"And no more shots were fired?"

"None!"

Stane sat there with a very thoughtful look upon his face; and after a moment Miss Yardely spoke again.

"What do you think, Mr. Stane?"

He shook his head. "I do not know what to think, Miss Yardely," he said slowly, "but it looks as if the thing had been done deliberately."

"You mean that some one tried to kill me?"

"No, not that," was the reply. "You would offer too fair a mark for any one accustomed to handling a rifle to miss. I mean that there was a deliberate attempt to set you adrift in the canoe. The first shot, you say, struck the water near you, the second smashed your paddle, and after that there was no more firing. Why? The only answer is that the shooter had accomplished his object."

"It certainly has that appearance," answered the girl. "But why should any one do a thing like that?"

"That is quite beyond me. It was so brutal a thing to do!"

"Some roaming Indian possibly," suggested Miss Yardely thoughtfully.

"But as you asked just now, why? Indians are not so rich in cartridges that they can afford to waste them on a mere whim."

"No, perhaps not," said the girl. "But I can think of no one else." She was silent for a moment, then she added, "Whoever did the vile thing frightened me badly. It is not nice to sit helpless in a canoe drifting out into such a wilderness as this." She waved her hand round the landscape as she spoke, and gave a little shudder. "You see I never knew what was coming next. I passed some islands and hoped that I might strike one of them, but the current swept me clear, and for hours I sat staring, watching the banks go by, and wondering how long it would be before I was missed; and then, I suppose I must have fallen asleep, because I remember nothing more until just before I was thrown into the water."

"It was a very fortunate thing you struck those rocks," said Stane meditatively.

"Fortunate, Mr. Stane? Why?"

"Because in all probability I should not have seen you if you had not; and a few miles below here, there are some bad rapids, and below them the river makes a leap downwards of nearly a hundred feet."

"A fall?" cried the girl, her face blanching a little, as she flashed a glance downstream. "Oh, that would have been terrible! It was fortunate that you were here."

"Very," he agreed earnestly, "and I am beginning to think that it was providential; though all day I have been cursing my luck that I should have been in this neighbourhood at all. I have no business here."

"Then why——" she began, and stopped as if a little afraid that her question was too frankly curious.

It was so that Stane understood the interrupted utterance. He laughed a little, and then answered:

"You need not mind asking, Miss Yardely; because the truth is that my presence in this neighbourhood is due to a mystery that is almost as insoluble as the one that brought you drifting downstream. On the night after you arrived at Fort Malsun, I was waiting at my tent door for—er—a man whom I expected a visit from, when I was knocked on the head by an Indian, and when I came to, I found I was a prisoner, under sentence of deportation. We travelled some days, rather a roundabout journey, as I have since guessed, and one morning I awoke to find my captors had disappeared, leaving me with my canoe and stores and arms absolutely untouched."

"That was a strange adventure, Mr. Stane."

"So I think," answered Stane with conviction.

"What do you think was the reason for your deportation?"

"I do not know," answered Stane thoughtfully. "My chief captor said it was an order, but that may have been a lie; and such wildly possible reasons that I can think of are so inherently improbable that it is difficult to entertain any of them. And yet——"

He broke off, and an absent look came in his eyes. The girl waited, hoping that he would continue, and whilst she did so for one moment visioned Miskodeed in all her wild barbaric beauty and her mind, recalling Ainley's words upon the matter of the girl's relation to the man before her, wondered if there lay the reason. Stane still remained silent, showing no disposition to complete his thought; and it was the girl who broke the silence.

"You say you were waiting for a man when you were seized, Mr. Stane; tell me, was the man Gerald Ainley?"

The young man was a little startled by her question, as his manner showed; but he answered frankly: "Yes! But how did you guess that?"

Helen Yardely smiled. "Oh, that was quite easy. You were the topic of conversation at the dinner-table on the very night that you disappeared; and I gathered that to the factor you were something of a mystery, whilst no one except Mr. Ainley knew anything whatever about you. As you and he were old acquaintances, what more natural than that you should be waiting for him? I suppose he did not come?"

"If he did, I never saw him—and I waited for him two nights!"

"Two!" cried Helen. "Then he could not have wanted to come."

"I rather fancy he did not," replied Stane with a bitter laugh.

"You wished to see him very much?" asked the girl quickly. "It was important that you should?"

"I wished to question him upon a matter that was important to me."

"Ah!" said the girl in a tone that was full of significance. Stane looked at her sharply, and then asked a question:

"What are you thinking, Miss Yardely?"

"Oh, I was just thinking that I had guessed one of your wildly possible reasons, Mr. Stane; and to tell the truth, if Mr. Ainley was really anxious to avoid answering your questions, it does not seem to me so inherently improbable as you appear to think."

"What convinces you of that, Miss Yardely?"

"Well," she replied quickly, "you say the Indian told you that it was an order. I ask myself—whose order? There were very few people at Fort Malsun to give orders. I think of them in turn. The factor? You were a stranger to him! My uncle? He never heard of you except in gossip over the dinner-table the night you were deported. Gerald Ainley? He knew you! He had made appointments with you that he twice failed to keep—which, quite evidently, he had no intention of keeping. He had—may I guess?—some strong reason for avoiding you; and he is a man of some authority in the Company and moving to still greater. He would not know the Indians who actually carried you away; but Factor Rodwell would, and factors are only human, and sooner or later Gerald Ainley will be able to considerably influence Mr. Rodwell's future. Therefore—well, Q.E.D.! Do you not agree with me?"

"I find your argument convincing," answered Stane, grimly. Then he lapsed into thoughtful silence, whilst the girl watched him, wondering what was in his mind. Presently she knew, for most unexpectedly the young man gave vent to a short laugh.

"What a fool the man is!" he declared. "He must know that we shall meet again some time!... But, Miss Yardely, I am keeping you from your rest! We must start betimes in the morning if I am to take you back to your uncle."

"If you take me back——?"

"There is no question of that," he answered promptly. "I could not dream of leaving you here."

"I was about to say you would very likely meet Gerald Ainley. He has joined my uncle's party."

"So much the better," cried Stane. "I shall certainly go."

There was a flash in his blue eyes, a grim look in his face, and instinctively Helen Yardely knew that the matter which lay between this man and Gerald Ainley was something much more serious than forced deportation. What it was she could not guess, and though after she had retired to the tent she lay awake thinking of the matter, when she fell asleep she was as far off as ever from anything that offered a solution of the question which troubled her. And outside, staring into the fire, his strong face the index of dark thoughts, Hubert Stane sat through the short night of the Northland summer, never once feeling the need of sleep, reviewing from a different angle the same question as that which had perplexed the mind of the girl in the tent.

At the first hint of dawn, Stane rose from his seat, gathered up the girl's now dry raiment, and put it in a heap at the tent door, then procuring a canvas bucket of water he set that beside the clothes and busied himself with preparing breakfast. After a little time Helen emerged from the tent. Her eyes were bright, her beautiful face was radiant with health, and it was clear that she was no worse for her experience of the day before.

"Good morning, Mr. Stane," she said in gay salutation, "you are the early bird. I hope you slept well."

"May I reciprocate the hope, Miss Yardely?"

"Never better, thank you. I think hunger and adventure must be healthful. I slept like the Seven Sleepers rolled into one; I feel as fresh as the morning, and as hungry as—well, you will see," she ended with a laugh.

"Then fall to," he said, joining in the laughter. "The sooner the breakfast is over the sooner we shall start."

"I warn you I am in no hurry," she retorted gaily. "I quite like this. It is the real thing; whilst my uncle's camps are just civilization imposing itself on the wilderness."

"But your uncle! You must think of him, Miss Yardely. You have now been away an afternoon and a night. He will be very anxious."

"Yes!" she said, "that's the pity of it. If it were not for that——" She broke off suddenly, gave a little laugh, and for no apparent reason her face flushed rosily. "But you must restore me to the bosom of my family soon!"

"More's the pity!" said Stane to himself under his breath; his heart-beats quickening as he looked at her radiant face and laughing eyes; whilst openly he said: "I will do my best. You will be able to help me to paddle against the current, and no doubt in a little time we shall meet a search-party coming to look for you."

"Then my little jaunt will be over! But you must not surrender me until you have seen my uncle, Mr. Stane."

Stane laughed. "I will hold you against the world until then, Miss Yardely."

"And perhaps you will see Gerald Ainley, as you wish," she said, glancing at him to watch the effect of her words.

The laughter died swiftly from his face, and a stern light came into his eyes. "Yes," he said grimly, "perhaps I shall. Indeed that is my hope."

Helen Yardely did not pursue the matter further. Again she glimpsed depths that she did not understand, and as she ate her breakfast, she glanced from time to time at her companion, wondering what was between him and Ainley, and wondering in vain.

Breakfast finished, they struck camp, launched the canoe and began to paddle upstream. The current was strong, and their progress slow, but after some three hours they arrived at the junction of the two rivers. Then Stane asked a question.

"Which way did you come, Miss Yardely? Down the main stream or the other one?"

The girl looked towards the meeting of the waters doubtfully. "I do not know," she said. "I certainly do not remember coming through that rough water."

"Your uncle's party had of course travelled some way since I left Fort Malsun?"

"Oh yes; we had made long journeys each day and we were well on our way to—wait a moment. I shall remember the name—to—to old Fort Winagog."

"Winagog?" said Stane.

"Yes! That is the name. I remember my uncle mentioning it yesterday."

"Then you came down the main stream for a certainty, for the old fort stands on a lake that finds an outlet into this river, though it is rather a long way from here. We will keep straight on. No doubt we shall strike either your uncle's camp or some search party presently."

