weet through the hushed depths as she called a
greeting. A moment later she was beside him.

"Go back and get your heavy coat," he commanded. "I've already been out
on the water, and it'll freeze you stiff."

He was not overly pleased with himself for speaking thus. He had
resolved to put mercy from him; and he was taking a serious risk to his
own cause by the delay of sending her back for her warmer garments. She
smiled into his eyes, but she came of a breed of women that had learned
obedience to men, and she immediately turned. But Ben had builded better
than he thought. His eyes were no longer on her radiant face. They had
dropped to the pistol, in its holster, that she carried in her hands,
preparatory to strapping it about her waist. It was disconcerting that
he had forgotten about her pistol. It was one of those insignificant
trifles that before now have disrupted the mightiest plans of nations
and of men. His mind sped like lightning, and he thanked his stars that
he had seen it in time. This pistol and a small package, the contents
of which he did not know, were the only equipment she had.

"It's going to be a bright day," the girl said hesitatingly. "I don't
think I'll need the fur coat--"

"Get it, anyway," Ben advised. "The wind's keen on the river. Leave your
pistol and your package here--and go up and back at top speed. I'll be
arranging the canoe--"

She laid down the things, and in a moment the thickets had hidden her.
Swiftly Ben reached for the gun, and for a few speeding seconds his
fingers worked at its mechanism. He was busy about the canoe when the
girl returned.

Evidently Beatrice was in wonderful spirits. The air itself was
sparkling, the sun--beloved with an ardor too deep for words by all
northern peoples--was warm and genial in the sky; the spruce forest was
lush with dew, fragrant with hidden blossoms. It was a Spring
Day--nothing less. Both of them knew perfectly that miracle was abroad
in the forest,--flowers opening, buds breaking into blossoms, little
grass blades stealing, shy as fairies, up through the dead leaves; birds
fluttering and gossiping and carrying all manner of building materials
for their nests.

Spring is not just a time of year to the forest folk, and particularly
to those creatures whose homes are the far spruce forests of the North.
It is a magic and a mystery, a recreation and a renewed lease on life
itself. It is hope come again, the joy of living undreamed of