was in sight, and she had walked at least a quarter of a mile before she encountered a young man sitting in a dejected attitude on the stump of a yellow birch.
He was peering gloomily into the hemlocks opposite him, his hands were deep in his pockets, his feet crossed at an uncomfortable angle. He was a pale young man with dark circles under darker eyes, and an expression of such settled melancholy that Caroline lost no time in assuaging it as far as she could.
"Here it is," she remarked, holding out the pipe, "how do you do?"
The young man started violently.
"Holy Bridget, who are you?" he demanded. "How did you get here? This is private property—didn't you see the sign?"
"There wasn't any sign the way we came," she returned placidly, "we came over the mountain. Don't you want your pipe?"
The young man blushed and scowled. "Thank you very much," he said, extending a thin, brown hand, "I'm afraid I was rather rude. Where did you find it?"
