Then the pucker of the brows smoothed out, and she smiled demurely as she answered.

“Oh, I see—no,” doubtfully. Then more decidedly, “No. You see, you are a ‘tenderfoot.’ You’ll get over it later on.”

And the last barrier of formality was set aside.

“Good,” exclaimed Tresler, emphatically. “We are going to be friends, Miss Marbolt. I knew it. It was only that I feared that ‘they’ might ruin my chances of your approbation. You see, they’ve already caused me—er—trouble.”

“Yes, I think we shall be friends,” Diane answered quietly. “In the meantime, come along into the house and have your lunch. It is ready, I saw you coming and so prepared it at once. You will not mind if I sit and look on while you eat. I have had mine. I want to talk to you before you see my father.”

There was distinct anxiety in her manner. More surely than all, her eyes betrayed her uneasiness. However, he gave no sign, contenting himself with a cordial reply.

“You are very kind. I too should like a chat. You see, I am a ‘tenderfoot,’ and you have been kind enough to pass over my shortcomings.”

Diane led the way into the house. And Tresler, following her, was struck with the simple comfort of this home in the wilds. It was a roomy two-storied house, unpretentious, but very capacious. They entered through one of three French windows what was evidently a useful sort of drawing-room-parlor. Beyond this they crossed a hallway, the entrance door of which stood open, and passed into a dining-room, which, in its turn, opened directly into a kitchen beyond. This room looked out on the woods at the back. Diane explained that her father’s sanctum was in front of this, while behind the parlor was his bedroom, opposite the dining-room and kitchen. The rooms up-stairs were bedrooms, and her own private parlor.

“You see, we keep no female servants, Mr. Tresler,” the girl said, as she brought a pot of steaming coffee from the kitchen and set it on the table. “I am housekeeper. Joe Nelson, the choreman, is my helper and does all the heavy work. He’s quite a character.”

“Yes, I know. I’ve met him,” observed Tresler, dryly.

“Ah! Try that ham. I don’t know about the cold pie, it may be tough. Yes, old Joe is an Englishman; at least, he was, but he’s quite Americanized now.