A Girl of the Limberlost & Freckles (2 Romance Classics). Stratton-Porter Gene

blue satin ribbon. There was a sash of blue at her waist, and knots of it catching up her draperies.

      “Must I go after the Bird Woman?” she pleaded.

      “Indade, you must,” answered Freckles firmly.

      The Angel went away, but returned to say that the Bird Woman was telling a story to those inside and she could not come for a short time.

      “You won't come in?” she pleaded.

      “I must not,” said Freckles. “I am not dressed to be among your friends, and I might be forgetting meself and stay too long.”

      “Then,” said the Angel, “we mustn't go through the house, because it would disturb the story; but I want you to come the outside way to the conservatory and have some of my birthday lunch and some cake to take to Mrs. Duncan and the babies. Won't that be fun?”

      Freckles thought that it would be more than fun, and followed delightedly.

      The Angel gave him a big glass, brimming with some icy, sparkling liquid that struck his palate as it never had been touched before, because a combination of frosty fruit juices had not been a frequent beverage with him. The night was warm, and the Angel most beautiful and kind. A triple delirium of spirit, mind, and body seized upon him and developed a boldness all unnatural. He slightly parted the heavy curtains that separated the conservatory from the company and looked between. He almost stopped breathing. He had read of things like that, but he never had seen them.

      The open space seemed to stretch through half a dozen rooms, all ablaze with lights, perfumed with flowers, and filled with elegantly dressed people. There were glimpses of polished floors, sparkling glass, and fine furnishings. From somewhere, the voice of his beloved Bird Woman arose and fell.

      The Angel crowded beside him and was watching also.

      “Doesn't it look pretty?” she whispered.

      “Do you suppose Heaven is any finer than that?” asked Freckles.

      The Angel began to laugh.

      “Do you want to be laughing harder than that?” queried Freckles.

      “A laugh is always good,” said the Angel. “A little more avoirdupois won't hurt me. Go ahead.”

      “Well then,” said Freckles, “it's only that I feel all over as if I belonged there. I could wear fine clothes, and move over those floors, and hold me own against the best of them.”

      “But where does my laugh come in?” demanded the Angel, as if she had been defrauded.

      “And you ask me where the laugh comes in, looking me in the face after that,” marveled Freckles.

      “I wouldn't be so foolish as to laugh at such a manifest truth as that,” said the Angel. “Anyone who knows you even half as well as I do, knows that you are never guilty of a discourtesy, and you move with twice the grace of any man here. Why shouldn't you feel as if you belonged where people are graceful and courteous?”

      “On me soul!” said Freckles, “you are kind to be thinking it. You are doubly kind to be saying it.”

      The curtains parted and a woman came toward them. Her silks and laces trailed across the polished floors. The lights gleamed on her neck and arms, and flashed from rare jewels. She was smiling brightly; and until she spoke, Freckles had not realized fully that it was his loved Bird Woman.

      Noticing his bewilderment, she cried: “Why, Freckles! Don't you know me in my war clothes?”

      “I do in the uniform in which you fight the Limberlost,” said Freckles.

      The Bird Woman laughed. Then he told her why he had come, but she scarcely could believe him. She could not say exactly when she would go, but she would make it as soon as possible, for she was most anxious for the study.

      While they talked, the Angel was busy packing a box of sandwiches, cake, fruit, and flowers. She gave him a last frosty glass, thanked him repeatedly for bringing news of new material; then Freckles went into the night. He rode toward the Limberlost with his eyes on the stars. Presently he removed his hat, hung it to his belt, and ruffled his hair to the sweep of the night wind. He filled the air all the way with snatches of oratorios, gospel hymns, and dialect and coon songs, in a startlingly varied programme. The one thing Freckles knew that he could do was to sing. The Duncans heard him coming a mile up the corduroy and could not believe their senses. Freckles unfastened the box from his belt, and gave Mrs. Duncan and the children all the eatables it contained, except one big piece of cake that he carried to the sweet-loving Duncan. He put the flowers back in the box and set it among his books. He did not say anything, but they understood it was not to be touched.

      “Thae's Freckles' flow'rs,” said a tiny Scotsman, “but,” he added cheerfully, “it's oor sweeties!”

      Freckles' face slowly flushed as he took Duncan's cake and started toward the swamp. While Duncan ate, Freckles told him something about the evening, as well as he could find words to express himself, and the big man was so amazed he kept forgetting the treat in his hands.

      Then Freckles mounted his wheel and began a spin that terminated only when the biggest Plymouth Rock in Duncan's coop saluted a new day, and long lines of light reddened the east. As he rode he sang, while he sang he worshiped, but the god he tried to glorify was a dim and faraway mystery. The Angel was warm flesh and blood.

      Every time he passed the little bark-covered imprint on the trail he dismounted, removed his hat, solemnly knelt and laid his lips on the impression. Because he kept no account himself, only the laughing-faced old man of the moon knew how often it happened; and as from the beginning, to the follies of earth that gentleman has ever been kind.

      With the near approach of dawn Freckles tuned his last note. Wearied almost to falling, he turned from the trail into the path leading to the cabin for a few hours' rest.