She stopped, and a sudden flash of the fire lit up her eyes, fixed on him intently from between her shielding hands.

“I saw her run out and speak to you,” said Philip, his heart beating at double-quick.  He leaned over so that he was looking squarely into Miss Brokaw’s face.

“Did you know her?” she asked.

“I have seen her only twice—­once before she spoke to you.”

“If I meet her again I shall apologize,” said Eileen.  “It was her mistake, and she startled me.  When she ran out to me like that, and held out her hands I—­I thought of beggars.”

“Beggars!” almost shouted Philip.  “A beggar!” He caught himself with a laugh, and to cover his sudden emotion turned to lay a fresh piece of birch on the fire.  “We don’t have beggars up here.”

The door opened behind them and Brokaw entered.  Philip’s face was red when he greeted him.  For half an hour after that he cursed himself for not being as clever as Gregson.  He knew that there was a change in Eileen Brokaw, a change which nature had not worked alone, as she wished him to believe.  Then, and at supper, he tried to fathom her.  At times he detected the metallic ring of what was unreal and make-believe in what she said; at other times she seemed stirred by emotions which added immeasurably to the sweetness and truthfulness of her voice.  She was nervous.  He found her eyes frequently seeking her father’s face, and more than once they were filled with a mysterious questioning, as if within Brokaw’s brain there lurked hidden things which were new to her, and which she was struggling to understand.  She no longer held the old fascination for Philip, and yet he conceded that she was more beautiful than ever.  Until to-night he had never seen the shadow of sadness in her eyes; he had never seen them darken as they darkened now, when she listened with almost feverish interest to the words which passed between himself and Brokaw.  He was certain that it was not a whim that had brought her into the north.  It was impossible for him to believe that he had piqued at her vanity until she had leaped into action, as she had suggested to him while they were sitting before the fire.  Could it be that she had accompanied her father because he—­Philip Whittemore—­was in the north?

The thought drew a slow flush into his face, and his uneasiness increased when he knew that she was looking at him.  He was glad when it came time for cigars, and Eileen excused herself.  He opened the door for her, and told her that he probably would not see her again until morning, as he had an important engagement for the evening.  She gave him her hand, and for a moment he felt the clinging of her fingers about his own.

“Good night,” she whispered.

“Good night.”

She drew her hand half away, and then, suddenly, raised her eyes straight to his own.  They were calm, quiet, beautiful, and yet there came a quick little catch in her throat as she leaned so close to him that she touched his breast, and said: