"Before the most provoking but worshipful lady that I know."

"Who is the sylvan maid? What princess of the glade has now the homage
of your impressionable heart, Mr. Thorne?"

And Gregory Thorne, his native insolence standing him in no stead, said
very humbly:

"You are that sylvan maid, that princess--ah, is this fair to me, is it
fair, I ask you?"

"You really mean that about the trophies?" she replied. "And shall you
return like the mighty khans, with captive tigers and lions, led by
stalwart slaves, in your train, or shall they be captive moose or
grizzlies?"

"Grizzlies are not possible here," he said, with cheerful seriousness,
"but the moose is possible, and more, if you would be kinder--Margaret."

"Your supper, see, is ready," she said. "I venture to hope your appetite
has not suffered because of long absence from your friends."

He could only dumbly answer by a protesting motion of the hand, and his
smile was not remarkably buoyant.

The next morning they started on their moose-hunt. Gregory Thorne was
cast down when he crossed the threshold into the winter morning without
hand-clasp or god-speed from Margaret Malbrouck; but Mrs. Malbrouck was
there, and Gregory, looking into her eyes, thought how good a thing it