"That's right, Robert!" she answered, very graciously. "Now, be sure you remember that when the time comes!"
"I'll remember it," cried Robert, with cheerful confidence.
By this time, when the leisurely walking of the horses offered no affront to the forest quiet, the birds were resuming their busy calls and the bustle of their intimate affairs; and the less shy members of the furry fellowship went once more about their business in the busy precincts of the road. Barbara's sympathetic and unerring vision singled them out, differentiating them from their harmonious surroundings, when Robert's eye, as a rule, could not without help see anything but lichened stumps and stones, or bunches of brown weed, or odd-shaped excrescences on the trees. Yet Robert's eye was the eye of the hunter, skilled in the ruses of all quarry. Barbara's woodcraft went immeasurably beyond his,—and perceiving this, her last resentment faded out and she began to initiate him. She named and distinguished for him birds of which he had never even heard, and corrected him with gleeful pride when he innocently mistook the cry of a woodpecker for that of a jay. As for Robert, his delight in this initiation was second only to his delight in his wilful initiator, who was now all earnestness and to him a marvel of abstruse erudition. He learned very quickly, however, and so Barbara was pleased not less by his comparative ignorance than by his superlative aptitude, which was an incense of flattery to his instructress. Only on the subject of deer and grouse Barbara could teach him nothing.
"You know all about those," she cried, reproachfully, "because you have taken the trouble to learn about them, so you can kill them!"
"It does seem a pity to kill such lovely, interesting creatures," acknowledged the lad, thoughtfully. "But what can we do? Surely they were given to us for our use. Providence intended them for our food. It must be right for us to kill them!"
"Of course," assented Barbara, unequipped with any philosophy which might have enabled her to combat this argument. "Of course, it is right for us to eat them. But you, Robert, you take pleasure in killing them. I don't quite like you for that!"
Robert's face grew more and more thoughtful, for this was to him a hard saying, indeed, and he had no answer ready. He was a skilled shot and a keen huntsman.
"I could not understand a man not taking pleasure in the chase," said he, "but I suppose if he got to know the wild things intimately, and love them, as you do, he could no longer bear to kill them, sweet lady!"
"I'm going to teach you to love them all, Robert," said Barbara, easily confident in her powers.
"I am taught already," he began, with the little elaborate air which Barbara liked. Then he changed his mind quickly. "No, I don't mean that at all! I shall need a great many lessons; but I shall learn at last, if you teach me faithfully!"