had restored his strength most marvelously, for he too, leaped to his feet and retreated to the furthest corner of the room, whence he regarded the scene with dilated eyes.
“Why – why – it’s nobody, nothing but dear old Tom!”
“It’s an eagle! The first – ”
“Of course, he’s an eagle. Aren’t you, dear? The most splendid bird in Maine, or maybe Canada. The wisest, the most loving, the – Oh! You big blundering precious thing! Scaring people like that. You should be more civil, sir.”
“Is – is – he tame?”
“Tame as a pet chicken. But mischievous. He wouldn’t hurt you for anything.”
“Humph! He would have killed me if I hadn’t waked and yelled.”
“Well, you did that surely. You feel better, don’t you?”
“I wish you’d put him outdoors, or shut him up where he belongs. I want to sit down.”
“There’s no reason why you shouldn’t,” she answered, pushing a chair toward him.
“Where did you get it – that creature?”
“Uncle found him when he was ever so young. Somebody or something, a hunter or some other bird, had hurt his wing and one foot. Eagles can be injured by the least little blow upon their wings, you know.”
“No. I know nothing about them – yet. But I shall, some day.”
“Oh! I hope so. They’re delightful to study. Tom is very large, we think. He’s nearly four feet tall, and his wings – Spread your wings, sir! Spread!”
Margot had dropped upon the floor before the wide fireplace, her favorite seat. Her arms clasped her strange pet’s body while his white head rested lovingly upon her shoulder. His eyes were fixed upon the blazing logs and his yellow irises gleamed as if they had caught and held the dancing flames. But at her command he shook himself free, and extended one mighty wing, while she stretched out the other. Their tips were full nine feet apart and seemed to fill and darken the whole place.
In spite of this odd girl’s fearless handling of the bird, it looked most formidable to the visitor, who retreated again to a safe distance, though he had begun to advance toward her. And again he implored her to put the uncanny “monster” out of the house.
Margot laughed; as she was always doing; but going to the table filled a plate with fragments from the stew and calling Tom, set the dish before him on the threshold.
“There’s your supper, Thomas the King! Which means, no more of Angelique’s chickens, dead or alive.”
The eagle gravely limped out of doors and the visitor felt relieved, so that he cast somewhat longing glances upon the table, and Margot was quick to understand them. Putting a generous portion upon another plate, she moved a chair to the side nearest the fire.
“You’re so much stronger, I guess it won’t hurt you to take as much as you like now. When did you eat anything before?”
“Day before yesterday – I think. I hardly know. The time seems confused. As if I had been wandering, round and round, forever. I – was almost dead, wasn’t I?”
“Yes. But ’twas our housekeeper who was first to see it was starvation. Angelique is a Canadian. She lived in the woods long before we came to them. She is very wise.”
He made no comment, being then too busy eating; but at length, even his voracity was satisfied and he had leisure to examine his surroundings. He looked at Margot as if girls were as unknown as eagles; and indeed such as she were – to him, at least. Her dress was of blue flannel, and of the same simple cut that she had always worn. A loose blouse, short skirt, full knickerbockers, met at the knees by long shoes, or gaiters of buckskin. These were as comfortable and pliable as Indian moccasins, and the only footgear she had ever known. They were made for her in a distant town, whither Mr. Dutton went for needed supplies, and, like the rest of her costume, after a design of his own. She was certainly unconventional in manner, but not from rudeness so much as from a desire to study him – another unknown “specimen” from an outside world. Her speech was correct beyond that common among schoolgirls, and her gaze was as friendly as it was frank.
Their scrutiny of each other was ended by her exclaiming:
“Why – you are not old! Not much older than Pierre, I believe! It must be because you are so dirty that I thought you were a man like uncle.”
“Thank you,” he answered drily.
But she had no intention of offense. Accustomed all her own life to the utmost cleanliness, in the beginning insisted upon by Angelique because it was “proper,” and by her guardian for health’s sake, she had grown up with a horror of the discomfort of any untidiness, and she felt herself most remiss in her attentions, that she had not earlier offered soap and water. Before he realized what she was about, she had sped into the little outer room which the household used as a lavatory and whirled a wooden tub into its centre. This she promptly filled with water from a pipe in the wall, and having hung fresh towels on a chair, returned to the living room.
“I’m so sorry. I ought to have thought of that right away. But a bath is ready now, if you wish it.”
The stranger rose, stammered a little, but accepted what was in truth a delightful surprise.
“Well, this is still more amazing! Into what sort of a spot have I stumbled? It’s a log house, but with apparently, several rooms. It has all the comforts of civilization and at least this one luxury. There are books, too. I saw them in that inner apartment as I passed the open door. The man looks like a gentleman in the disguise of a lumberman, and the girl – what’ll she do next? Ask me where I came from and why, I presume. If she does, I’ll have to answer her, and truthfully. I can’t fancy anybody lying to those blue eyes. Maybe she won’t ask.”
She did, however, as soon as he reëntered the living room, refreshed and certainly much more attractive in appearance than when he had had the soil and litter of his long wandering upon him.
“Oh! how much more comfortable you must be. How did you get lost? Is your home far from here?”
“A long, long way;” and for a moment, something like sadness touched his face. That look passed quickly and a defiant expression took its place.
“What a pity! It will be so much harder to get word to your people. Maybe Pierre can carry a message, or show you the road, once you are strong enough again.”
“Who’s Pierre?”
“Mother Ricord’s son. He’s a woodlander and wiser even than she is. He’s really more French than Indian, but uncle says the latter race is strongest in him. It often is in his type.”
“A-ah, indeed! So you study types up here, do you?”
“Yes. Uncle makes it so interesting. You see, he got used to teaching stupid people when he was a professor in his college. I’m dreadfully stupid about books, though I do my best. But I love living things; and the books about animals, and races, are charming. When they’re true, that is. Often they’re not. There’s one book on squirrels uncle keeps as a curiosity, to show how little the writer knew about them. And the pictures are no more like squirrels than – than they are like me.”
“A-ah,” said the listener,
