out in the rain you."

She considered this, as she considered most things, gravely. Then
met it in her downright way.