As it happened the conclusion he reached was based on a miscalculation. The only waterway to old Fort Winagog that he knew was from the main river and up the stream that formed the outlet for the lake. But there was another that was reached by a short portage through the woods from the subsidiary stream from which he turned aside, a waterway which fed the lake, and which cut off at least a hundred and twenty miles. Knowing nothing of this shorter route he naturally concluded that Helen Yardely's canoe had come down the main stream, and took the wrong course in the perfect assurance that it was the right one.

So hugging the left bank they passed the junction of the rivers, and a little further on crossed to the other side to seek shelter from a rising wind, under the high bank. And less than an hour later the canoe, carrying Gerald Ainley and his Indian, swept out of the tributary stream into the broader current, and they drove downstream, unconscious that every stroke of the paddle was taking them further from the girl whom they sought.



CHAPTER VII

STRANDED

It was high noon when Hubert Stane directed the nose of the canoe towards a landing-place in the lee of a sand-bar, on the upperside of which was a pile of dry driftwood suitable for firing.

"We will take an hour's rest, Miss Yardely; and possibly whilst we are waiting your friends may show up."

He lit a fire, prepared a wilderness meal of bacon and beans (the latter already half-cooked) and biscuit and coffee, and as they consumed it, he watched the river, a long stretch of which was visible.

"I thought we should have encountered your friends before now, Miss Yardely," he remarked thoughtfully.

The girl smiled. "Are you anxious to get rid of me?" she asked. "Believe me, I am enjoying myself amazingly, and if it were not for the anxiety my uncle and the others will be feeling, I should not trouble at all. This——" she waved a hand towards the canoe and the river—"is so different from my uncle's specially conducted tour."

"Oh, I am not at all anxious to be rid of you," laughed Stane, "but I cannot help wondering whether we have not taken the wrong turn. You see, if we have, every yard takes us further from your uncle's camp."

"But this is the way to Fort Winagog?" asked the girl.

"It is the only way I know."

"Then we must be going right, for I distinctly heard my uncle say we were within a day's journey of the place."

"The thing that worries me is that we have met no one looking for you."

"No doubt they will thoroughly search the neighbourhood of the camp and the beaver-dam before going further afield. Also, you must remember that it might be dinner-time last night before I was missed."

"Yes," he agreed, "that is very likely. On which bank of the river was the camp?"

"This bank—the left coming down."

"Then we will hug the shore this afternoon, and no doubt we shall find it before supper-time."

But in that anticipation he was mistaken. The long day drew to its close and the camp they sought had not appeared; nor had any search-party materialized. As they pitched camp for the night, the doubt which all day had been in Stane's mind became a certainty.

"I am afraid we have made a mistake, Miss Yardely. You must have come down the other river. It is impossible that we can have missed the camp; and we must have seen any boat coming down this empty water."

"But we are going towards Fort Winagog?"

"Yes. On the other hand you must remember that a paddle-driven canoe travels much faster than a merely drifting one; and that we ourselves, assuming that we are on the right way, all day have been shortening the distance that a search-party would have to travel. We ought to have met some time ago. I think we shall have to turn back in the morning."

"Must we?" asked the girl. "Can't we go on to Fort Winagog? I can wait there till my uncle appears, and I shall not be taking you further out of your way. I am afraid I am putting you to a good deal of trouble, and wasting your time."

"Time is not of much account to me," laughed Stane shortly. "And what you suggest is impossible."

"Why?" demanded Helen.

"Because old Fort Winagog is a fort no longer. It is a mere ruin like old Fort Selkirk. There may be an Indian or two in the neighbourhood. There is certainly no one else."

"Then we shall have to go back?" said the girl.

"It seems to be the only way," was the reply. "If we are wrong, as I am convinced we are, every yard we go takes us further from your people."

"I am sorry to give you all this trouble," said the girl contritely.

"Please—please!" he answered in quick protest. "Believe me it is a pleasure to serve you, and with me a few days do not matter. I shall have enough of my own company before long."

"You live alone?" asked Helen.

"I have an old Indian for companion."

"And what do you do, if you will permit me to be so curious?"

"Oh," he laughed. "I hunt, I pursue the elusive nugget, and I experiment with vegetables. And this winter I am going to start a trapping line."

"But you are rich!" she cried. "You have no need to live in exile."

"Yes," he answered with sudden bitterness. "I am rich. I suppose Ainley told you that. But exile is the only thing for me. You see a sojourn in Dartmoor spoils one for county society."

"Oh," she cried protestingly, "I cannot believe that you—that you——"

"Thank you," he said as the girl broke off in confusion. "I cannot believe it myself. But twelve good men and true believed it; an expert in handwriting was most convincing, and if you had heard the judge——"

"But you did not do it, Mr. Stane, I am sure of that."

"No," he answered, "I did not do the thing for which I suffered. But to prove my innocence is another matter."

"You have not given up the endeavour, I hope."

"No! I have a man at work in England, and I myself make small endeavours. Only the other day I thought that I——" Apparently he remembered something, for he broke off sharply. "But why discuss the affair? It is only one of the world's small injustices which shows that the law, usually right, may go wrong occasionally."

But Helen Yardely was not so easily to be turned aside. Whilst he had been speaking a thought had occurred to her, and now took the form of a question.

"I suppose that the other night when you were waiting for Mr. Ainley, it was on this particular matter that you wished to see him?"

"What makes you think that?" Stane asked quickly.

Helen Yardely smiled. "It is not difficult to guess. You told me last night that you wished to question him on a matter that was important to you. And this matter—Well! it needs no argument."

"It might be something else, Miss Yardely," was the evasive reply.

"Yes, it might be," answered the girl, "but I do not think it is."

Stane made no reply, but sat looking in the fire, and the girl watching him, drew her own conclusion from his silence, a conclusion that was far from favourable to Gerald Ainley. She wondered what were the questions Stane had wished to ask her uncle's secretary; and which, as she was convinced, he had been at such pains to avoid. Was it possible that her rescuer believed that his one-time friend had it in his power to prove his innocence of the crime for which he had suffered? All the indications seemed to point that way; and as she looked at the grave, thoughtful face, and the greying hair of the man who had saved her from death, she resolved that on the morrow, when she reached her uncle's camp, she would herself question Gerald Ainley upon the matter.

But, as events befell, the opportunity that the morrow was to bring was not given. For that night, whilst she slept in the little tent, and Stane, wrapped in a blanket, slumbered on a bed of spruce-boughs, perhaps half-a-dozen yards away, a man crept cautiously between the trees in the rear of the encampment, and stood looking at it with covetous eyes. He was a half-breed of evil countenance, and he carried an old trade gun, which he held ready for action whilst he surveyed the silent camp. His dark eyes fell on Stane sleeping in the open, and then looked towards the tent with a question in them. Evidently he was wondering how many travellers there were; and found the thought a deterrent one; for though once he lifted his gun and pointed it to the sleeping man, he lowered it again, his eyes turning to the tent anew.

After a period of indecision, the intruder left the shadow of the trees, and crept quietly down to the camp, his gun still at the ready, and with his eyes fixed on the unconscious Stane. Moving very cautiously he reached the place where the canoe was beached, and looked down into it. A gleam of satisfaction came into his dark eyes as he saw a small sack of beans reposing in the stern, then again a covetous look came into them as their gaze shifted to the stores about the camp. But these were very near the sleeping man, and as the latter stirred in his sleep, the half-breed relinquished any thought of acquiring them. Stealthily he conveyed the canoe down to the water's edge, launched it, and then with a grin on his evil face as he gave a last look at the man in the blanket, he paddled away.

A full three-quarters of an hour later Stane awoke, and kicking aside the blankets, replenished the fire, and then went a little way upstream to bathe. At the end of half an hour he returned. His first glance was towards the tent, the fly of which was still closed, then he looked round the camp and a puzzled look came on his face. There was something a little unfamiliar, something not present which——

"Great Scott! The canoe!"

As the words shot from him he hurried forward. Quite distinctly he remembered carrying it up the bank the night before, and now——. Inside half a minute he found himself looking at the place where it had lain. The impression of it was quite clear on the dewy grass, and there were other impressions also—impressions of moccasined-feet going down to the edge of the water. For a moment he stared unbelievingly; then as a thought occurred to him he glanced at the tent again. Had the girl in his absence taken the canoe and——

The thought died as soon as it was born, and he began to follow the tracks on the damp grass, backward. They skirted the camp in a small semi-circle, and led to the forest behind, where on the dry pine needles they were not quite so easy to follow. But follow them he did, and in a couple of minutes reached a place where it was evident some one had stood for a considerable time. This spot was in the shadow of a great spruce, and standing behind the trunk he looked towards the camp. The fire and the white tent were plain to be seen. Then he understood what had happened. Some one had seen the encampment and had waited in the place where he now stood, probably to reconnoitre, and then had made off with the canoe. A thought leaped into his mind at that moment, and brought with it a surge of fear.

"The stores. If——"

At a run he covered the space between him and the camp, and as he looked round and saw that most of the stores reposed where he had placed them the previous night, relief surged in his heart.

"Thank heaven!"

"Mr. Stane, what is the matter? You look as if something had startled you."

He swung round instantly. Helen Yardely was standing at the tent door with a smile on her face.

"The matter is serious enough," he explained quickly. "Some one has stolen the canoe in the night."

"Stolen the canoe!" echoed the girl.

"Yes! You can see his tracks in the grass, going up to the place where he stood and watched us. He must have come down whilst we slept."

"But who can have done such a thing?"

Stane shook his head. "I cannot think. A wandering Indian most likely.... Hard put to it, I expect. He has taken a sack of beans with him."

"Then we are stranded?" asked the girl quickly.

"In a way—yes," he agreed. "But we are not in a desperate case. We have food, I have my rifle, and it will be possible to make a raft and float down the river until we meet your uncle's people."

The girl looked at the river doubtfully. "What sort of control shall we have over a raft?"

"Well," he said, "I should make a steering oar."

