ion, she made up gloriously but she just simply could not make up her mind. Al her life she had had her own way and suitors by the dozen, all of whom gave in to her slightest whim. They spoilt her splendidly, and it was in this condition that Gordon Sloan found her.
"Found" is the word, for he came upon her unexpectedly in the heart of the Beechnut Woods. She lay stretched out languidly at full length, her chin upon her hand, gazing wistfully, thoughtfully into the softly gurgling water of a merry little brook. All about her stretched gloomy passages of shadowy forests, creating a perfect Elysian solitude. Somewhere, off in the wilds, a tiny song-bird was chirping out his anthems of gladness upon the air, as though he joved to be alive and to take part in this grand, old, glorious world. Down among the bushes, at the water's edge, huge frogs croaked monotonous plaints in marked contrast to the tones of the gay little singer. Even their view on life was different. They gazed down at the mud and slime of the waters, but he, above the glorious tree-tops, could look joyfully about in every direction to behold nothing but the marvellous blue of the sky, and wonderdrous, dazzling sunlight. But the notes of the little song-bird were louder and clearer than the dismal croaking of the frogs and seemed to predominate among that forest grandeur. Through a rift in the trees far above, a glorious shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom and fell softly on the glistening, golden head of Marcia Loring.
To Gordon Sloan, she seemed an intangible vision, a spirit of the woods, and for several charming moments he stood entranced, gazing down with hungry eyes upon this bewitching feast of womanhood. Finally, as though conscious of his concentered gaze, Marcia Loring turned her head slowly toward him and gazed shyly up into his face. Gordon Sloan was a man with not quite thirty-five years of existence, though fully fifty of experience, to his credit. He was tall, well-built, with a wealth of wavy chestnut hair which, as all too often happens, "wouldn't stay put." Liver and anon, it kept falling into his eyes, and he would brush it back again with an angry gesture of impatience. Experts in the art of short-story writing tell us that in describing characters, some little distinctive characteristic, oddity. or mannerism should be given which would enable the reader to discover the person described in a crowd as large as usually attends a Methodist Revival. Although it is my custom to adhere strictly to a set rule, I crave indulgence in this one instance on the plea of impossibility. There was nothing distinctive about Gordon Sloan; he was just a big, healthy, ordinary American,
Marcia Loring glanced at him for a moment, evidently well-pleased with his appearance, for she murmured presently, with a somewhat embarrassed little laugh, "Scarcely a conventional meeting."
Her words seemed to unseal Gordon's lips, for he responded quickly, "Though decidedly pleasing."
She frowned. "That sounds like a compliment."
"It is," he returned easily.
"It seems to me rather a privilege on so short an acquaintance!"
"Your statement is rather ambiguous," he smiled. "Do you mean for you to receive, or for me to take?"
"I refuse to answer," she declared softly,
"The only time a woman refuses to speak," said he complacently, "is when she is supposed to."
"That balances the account," said