"And if the current took control, Mr. Stane? Please believe me when I say I am not afraid—but I cannot help thinking of those falls you mentioned."

Stane looked thoughtful. For the moment he had forgotten the falls, and as he remembered the quickening of the current at the meeting of the rivers he recognized there was reason in the girl's question.

"There are risks, of course," he said. "The alternative to the river is to tramp through the wood."

"Then I vote for the alternative," replied Helen with a little laugh. "I've had my full of drifting like a fly caught in an eddy."

Stane looked down the river and from the river to the woods which lined its banks.

"It will be difficult," he said. "This is virgin forest."

"Pooh," retorted the girl lightly. "You can't make me afraid, Mr. Stane. Ever since I left Edmonton with my uncle's party I've wanted to rough it—to know what the wilderness really is. Now's my chance—if you don't deprive me of it."

In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Stane laughed.

"Oh, I won't deprive you of it, Miss Yardely. We'll start after breakfast; but I warn you, you don't know what you are in for."

"Job's comforter!" she mocked him laughingly. "I'm going to fill the kettle. A cup of tea will cheer you up and make you take a rosier view of things."

She said no more, but taking the kettle, walked down to the river, humming to herself a gay little chanson.

"Qui va la! There's someone in the orchard, There's a robber in the apple-trees, Qui va la! He is creeping through the doorway. Ah, allez-vous-en! va-t'-en!"

He watched her go, with a soft light gleaming in his hard blue eyes, then he turned and began to busy himself with preparations for breakfast. When the meal was finished, he went through the stores and his personal possessions.

"We can't take them all," he explained. "I know my limit, and sixty pounds is as much as I can carry along if I am to travel steadily, without too many rests. We shall have to cache a goodish bit."

"You are forgetting me, aren't you?" asked the girl, quietly. "I'm fairly strong, you know."

"But——"

"I think I must insist," she interrupted with a smile. "You are doing all this for me; and quite apart from that, I shall be glad to know what the trail is like under real conditions."

Stane argued further, but in vain, and in the end the girl had her way, and took the trail with a pack of perhaps five and twenty pounds, partly made up of the clothes she had changed into after her rescue. Stane knew the woods; he guessed what havoc the trail would make of skirts and for that reason he included the clothing in her pack, foreseeing that there would be further need of them.

As they started the girl began to hum:

"Some talk of Alexander And some of Hercules."

Stane laughed over his shoulder.

"I'm afraid a quick step will be out of keeping soon, Miss Yardely."

"Why?" she asked interrupting her song.

"Well—packing on trail is necessarily a slow business; and there's rough country between these two rivers."

"You are trying to scare me because I'm a tenderfoot," she retorted with a laugh that was like music in Stane's ears; "but I won't be scared."

She resumed her song with a gay air of bravado; passing from one chanty to another in a voice fluty as a blackbird. Stane smiled to himself. He liked her spirit, and he knew that that would carry her through the difficulties that lay before them, even when the flesh was inclined to failure. But presently the springs of song dried up, and when the silence had lasted a little time he looked round. The girl's face was flushed, and the sweat was dropping in her eyes.

"Nothing the matter, I hope, Miss Yardely?"

"No, thank you," she answered with a little attempt to laugh; "but one can't sing, you know, with mosquitoes and other winged beasts popping into one's mouth."

"They are rather a nuisance," he agreed and plodded on.

Packing one's worldly possessions through the pathless wilderness is a slow, grinding misery. The lightest pack soon becomes a burden. At the beginning of a march it may seem a mere nothing, in an hour it is an oppression; in three a millstone is a feather compared with it; and before night the inexperienced packer feels that, like Atlas, he bears the world upon his shoulders. It was therefore little wonder that Helen Yardely ceased to sing after they had marched but a very little way; and indeed the trail, apart from the apparently growing weight of the pack, was not favourable to song. There was no sort of path whatever after they had left the river bank; nothing but the primeval forest, with an undergrowth that was so dense that the branches of one bush were often interwoven with its neighbours. Through this they had to force their way, head down, hands and clothes suffering badly in the process. Then would come a patch of Jack-pine, where trees seven to ten feet high grew in such profusion that it was well-nigh impossible to find a passage between them; and on the heels of this would follow a stretch of muskeg, quaking underfoot, and full of boggy traps for the unwary. In the larger timber also, the deadfalls presented an immense difficulty. Trees, with their span of life exhausted, year after year, had dropped where they stood, and dragging others down in their fall, cumbered the ground in all directions, sometimes presenting tangled barriers which it was necessary to climb over, a method not unaccompanied by danger, since in the criss-cross of the branches and trunks a fall would almost inevitably have meant a broken limb.

The ground they travelled over was uneven, intersected here and there by gullies, which were only to be skirted by great expense of time and energy, and the crossing of which was sometimes dangerous, but had perforce to be accomplished, and by noon, when they reached the bank of a small stream, the girl was exhausted and her face wore a strained look. Stane saw it, and halting, took off his pack.

"Time for grub," he said.

Then unstrapping his pack he stretched a blanket on the sloping ground. The girl watched him with interest.

"Why——" she began, only to be promptly interrupted.

"For you," he explained briefly. "Lie down and relax your limbs. Pull this other blanket over you, then you won't chill."

"But I want to help," she protested. "I don't like to feel that you are working and I——"

"You will help best by obeying orders," he said smilingly. "We shall have to push on after an hour, and if you don't rest you will be too done up to keep the trail till evening."

"Then I must obey," she said.

He turned to look for wood with which to make a fire, and when he returned she was lying on the blanket with another drawn over her, and her eyes smiled at him as he appeared. The next minute they were closed, and two minutes later she was fast asleep. Stane, as he realized the fact, smiled a little to himself.

"Of spirit compact," he murmured to himself, and went forward with preparations for a meal.

It was two hours later when the girl awoke, and the meal was ready—a quite substantial one.

"Have I slept long?" inquired Helen, moving towards the fire.

"Two hours. But don't worry about that. We have lost no time really, for I have done a little exploring. There's a stretch of high ground in front of us, a kind of height of land between the river we have left and the one we are making for. Once we are well across that we shall find the going easier. We'll tackle it this afternoon. I've found something, like a path, an old trapping-line I should think by the way the trees have been blazed."

When the meal was finished they put out the fire and started anew, and, by evening, had passed the crest of the high land between the rivers, and were moving down the wooded slopes on the further side looking for a camping place. The timber thickened, and they suddenly encountered a tremendous barrier of deadfall ten or eleven feet high, with the fallen trunks criss-crossing in all directions. From the further side of it came the ripple of running water proclaiming a stream and the water they were seeking.

"It is exasperating," said Stane, with a little laugh. "But we must climb the beastly thing. If we try to go round it, we shall probably only encounter others. I'll go first and have a look at the other side."

He began to climb the obstruction and when he reached the top looked down at the tangle of trunks below.

"It's pretty bad," he shouted to the watching girl. "You had better wait until I find a way down."

He began to crawl gingerly along the monarch tree at the crown of the pile. Its branches were twisted in all directions and dangerous snags were frequent. Suddenly his foot slipped. He made a wild attempt to regain his balance but the heavy pack prevented him, and a second later with a shout he plunged into the tangled pile below, vanishing from the girl's sight on the further side. With a swift cry of alarm, Helen, who had been seated on a fallen trunk, leaped to her feet. She called out to him, her voice shaking with fear:

"Mr. Stane! Mr. Stane!"

There came no answering hail from the other side of the deadfall, and with dismay manifesting itself in her beautiful face, the girl faced the barrier and began to climb with reckless, desperate haste.



CHAPTER VIII

A MEETING IN THE FOREST

Gerald Ainley's canoe had almost reached the junction of the rivers, on the return journey, and he and his companion were battling hard against the acceleration of the current, when the Indian gave a grunt and looked round.

"What is it, Joe?" asked Ainley quickly.

"Man with canoe," answered the Indian laconically. "He make a portage."

"Where?"

"Up river," replied the Indian with a jerk of his head. Ainley craned his neck a little and, as he did so, just caught sight of a man moving across an open place between the trees a quarter of a mile away, the canoe over his head and shoulder like a huge cowl.

"We must speak to him, Joe! Perhaps he has news," said Ainley quickly, and a second later shouted at the top of his voice. "Hal—lo—o—o!"

That the man heard the hail was sure for both of them saw him halt and turn to look downstream, but the next moment he turned, and, continuing his journey, was instantly lost in the thick of the trees.

"That was queer," said Ainley. "He heard me, but whoever he is he doesn't want to speak to us."

"We catch him," replied the Indian. "Make land below the meeting of the waters, and portage through woods to other river. Meet him there."

As he spoke the native began to make a course across the river, and Ainley asked for information.

"I don't understand, Joe. If we land below the junction how can we meet a man who lands above?"

"Both go the same way," grunted the Indian. "Walk to meet the man. We make short portage, and wait for him across the water. He come and we meet him."

Ainley still was in a fog, but when they had landed and had started to follow a well-defined path through the forest, he understood. The direction they were following would bring them to the bank of the tributary river, perhaps a mile and a half from the meeting of the waters; and the path which the stranger was following would bring him out on the opposite side of the river. If Joe were right the lower portage was the shorter, and, notwithstanding that the other man had the start, they could reach the river first and would be able to force a meeting on him however much he wished to avoid them.

After half an hour's steady trudging through the woods, they came in sight of the water once more, and set their burdens down behind a screen of bushes.

"We first," said the Indian after a cautious survey of the empty river. "Wait! He come."

Seated behind the screening bushes they waited, watching the other side of the river. Half an hour passed and the man for whom they watched did not appear. Then the Indian spoke.

"The man know," he said. "He wait till we go."

"But why should he be afraid?" asked Ainley sharply.

"I not know! But he wait."

"Then if the mountain won't come to Mahomet, Mahomet must go to the mountain."

"What that?" asked the Indian.

"We will cross the river," said Ainley. "We will go look for him."

"Good!" said the Indian.

Five minutes later they were afloat once more, and in a few minutes had landed on the further side.

"You stop here with the canoe, Joe," said Ainley picking up his rifle. "I'll go and hunt up the fellow. If you hear me call, come along at once."

The Indian nodded and proceeded to fill a pipe, whilst the white man, following the track made by many feet portaging from one river to the other, moved into the woods. He made no attempt at concealment, nor did he move with caution, for he was assured that in the dense wood a man burdened with a canoe could not turn aside from the path without disaster overtaking him. If he kept straight on he was bound to meet the man whom he sought.

That conviction proved to be well-grounded. He had been walking less than ten minutes when he caught sight of the canoe lying directly in his way, with the man who had been carrying it, seated on the ground with his back against a tree, smoking. As the man caught sight of him he started to his feet and stretched his hand towards a gun reposing against a trunk. Holding his own rifle ready for action, Ainley shouted reassuring words to the man, and then moved quickly forward. The man, a half-breed, the same man who had stolen Stane's canoe, gave one keen glance at him and then dropping his hand from the gun, awaited his coming.

"Why did you run away when I shouted a while back?" asked Ainley sharply.

"I not run," answered the half-breed, insolently. "I carry the canoe, an' I tink I not wait. Dat is all."

Ainley looked at the man thoughtfully. There was something furtive about the fellow, and he was sure that the reason given was not the real one.

"Then why are you waiting here?" he asked with a directness that in no way nonplussed the other.

"I take what you call a breather," answered the man stolidly. "What matter to you?"

Ainley looked at him. He was sure the man was lying, but it was no affair of his, and after a moment he turned to his main purpose.

"I wanted to ask you something," he said. "A white girl has been lost on the river—she is a niece of a great man in the Company, and I am looking for her. Have you seen her?"

"What she like?" asked the half-breed with a sudden quickening of interest.

Ainley described Helen Yardely to the best of his ability, watching the other's evil face whilst he did so, and before he had ended guessed that the man knew something of the girl he was seeking.

"You have seen her?" he cried abruptly.

"Oui!" replied the half-breed. "I haf seen her, one, two, tree days ago. She is in canoe on zee river," he pointed towards the water as he spoke, and waved his hand towards the south. "She is ver' beautiful; an' I watch her for zee pleasure, vous comprenez? And anoder man he watched also. I see him, an' I see him shoot with zee gun—once, twice he shoot."

"You saw him shoot?" Ainley's face had gone suddenly white, and there was a tremor in his voice as he asked his questions. "Do you mean he shot the girl?"

"No! No! Not zee girl. He very bad shot if he try. Non! It was zee paddle he try for, an' he get it zee second shot. I in the woods this side zee river an' I see him, as he stand behind a tree to watch what zee girl she will do."

"You saw him?" asked Ainley, in a faltering voice. "Who was he?"

"I not know," answered the half-breed quickly, "but I tink I see heem again since."

"You think——"

"Oui! I tink I talk with heem, now."

There was a look of malicious triumph on the half-breed's face, and an alert look in his furtive eyes as he made the accusation. For a moment stark fear looked out of Ainley's eyes and he visibly flinched, then he recovered himself and broke into harsh laughter.

"You think? Then you think wrong, and I wouldn't say that again if I were you. It might lead to sudden trouble. If I were the man who fired those shots why should I be spending my time looking for her as I am?"

"I not know," said the half-breed sullenly.

"No, I should think not; so you had better put that nonsense out of your head, now, once for all; for if you go about telling that mad tale you'll surely be taken for a madman and the mounted police——" He broke off as a flash of fear manifested itself in the half-breed's face, then he smiled maliciously. "I see you do not like the police, though I daresay they would like to meet you, hey?"

The man stood before him dumb, and Ainley, convinced that he had stumbled on the truth, laughed harshly. "Stoney Mountain Penitentiary is not a nice place. The silent places of the North are better; but if I hear of you breathing a word of that rot you were talking just now, I will send word to the nearest police-post of your whereabouts, and once the mounters start after a man, as I daresay you know, they follow the trail to a finish."

"Oui, I know," assented the man quickly.

"Then unless you want to land in their hands in double quick time you'll tell no one of the silly mistake you made just now, or—well you understand."

The half-breed nodded, and thinking that he had gone far enough, Ainley changed the subject.

"And now tell me, have you seen that girl I asked you about since you saw her three days back?"

A thoughtful look came in the half-breed's face, and his unsteady eyes sought the canoe lying at his feet. He thought of the white tent on the river bank and of the man sleeping outside of it, and instantly guessed who had occupied the tent.

"Oui!" he replied laconically.

"You have?" Sudden excitement blazed in Ainley's face as he asked the question. "When? Where?"

The half-breed visioned the sleeping camp once more, and with another glance at the stolen canoe, gave a calculated answer. "Yesterday. She go up zee oder river in a canoe with a white man."

"Up the other river?"

"Oui! I pass her and heem, both paddling. It seems likely dat dey go to Fort Winagog. Dey paddle quick."

"Fort Winagog!" As he echoed the words, a look of thought came into Ainley's eyes. Helen would have heard that name as the next destination of the party, and if the man who had saved her from the river was in a hurry and travelling that way it was just possible that she had decided to accompany him there. He nodded his head at the thought, and then a new question shot into his mind, a question to which he gave utterance.

"Who was the man—I mean the man who was with the girl in the canoe?"

"I not know," answered the half-breed, trying to recall the features of the sleeping man whose canoe he had stolen. "Heem tall man, with hair that curl like shavings."

"Tell me more," demanded Ainley sharply, as an unpleasant suspicion shot into his mind.

"I not know more," protested the half-breed. "I see heem not ver' close; an' I travel fast. I give heem an' girl one look, cry bonjour! an' then he is past. Vous comprenez?"

"Yes," replied the white man standing there with a look of abstraction on his face. For a full two minutes he did not speak again, but stood as if resolving some plan in his mind, then he looked at the half-breed again.

"You are going up the river?" he asked.

"Oui!"

"Then I want you to do something for me. A day's journey or so further on you will find a camp, it is the camp of a great man of the Company——"

"I know it," interrupted the half-breed, "I haf seen it."

"Of course, I had forgotten you had been in the neighbourhood of it! Well, I want you to go there as fast as you can and to take a note for me. There will be a reward."

"I will take zee note."

"Then you must wait whilst I write it."

Seating himself upon a fallen tree he scribbled a hasty note to Sir James Yardely, telling him that he had news of Helen and that he hoped very shortly to return to camp with her, and having addressed it gave it to the half-breed.

"There is need for haste," he said. "I will reward you now, and the great man whose niece the girl is, will reward you further when you take the news of her that is in the letter. But you will remember not to talk. I should say nothing about what you saw up the river a few days back. Sir James is a suspicious man and he might think that you fired those shots yourself—in which case——" He shrugged his shoulders, then taking out a ten-dollar note, handed it to the half-breed, whose eyes gleamed as he took it. "Now," he continued, "shoulder your canoe, and come along to the river. I should like to see you start. I'll carry your gun, and that sack of yours."

He took the half-breed's gun, picked up the beans, and in single file they marched through the wood back to where the Indian sat patiently waiting. On their appearance he looked round, and as his eyes fell on the half-breed's face a momentary flash came into them, and then as it passed he continued to look at the new-comer curiously.

Ainley rapidly explained the situation and the Indian listened without comment. He waited until the half-breed was actually afloat and out of earshot, and then he spoke.

"Bad man!" he said. "No good. Heem liar. I have seen heem b'fore."

"Maybe," answered Ainley lightly. "So much the better—for one thing! But there's no reason why he should lie about this matter, and I think he was telling the truth about that meeting up the other river. We'll follow the trail anyway; and we will start at once. Will the portage or the river be the better way?"

"Portage," said the Indian, following the half-breed with his eyes.

"Then we had better get going. We've no time to lose, and you needn't worry yourself about that fellow. He'll do what I've asked him, for the sake of himself. He can have no reason for doing otherwise."

But in that, as in his statement that the half-breed could have no reason for lying, Ainley was mistaken. The stolen canoe was a very ample reason, and so little inclined was the thief to seek the presence of Sir James Yardely, that when he reached a creek three miles or so up the river, he deliberately turned aside, and at his first camp he used Ainley's note to light his pipe, tossing what was left of it into the fire without the least compunction. Then, as he smoked, a look of malice came on his face.

"No, I not meestake. Dat man fire zee shots. I sure of dat; an' by Gar! I get heem one of dese days, an' I make heem pay for it, good an' plenty. Mais—I wonder—why he shoot? I wonder eef zee white mees, she knew?"

And whilst he sat wondering, Gerald Ainley and his Indian companion, travelling late, toiled on, following the river trail to Fort Winagog on a vain quest.



CHAPTER IX

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Slowly, and with the pungent taste of raw brandy in his mouth, Hubert Stane came to himself. The first thing he saw was Helen Yardely's white face bending over him, and the first sound he heard was a cry of sobbing gladness.

"Thank God! Thank God!"

He did not understand, and at her cry made an attempt to move. As he did so, sharp pains assailed him, and forced a groan from his lips.

"Oh!" cried the girl. "You must lie still, Mr. Stane. I am afraid you are rather badly hurt, indeed I thought you were killed. I am going to do what I can for you, now that I know that you are not. Your leg is broken, I think, and you have other injuries, but that is most serious, and I must manage to set it, somehow."

"To set it——" he began, and broke off.

"Yes! I am afraid I shall not prove a very efficient surgeon; but I will do my best. I hold the St. John's Ambulance medal, so you might be worse off," she said, with a wan smile.

"Much," he agreed.

"Now that you are conscious I am going to leave you for a few minutes. I must find something that will serve for splints."

Without more ado she departed, taking with her an ax, and presently through the stillness of the forest there reached him the sound of chopping. In spite of his pain he smiled to himself, then after listening for awhile, he began to try and ascertain the extent of his injuries for himself. There was a warm trickle on his face and he guessed that there was a gash somewhere; his body seemed to be one great sore, from which he deducted that he was badly bruised; whilst his leg pained him intolerably. Lying as he was on the flat of his back, he couldn't see the leg, and desiring to do so he made a great effort and sat up. As he did so, he groaned heavily, and incontinently fainted.

He was still unconscious when the girl returned, and after one quick look of alarm she nodded to herself. "A faint," she whispered. "Perhaps it is just as well."

With a knife she ripped the breeches leg right up the seam, then with the aid of moss and a blanket, together with the rough splints she had cut, she made a shift to set the broken leg. Twice during the operation Stane opened his eyes, groaned heavily, and passed into unconsciousness again.

Helen did not allow these manifestations of suffering to deflect her from her task. She knew that her unskilled surgery was bound to pain him severely, and she welcomed the lapses into unconsciousness, since they made her task easier. At last she gave a sob of relief and stood up to survey her handiwork. The splicing and the binding looked terribly rough, but she was confident that the fractured ends of bone were in position, and in any case she had done her best.

After that she busied herself with building a fire, and after heating water, washed the wound on Stane's forehead, and carefully examined him for other injuries. There were bruises in plenty, but so far as she could discover no broken bones, and when she had satisfied herself on that point, she turned to other tasks.

Cutting a quantity of young spruce-boughs she fashioned them into a bed close beside where he lay, and filled all the interstices with springy moss, laying over all a blanket. That done, she turned once more to Stane, to find him with eyes wide open, watching her.

"I have set your leg," she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I've done the best I could, though I am afraid it is rather a rough piece of work."

He raised his head slightly, and glanced down at the bandaged limb, then he smiled a trifle wanly.

"It has a most workmanlike look," he said in a faint voice.

"Now I want to get you on this bed. I ought to have done so before I set your leg. I had forgotten that there was no one to help me lift you on to it. But perhaps we shall be able to manage, though I am afraid it will be a very painful ordeal for you. Still it must be done—we can't have you lie upon the ground."

The ordeal was certainly a painful one, but by no means so difficult as the girl had anticipated. Making a sling out of the pack ropes, Helen held the injured leg clear of the ground, whilst Stane, using his arms and his other leg, managed to lift himself backward on to his improvised couch.

The strain of the effort tried him severely, and he lay for a long time in an exhausted condition, with his eyes closed. This was no more than Helen had expected, and she did not let the fact trouble her unduly. Working methodically she erected the little tent in such a position that it covered the injured man's bed; and then prepared a meal of such things as their resources afforded, lacing the coffee she had made with a little brandy.

Stane was too done up to eat much, but he swallowed a fair quantity of coffee, whilst the girl forced herself to eat, having already realized that the welfare of both of them for the time being depended upon her and upon her strength. When the meal was ended, she found his pipe, charged it for him, and procured him a light, and with a murmur of thanks, Stane began to smoke.

From where he lay, through the open tent-fly, he could see a portion of the windfall barrier which had been the cause of the disaster.

"I thought I was done for," he said as he looked towards the tangled trunks. "I slipped and plunged right into a sort of crevasse, didn't I?"

"Yes," answered Helen quietly. "It was a little time before I could find you. There was a kind of den made by crossed trunks, and you had slipped between them into it."

"How did you manage to get me out?" he asked, his eyes on the amazing jumble of trunks and branches.

"Well," was the reply, given with a little laugh, "as I told you this morning I am fairly strong. But it was a hard task for all that. I had to cut away quite a number of interlacing branches, and hoist you out of the crevasse with the pack ropes, then slide you down the deadfall as best I could. It took me a full hour to get you clear of the trees and safely to the ground, and all the time I was oppressed with the thought that you were dead, or would die before I could do anything to recover you. When I got you to the ground, I went through your pack and found the brandy which I saw you place there this morning. The rest you know."

Stane looked at her with eyes that glowed with admiration. "You make it a little thing," he said gratefully, "but I know what it means. You have saved my life, Miss Yardely."

The girl flushed crimson, and then laughed a little to hide her embarrassment. "Oh, as to that—we are quits, Mr. Stane."

"Not quite," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.

"Well," he answered, speaking slowly and considering every word, "I am tied here for some time—for weeks certainly. I can't move and I can't be moved. You——"

"I!" she interrupted sharply. "I shall remain here. I shall nurse you. There is nothing else to be done. I could not go forward a mile in this wilderness of trees without being lost; and I certainly couldn't find my way back to the river—even if I wanted to."

"But your uncle and friends. They will be looking for you, they will think you are lost."

"There's no help for that," she answered resolutely. "You will be able to do nothing for yourself. As you said just now you are tied here for weeks; and I am tied with you. There is simply nothing else for it. You were at my service when I needed you, and I am at your service now that you need me. I think that is all that need be said."

"Perhaps some wandering Indian may show up," he said meditatively. "Then——"

"I shall refuse to leave you before you are well," replied Helen with a little laugh. "You are my patient, Mr. Stane—the very first that I have had the chance of practising on; and you don't suppose I am going to surrender the privilege that fate has given me? No! If my uncle himself showed up at this moment, I should refuse to leave you until I saw how my amateur bone-setting turned out. So there! That is my ultimatum, sir."

There was an almost merry note in her voice, but there was a note of resolve also; and Stane's gratitude and admiration increased. He looked at her with grateful eyes. Her face was rosy, her eyes were bright with laughter, though they turned away in some confusion as they met his.

"You are a very noble——"

"Oh," she interrupted quickly, her face taking a deeper hue. "You do not know me yet. You haven't seen me at my worst. You don't know how catty I can feel sometimes. Wait until you do, and then you can deliver judgment."

She ended with laughter, and rose from her seat as if to leave the tent; seeing which Stane spoke quickly.

"Whatever the worst or best of you may be, I am happy to be in your hands!"

"Just wait until I have shown my claws," she said over her shoulder, as she passed outside.

Stane lay quite still with a very thoughtful look in his eyes. Outside he could hear her moving about, singing softly to herself. He caught a line or two, and his memory instantly supplied the rest.

"Under the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither, come hither, come hither; Here shall we see No enemy, But winter and rough weather."

He smiled to himself, and a soft look came into his eyes. The girl was making a jest of a situation that would have appalled multitudes of her over-civilized sisters, and he marvelled at her courage. The glow in his eyes grew brighter as he stared into vacancy. Some day-dream softened the stern lines in his face, and for a few minutes the spell of it held him. Then suddenly he frowned, and a little harsh laugh broke from his lips.

"You fool!" he whispered to himself. "You fool!"

A moment later the girl entered the tent again. In her hand she carried a rather decrepit hussif and a hank of strong linen thread. She held them down for him to see.

"I am making free with your possessions, Mr. Stane, but there's no help for it. I simply must repair these rags of mine."

He looked at her and noticed for the first time that her blouse was badly torn. Half of one sleeve was ripped away, and there was a long tear through which he caught the gleam of a white shoulder. Her skirt he saw was in no better case. She caught his glance and laughed.

"I'm a perfect Cinderella! It will take me hours to sew up these rents."

"Do you think it is worth while?" he asked with a faint smile. "I'm not much of a tailor myself; and I should look at that job as wasted effort."

"But what else can I do?" she demanded. "I can't get in a taxi and run down to Bond Street on a shopping expedition."

"No," he answered slowly, "but you might look in the pack you carried today. There's a habit there that is better suited to the woods than the one you have."

"Oh!" she cried, her grey eyes alight with laughter, and a little flush in her cheeks. "You brought it along then?"

"I put it in your pack, because I knew that two days of trail in the forest would reduce your present costume to shreds."

She eyed the hussif distastefully. "I hate sewing," she said. "I think I will leave the repairs till morning. There is no immediate hurry that I know of."

"Not at all," he answered with a little smile, and divining that his advice would be accepted he turned to a fresh subject. "Where are you going to sleep? You ought not to have given me the tent."

She waved a hand airily. "Outside. There isn't much room here. Like R. L. S. sleeping out with his donkey I shall discover a new pleasure for myself."

A quick light leaped in Stane's eyes and a smile came on his wan face.

"What are you smiling at?" demanded the girl laughingly. But he did not tell her how his mind had recalled the context of the passage she had referred to, a passage which declared that to live out of doors with the woman a man loves is of all lives the most complete and free. His reply was a mere evasion.

"I am afraid you will find it an exaggerated pleasure, Miss Yardely."

"Then it will be strictly for one night only," she said. "Tomorrow I shall build a shack of boughs and bark like one I watched an Indian building, down on the Peace river. It will be exhilarating to be architect and builder and tenant all in one! But for tonight it is 'God's green caravanserai' for me, and I hope there won't be any trespassers, wolves or bears and such-like beasts."

"There may be mice!" laughed Stane.

"Mice!" A look of mock-horror came on her face. "I'm mortally afraid of mice!"

"And Meeko may pay you a visit."

"The Lord have mercy on me! Who is Meeko?"

"Meeko is the red squirrel. He abounds in these woods and his Indian name means the mischief-maker."

"I adore squirrels," laughed Helen.

"Upweekis will be away just now, so he won't disturb you with his screeching."

"And who may Upweekis be?"

"The lynx! He will have gone to the burned lands after the rabbits for the summer-hunting."

"Anything else on the forest visiting-list?" asked the girl merrily.

"Kookooskoss, the owl may hail you."

"Pooh! Who's afraid of owls?"

She laughed again, and then grew suddenly grave. "But we are talking too much," she said quickly. "There is a little-too-bright colour in your face. I think you had better try to sleep. I shall be just outside the tent, and if there is anything you need you must call me. Good night, Mr. Stane. In spite of the forest folk, I expect I shall sleep like a top."

"Good night, Miss Yardely."

The girl went outside, and after sitting for quite a long time looking in the fire, retired to the couch of spruce which she had prepared for herself, and almost instantly fell asleep.

Four hours afterwards she awakened suddenly and looked around her. A rosy glow through the trees proclaimed the dawn. The forest was wonderfully still, and there seemed no reason whatever for the sudden awakening. Then a stream of meaningless babble came through the canvas wall of the tent. She sat up instantly, and listened. Plainly, the patient was delirious, and the sound of his delirious babble must have broken through her sleep. Three minutes later she was inside the tent, her brow puckered with anxiety.

Stane lay there with flushed face, and wide-open eyes that glittered with a feverish light. He took absolutely no notice of her entrance and it was clear that for the present he was beyond all recognition of her. She looked at him in dismay. For the moment he was quiet, but whilst she still stood wondering what she should do, the delirium broke out again, a mere babble of words without meaning, some English, some Indian, in which she found only two that for her had any significance. One was Gerald Ainley's name, and the other the name of the beautiful Indian girl whom she had seen talking with the sick man down at Fort Malsun—Miskodeed.

Her face flushed as she recognized it, and a little look of resentment came in her eyes. She remembered what Ainley had hinted at about Stane and Miskodeed, and what others had plainly thought; and as she stood there it seemed almost an offence to her that the name should be mentioned to her even in the unconsciousness of delirium. Then she gave a hard little laugh at herself, and going outside once more, presently returned with water and with a couple of handkerchiefs taken from the sick man's pack.

She poured a few drops between his lips, and then after laving his face, she laid one of the wet handkerchiefs on his brow, renewing it, from time to time, in order to cool his head. After a little time the babble ceased, the restlessness passed away, and his eyes closed in natural slumber. Seated on the ground, she still watched him, her face the index of troublesome thoughts; but after a little time, she began to nod, her chin dropped to her chest, and she fell into a profound sleep.

"Miss Yardely! Miss Yardely!"

Stane's voice awakened her two hours and a half later. She looked round in some bewilderment, and as her eyes saw his tired, white face, she started up.

"I am afraid I must have fallen asleep," she began hurriedly. "I——"

"Have you been watching me all night?" he asked in a rather weak voice.

"No, not all night," she protested. "I awoke outside a little time ago, and heard you talking deliriously. I came in the tent to do what I could, and then seated myself to watch. I must have been very tired or——"

"Please, please, Miss Yardely. You must not reproach yourself. I cannot allow it! I blame myself for giving you so much trouble."

"How do you feel?" asked Helen, changing the subject.

"Rather groggy," he replied with a poor attempt at gaiety.

She stretched a hand and took his. The palm was moist.

"Ah," she said. "You feel weak no doubt, but the fever has left you. I will go and attend to the fire and prepare breakfast."

She turned a little abruptly and left the tent, and Stane looked after her with frowning eyes. Something had gone wrong. There was an air of aloofness and austerity about her that had not been there yesterday, and she had spoken in formal terms that had nothing of the camaraderie which had characterized their acquaintance until now. He could not understand it; in no way could he account for it; and he lay there puzzling over the matter and listening to the sound of her movements outside. Never for a single moment did it enter his mind that the daughter of civilization was jealous of that daughter of the wilds whose name he had uttered in the unconsciousness of delirious hours. Nor did it enter the mind of Helen herself. As she recalled the name she had heard on his lips in the night, whilst she busied herself with unaccustomed tasks, the feeling of resentment that was strong within her, to her appeared a natural feeling due to a sense of outraged convenances when in reality it had its origin in the strongest and deepest of primal passions.



CHAPTER X

A CANOE COMES AND GOES

Lying on his back, his head pillowed on a rolled-up blanket, Hubert Stane became aware that the sound of the girl's movements had ceased. He wondered where she had gone to, for it seemed clear to him that she had left the camp, and as the time passed without any sound indicating her presence he began to feel alarmed. She was unused to the woods, it would be easy for her to lose herself and if she did——

Before the thought was completed he heard the sound of a snapping stick, and knew that she had returned. He smiled with relief and waited for her appearance, but a few minutes passed before she entered the tent, bearing in her hand a tin cup. He looked at her inquiringly.

"What have you there, Miss Yardely?"

"Balsam," was the reply, "for the cut upon your head. It is rather a bad one, and balsam is good for healing."

"But where did you get it?"

"From I forget how many trees. There are quite a number of them hereabouts."

"I didn't know you knew so much of wood lore," he said smilingly.

"I don't," she retorted, quickly. "I am very ignorant of the things that really matter up here. I suppose that balsam would have been the very first thing an Indian girl would have thought of, and would have searched for and applied at once, but I only thought of it this morning. You see one of my uncle's men had a little accident, and an Indian went out to gather the gum. I happened to see him pricking the blisters on the trees and gathering the gum in a dish and I inquired why he was doing it. He explained to me, and this morning when I saw the cut, it suddenly came to me that if I could find balsam in the neighbourhood it would be helpful. And here it is, and now with your permission I will apply it."

"I wonder I never thought of it myself," he answered with a smile. "It is a very healing ungent. Apply to your heart's content, Miss Yardely."

Deftly, with gentle fingers, the girl applied the balsam and then bound the wound with a strip of linen torn from a handkerchief. When the operation was finished, still kneeling beside him, she leaned back on her heels to survey the result.

"It looks quite professional," she said; "there isn't an Indian girl in the North could have done it better."

"There isn't one who could have done it half as well," he answered with a laugh.

"Are you sure?" she asked quickly. "How about Miskodeed?"

"Miskodeed?" he looked at her wonderingly.

"Yes, that beautiful Indian girl I saw you talking with up at Fort Malsun."

Stane laughed easily. "I know nothing whatever about her capacity as a healer," he said. "I have only spoken to her on two occasions, and on neither of them did we discuss wounds or the healing of them."

"Then——" she began, and broke off in sudden confusion.

He looked at her in some surprise. There was a look on her face that he could not understand, a look of mingled gladness and relief.

"Yes?" he asked inquiringly. "You were about to say—what?"

"I was about to say the girl was a comparative stranger to you!"

"Quite correct," he replied. "Though she proved herself a friend on the night I was kidnapped, for I saw her running through the bushes towards my tent, and she cried out to warn me, just as I was struck."

"If she knew that you were to be attacked she ought to have warned you before," commented Helen severely.

"Perhaps she had only just made the discovery or possibly she had not been able to find an opportunity."

"She ought to have made one," was the answer in uncompromising tones. "Any proper-spirited girl would have done."

Stane did not pursue the argument, and a moment later his companion asked: "Do you think her pretty?"

"That is hardly the word for Miskodeed," answered Stane. "'Pretty' has an ineffective sort of sound, and doesn't describe her quality. She is beautiful with the wild beauty of the wilds. I never saw an Indian girl approaching her before."

Helen Yardely frowned at the frank enthusiasm with which he spoke.

"Wild? Yes," she said disparagingly. "That is the word. She is just a savage, with, I suppose, a savage's mind. Her beauty is—well, the beauty of the wilds as you say. It is barbaric. There are other forms of beauty that——"

She broke off abruptly, and the blood ran rosily in her face. Stane saw it and smiled.

"Yes," he answered gaily. "That is true. And I think that, however beautiful Miskodeed may be, or others like her, their beauty cannot compare with that of English women."

"You think that?" she cried, and then laughed with sudden gaiety as she rose to her feet. "But this is not a debating class, and I've work to do—a house to build, a meal to cook—a hundred tasks appealing to an amateur. I must go, Mr. Stane, and if you are a wise man you will sleep."

She left the tent immediately, and as he lay there thinking over the conversation, Stane caught the sound of her voice. She was singing again. He gave a little smile at her sudden gaiety. Evidently she had recovered from the mood of the early morning, and as he listened to the song, his eyes glowed with admiration. She was, he told himself, in unstinted praise, a girl of a thousand, accepting a rather desperate situation with light heart; and facing the difficulties of it with a courage altogether admirable. She was no helpless bread-and-butter miss to fall into despair when jerked out of her accustomed groove. Thank Heaven for that! As he looked down at his injured leg he shuddered to think what would have been the situation if she had been, for he knew that for the time being he was completely in her hands; and rejoiced that they were hands so evidently capable.

Then he fell to thinking over the situation. They would be tied down where they were for some weeks, and if care was not exercised the problem of food would grow acute. He must warn her to ration the food and to eke it out. His thought was interrupted by her appearance at the tent door. She held in her hand a fishing line that he had purchased at the Post and a packet of hooks.

"I go a-fishing," she cried gaily. "Wish me luck?"

"Good hunting!" he laughed back. "I hope there is fish in the stream."

"Herds! Flocks! Coveys! Schools! What you like. I saw them when I was hunting for the balsam."

"That is fortunate," he said quietly. "You know, Miss Yardely, we may have to depend on fin and feather for food. The stores I brought were only meant to last until I could deliver you to your uncle. We shall have to economize."

"I have thought of that," she said with a little nod. "I have been carefully through the provisions. But we will make them last, never fear! You don't know what a Diana I am." She smiled again, and withdrew, and an hour later returned with a string of fish which she exhibited with pride. "The water is full of them," she said. "And I've discovered something. A little way from here the stream empties into a small lake which simply swarms with wild fowl. There is no fear of us starving!"

"Can you shoot?" he inquired.

"I have killed driven grouse in Scotland," she answered with a smile. "But I suppose ammunition is valuable up here, and I'm going to try the poacher's way."

"The poacher's way?"

"Yes. Snares! There is a roll of copper wire in your pack. I've watched a warrener at home making rabbit snares, and as there's no particular mystery about the art, and those birds are so unsophisticated, I shall be sure to get some. You see if I don't. But first I must build my house. The open sky is all very well, but it might come on to rain, and then the roofless caravanserai would not be very comfortable. It is a good thing we brought an ax along."

She turned away, and after perhaps half an hour he caught the sound of an ax at work in the wood a little way from the tent. The sound reached him intermittently for some time, and then ceased; and after a few minutes there came a further sound of burdened steps, followed by that of poles tossed on the ground close to the tent. Then the girl looked in on him. Her face was flushed with her exertions, her forehead was bedewed with a fine sweat, her hair was tumbled and awry, and he noticed instantly that she had changed her torn blouse and skirt for the clothing which his foresight had burdened her pack with. The grey flannel shirt was a little open at the neck, revealing the beautiful roundness of her throat, the sleeves of it were rolled up above the elbows after the work-man-like fashion of a lumberman, and showed a pair of forearms, white and strong. His eyes kindled as he looked on her.

She was radiantly beautiful and strong, he thought to himself, a fit mate for any man who loved strength and beauty in a woman, rather than prettiness and softness, and his admiration found sudden vent in words.

"Miss Yardely, you are wonderful!"

The colour in her face deepened suddenly, and there was a quick brightening in her grey eyes.

"You think so?" she cried laughing in some confusion.

"I certainly do!" he answered fervently.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Well," he replied quickly, and not uttering what had been in her mind, "you adapt yourself to difficult circumstances so easily. I don't know another girl in the world who would so cheerfully do what you are doing."

"Oh," she retorted gaily, "needs must when the devil drives! But was that all you were thinking?"

She knew it was not, for she had seen the look in his eyes, and her question was recklessly provocative and challenging. She knew it was such as she had flung it at him; and Hubert Stane knew too. His face flushed, his heart pounded wildly; and for a moment there was a surging desire to tell her what he really had been thinking. The next moment he put the temptation from him.

"No," he answered with an attempt at laughter, "but the rest is not for publication."

There was a little tremor in his voice as he spoke which Helen Yardely did not fail to notice. For a moment she stood there undecided. She was conscious of an uplift of spirit for which there appeared no valid reason, and she visioned opening out before her a way of life that a week ago she had never even dreamed of. Three days in the solitude of the wilderness with Hubert Stane had brought her closer to him than an acquaintance of years could have done, and she was aware of wild impulses in her heart. As she stood there she was half-inclined then and there to challenge fate, and to force from him the words that he withheld. Then, with a great effort, she checked the surging impulses, and gave a tremulous laugh.

"That is too bad of you," she cried. "The unpublished thoughts are always the most interesting ones.... But I must away to my house-building or I shall have to spend another night under the stars."

She turned and walked abruptly away. In her eyes as she went was a joyous light, and her heart was gay. As she swung the ax upon her shoulder and moved towards the trees she broke into song, the words of which reached Stane:

"It was a lover and his lass With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, That o'er the green cornfield did pass In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding, Sweet lovers love the Spring."

He lay there beating out the melody with his fingers. A musing look came in his eyes that remained there when once more the sound of her ax came through the forest stillness. Then it died away and his face grew grim.

"It's nonsense, the merest madness!" he whispered to himself. "And even if it were not—a man can't take advantage of such circumstances. It would be too caddish for words——"

For a long time he lay there listening to the sound of her movements, which told him when she was near and when further away, and presently he heard her fixing the lean-to of her improvised hut. She worked steadily, sometimes singing to herself, but she did not enter the tent again until noon, when she came in to inquire if he were comfortable and to say that a meal would be ready shortly.

"How does the hut go?" he asked.

"Oh, finely!" she cried with enthusiasm. "The framework is up, though I've used all the pack-ropes over the job. I wish I had some nails. I'm sure I could drive them straight."

"I'm sure you could," he replied laughingly.

"Girls are not nearly so incapable as they let men make them out to be. I never built a house before, but I am sure this one of mine is going to be a success. After we have eaten I am going to look for birch-bark to make the covering, but there's one thing that is worrying me."

"What is that?" he asked.

"I am wondering how to fasten the bark together. I shall have to get it in strips, I know, and the strips will have to be sewn together. I know that, but the question is—how? If I had stout twine and a packing needle it would be easy, but——"

"It is still easy," he interrupted. "You will have to get the roots of the white spruce, and sew with that, as a cobbler sews, using a knife for awl."

"Oh," she laughed, "I never thought of that, and it is so simple. I shall manage all right now."

After the meal of fish and beans and coffee, she disappeared once more, and later he heard her busy outside again. From the sounds he judged that she had found the bark and the other materials that she needed, and was busy sewing the covering for her tepee, and presently he heard her fixing it. The operation seemed to take quite a long time and was evidently troublesome, for once or twice sounds of vexation reached him and once he heard her cry roundly: "Confound the thing!"

He laughed silently to himself at the heartiness of her expression, then wished that he could go out and help her; but as he could not, and as she did not come to him in her difficulty he refrained from asking what the difficulty was, and from offering advice. Half an hour later she stood in the tent doorway, flushed but triumphant.

"Finished," she cried, "and Sir Christopher Wren was never more proud than I am."

"I should like to see your castle," laughed Stane.

"You shall, sir," she cried gaily. "You shall. I will lift the canvas of the tent that you may feast your eyes on my handiwork."

A moment later she was busy rolling up the canvas at one side of the tent, and presently he found himself looking out on a very fair imitation of an Indian hunting tepee. He gave the work his ungrudging admiration.

"It is a very creditable piece of work, Miss Yardely."

"Yes," she responded lightly, "and I'm not going to pretend that I'm not proud of it. I am, and having done that, I don't think Robinson Crusoe was so very wonderful after all! I think that I could have managed as well as he did on his desert island. But here's a fanfare on my own trumpet! And I've work yet to do, and I must do it before my doll's house goes completely to my head."

She dropped the canvas of the tent, fastened it into its place, and then proceeded to arrange a bed of young spruce boughs for herself. That done to her satisfaction, she prepared the last meal of the day and then in the stillness of the bright Northland evening, she went off towards the lake she had discovered in the morning, with the intention of setting the snare that she had spoken of.

But she did not do so that night, for before she came in sight of it she was aware of an alarmed clamour of the water-fowl, and wondering what was the cause of it, she made her approach with caution. The stream, which she had followed fell over a small cliff to the shore of the lake and as she reached the head of the fall she became aware of two men beaching a canoe. Instantly she slipped behind a tree, and from this point of vantage looked again. The men had lifted the canoe clear of the water and were now standing upright with their faces to her not twenty-five yards from the place of her concealment. On this second glance she recognized them instantly. One of the men was Gerald Ainley and the other was the Indian, Joe.

For a moment she stood there without moving, then very cautiously she drew back into the wood behind her, and gradually worked her way to a place along the lakeside where the undergrowth was very thick, and where she could watch without fear of discovery. She was less than a quarter of a mile away from the place where the two had landed, and as she watched them making camp, the smell of their fire was blown across to her. Neither of the two travellers showed any disposition to leave the lakeside, and she watched them for quite a long time, a look of deep perplexity on her face.

They were friends! She had no doubt that they were looking for herself. They represented ease and safety, and a quick return to the amenities of civilization, but she had no desire to discover herself to them. She thought of the injured man lying in the tent a mile away. It was possible that the coming of these two, if she made her presence known, might prove to be beneficial for him. She weighed that side of the matter very carefully, and her eyes turned to the canoe in which the men travelled. It was, she recognized, too small to carry four people, one of whom would have to lie at length in it; and she knew instinctively that Ainley would propose to leave the Indian behind to look after Stane whilst he took her back to her uncle. And she was conscious of a surprising aversion to any such course; aware that she was satisfied with things as they were. She crouched there for quite a long time, then a whimsical smile came on her face, and without a regret she crept quietly away through the forest, leaving the two searchers unaware of her presence.

When she reached the encampment she looked into the hut and found that Stane was fast asleep. She smiled to herself, and instead of replenishing the failing fire, carefully extinguished it with earth, that neither the glare nor the smoke of it might reach the two searchers and so lead to the discovery of the camp. Then, having done all she could to ensure Stane and herself remaining undisturbed in their wilderness seclusion, she looked in the tent again, smiled once more, and dropping the fly of the tent, went to her own tepee. Though she lay long awake, she was up betimes next morning, and after one glance into the tent to assure herself that her patient was yet sleeping, she moved off in the direction of the lake. When she came in sight of it she looked towards the foot of the waterfall for Ainley's camp. It was no longer there, but a mile and a half away she descried the canoe making down the lake. As she did so, she laughed with sudden relief and gladness, and hurried back to the camp to light the fire and prepare breakfast.



CHAPTER XI

A FOREST FIRE

Sir James Yardely sat in the shelter of his tent looking anxiously at Gerald Ainley.

"Then you have not found my niece, Ainley?"

"No, Sir James! But I have news of her, and I am assured she is alive."

"Tell me what gives you that assurance."

Ainley thereupon described the search he had made, and produced the swastiki brooch, explaining the circumstances under which he had found it, and then gave an account of the meeting with the half-breed and of the latter's declaration that he had seen Helen going up the main river in a canoe with a white man.

"But why on earth should Helen go up there?" asked Sir James wonderingly.

"I cannot say, Sir James! I can only guess, and that is that Miss Yardely knew that we were making for the old Fort Winagog, and mentioned it to her rescuer who was probably journeying that way. Anyhow I went up to the Fort. The Indians there had not seen nor heard of any white girl in the neighbourhood, but I gave them instructions to look for her, promising a reward if she were found, then I hurried back here by the shorter route in the hope that possibly Miss Yardely might have returned in the meantime."

Sir James stared through the tent-door at the wild landscape before him. His face showed a lightening of his anxiety, though it was clear that the turn of events puzzled him.

"I can't understand it," he said. "Why shouldn't Helen have made her way straight back here?"

"Can't say, Sir James! Possibly the man who helped her doesn't know the country, and of course Miss Yardely is quite ignorant of it."

"And here she is, lost in the wilderness, careering round the compass with heaven knows what come-by-chance fellow!" commented Sir James, adding quickly, "Ainley, she has got to be found!"

"Yes, Sir James!"

"This unfortunate affair has upset me. It has quite disarranged my plans. We have lost five days here, and I shall be compelled to curtail my journey. I have decided to cut out the visits to the posts north of this, and to work across to the Peace River, and so southward."

"You are going back?" cried Ainley in some consternation. "You are going to leave Miss Yardely——"

"No, my dear fellow," interrupted Sir James, anticipating the conclusion of his subordinate's sentence. "I am not going to leave her to her fate. I am going to leave you to find her. I have thought the matter out very carefully. I shall leave four Indians with you, and shall establish a camp at this point, so that in the event of Helen returning here you will not miss her by any chance. I shall send a messenger to Rodwell, at Fort Malsun, instructing him to send you down an outfit that will last the winter if necessary, and you will have carte blanche to follow your own plans, only you must understand, Ainley, my niece must be found. Even though you have to comb this country through with a dust-comb she must be found."

"She shall be, Sir James," answered Ainley with conviction.

"It is, of course, just possible that the man with whom your half-breed saw her was making north to the post at Lobstick Creek, and it will be as well to make an early inquiry there."

"Yes, Sir James, I have thought of that."

"By the way, did you get any description of the man whom my niece was with?"

"Yes. You remember that man who was at Fort Malsun, and who departed quietly one night?"

"You mean that fellow whom you knew at Oxford, and who has since gone under?"

"That is the man, Sir James; I am convinced of it, from the half-breed's description."

A look of anxiety came on the great man's face. "A discharged convict, wasn't he, Ainley?"

"Yes, Sir James. He is of good family, and I fancy he is wealthy, for he succeeded to the estate whilst he was in prison, and came out here I imagine, because the old country was impossible to him."

"What was the crime that knocked him out of things?"

"Forgery!"

"Um!" was the reply. "Things might have been worse. Possibly the fellow will remember that he used to be a gentleman."

"Possibly," agreed the younger man.

"Anyhow, you know exactly who you have to look for and that ought to make your task much easier. Rodwell will instruct all the Indians who show up at Fort Malsun to keep a bright look-out and no doubt in a few days you will get track of her. But as I said just now, she must be found, at all costs she must be found!"

"Yes, Sir James! I shall spare no effort to that end, and I may say that, if possible, I am even more anxious about her than you."

A half-smile came on the great man's face, as he nodded: "I understand, Ainley; I am not blind. It was for that reason I decided that you should have charge of the search-party, seeing that you have—er—extra inducements. Find my niece, bring her back to me, and then we can talk over the matter. And now you had better go and think out your plans carefully. I shall have to leave here in the morning, but now that I know Helen is alive, I shall go with a comparatively easy heart."

Gerald Ainley went to his own tent with a smile on his face. For the furtherance of his ultimate plans things could scarcely have fallen out better. It was true that Helen yet remained to be found; but he was to be left to find her, and was to have a free hand in the matter. After a week or two in the wilderness Helen would be glad enough to meet with an old friend bringing deliverance, and the intimacy of daily travel together would inevitably bring her to his arms. His brow darkened a little as he thought of her present protector. Then it cleared again. Helen was very proud. Circumstances for the present had thrown her into Stane's company, but she was the last person in the world to forget that Stane was an ex-convict, and as he thought of that, all apprehension of possible complications in that quarter vanished instantly.

Had he known all, or had he even at that moment been granted a vision of the camp by the great deadfall, he would scarcely have been so complacent of mind. For at the very time when he was congratulating himself on the opportunity opening out before him, Helen Yardely was seated on a log by the side of the man whom he hated. There was a high colour in her face and she was laughing a little nervously as she looked at the astonished face of the sick man who had been her rescuer and was now her patient.

"Miss Yardely," cried Stane, "do you really mean what you say?"

"Of course I do," replied the girl lightly.

"And Gerald Ainley with another man camped within two miles of here two nights ago?"

"I should say the distance to the lake is even less than that," replied Helen with a little laugh.

"And you let them go without a sign."

"I hid myself in the bushes," replied the girl, gaily.

"But do you realize that they were probably, searching for you?"

"Yes! And I was afraid that they might find me. I even put out the fire that they should not discover our camp and come up to investigate. When I saw them going away yestermorning I could have clapped my hands for gladness."

Stane looked at her incredulously. Here was something that was beyond him.

"Why—why did you let them go?" he cried sharply.

"You wish I had revealed myself?" she asked with compunction, misunderstanding his question. "You think I ought to have brought them up here?"

"That was for yourself to decide," he answered quietly, adding with a little laugh. "I am well content with things as they are. But I am curious to know why you let deliverance from the hardships of this situation pass by on the other side."

"Oh," replied Helen in some confusion, "I remembered that you did not like Gerald Ainley!"

"But," he protested, "there was yourself to think of."

"Yes," was the reply, given with laughter, "and I was doing so—if you only knew it."

"How? I cannot see it."

"You forget my pride as amateur surgeon and nurse," she retorted. "I like to see the end of things that I begin, and if I had brought Mr. Ainley up here he would have wanted to take me away, and leave you with the Indian." She broke off, and looked at him with a gay smile. "Perhaps you would have preferred——"

"No! No!" he interrupted protestingly.

"And there is another reason—quite as selfish as the last. You see, Mr. Stane, I have been delicately reared; boarding-school, Newnham—the usual round you know! London in the season, Scotland in the autumn, and the shires for the hunting months. It is an inane sort of life, as I have always felt, pleasant enough at first, but inane for all that, and after a time rather a bore. Can you understand that?"

"Yes," he said, with a nod, "I think I can."

"Most of the men of our set have something to do! Either they are in the army, or in Parliament, or managing estates, but the women—well, they live a butterfly life. There seems to me no escape for them. Do what they will, unless they become suffragettes and smash windows or smack fat policemen, their life drifts one way. Charity?—it ends in a charity ball. Politics?—it means just garden-parties or stodgy week-ends at country houses, with a little absurd canvassing of rural labourers at election times. Sometimes I used to consider it, and with that bus-driver of Stevenson's who drove to the station and then drove back, cry 'My God is this life!' There was nothing real anywhere. Nobody ever expected a woman in our set to do anything worth doing." She broke off, and gave a little laugh, then continued: "Now I have my chance to prove I'm something better than a doll, and I'm not going to be robbed of it by Gerald Ainley, my uncle, or any one else! This camp depends on me for a time at least, and I'm going to make good; and prove myself for my own satisfaction. Do you understand?"

"Yes," answered Stane, his eyes shining with admiration.

"That is what I meant when I said that if you only knew it, I was thinking of myself. It would strike some people as a little mad. I know some women who in a situation like this would have sat down and just cried themselves to death."

"So do I. Lots of them."

"I don't feel that way. I feel rather like a man I know at home who was brought up on the sheltered life system, nursery governess, private tutor, etc., who when he came of age just ran amok, drank, fought with the colliers on his own estate, and then enlisted in an irregular corps and went to fight the Spaniards in Cuba, just to prove to himself that he wasn't the ninny his father had tried to make him. He shocked his neighbours thoroughly, but he's a man today, listened to when he speaks and just adored by the miners on his estate.... I want to make good, and though Mrs. Grundy would chatter if she knew that I had deliberately chosen to remain and nurse a sick man in such conditions, I don't care a jot."

"You needn't worry about Mrs. Grundy," he laughed. "She died up here about 1898, and was buried on the road to the Klondyke."

Helen Yardely joined in his laughter. "May she never be resurrected—though I am afraid she will be. Where there are half-a-dozen conventional women Mrs. Grundy is always in the midst. But I'm free of her for the time, and I'm just going to live the primitive life whilst I'm here. I feel that I have got it in me to enjoy the life of the woods, and to endure hardships like any daughter of the land, and I'm going to do it. Not that there is much hardship about it now! It is just an extended pic-nic, and I wouldn't have missed it for anything."

Stane smiled. "I am very glad you feel like that," he said. "I myself shall be much happier in mind and I count myself lucky to have fallen in such capable hands!"

"Capable!" she looked at her scratched and rather grimy hands. "A kitchen-maid's are more capable! But I can learn, and I will, however much I bungle. Now, as the universal provider, I am going out to look at my snares."

She rose, and left the tent, and he heard her pass into the wood singing to herself. A thoughtful look came on Stane's face, and presently gave place to a smile. "Happy in these circumstances!" he murmured to himself. "What a treasure of a girl!"

And there was no question that Helen Yardely was happy. She radiated gladness as she made her way towards the lake carrying an express rifle in the crook of her arm. Except for the barking of squirrels, and the distant cry of waterfowl the land was very still, the silence that of an immense solitude. But it affected her not at all, she was not even conscious of loneliness, and she hummed gaily to herself as she went along the path which now was beginning to define itself.

As she reached the lakeside, however, her song was suddenly checked, and she looked round sniffing the air thoughtfully. There was a fire somewhere, for there was the smell of burning spruce in the atmosphere. She thought of her own camp-fire, and looked back in the direction of it. Never before had the aromatic odour reached her so far away, and she was a little puzzled that it should do so now. There was little movement in the air, and in order to discover the direction of it she wet her hand and held it up, and as one side grew cooler than the other, looked southward. The slight wind was blowing from that quarter towards the camp and not away from it, so it could not be her own fire, which thus filled the air with odour. There was another encampment somewhere in the neighbourhood.