ght. So there you are. I get a certain impression of you by the
language you use, your tone, your inflections--and by a something else
which in those who can see is called intuition, for lack of something
more definite in the way of a term."

"Aren't you ever mistaken in those impressionistic estimates of
people?"

She hesitated a little.

"Sometimes--not often. That sounds egotistic, but really it is true."

The steamer drew out of the mouth of Toba Inlet. In the widening
stretch between the mainland and the Redondas a cold wind came
whistling out of Homfray Channel. Hollister felt the chill of it
through his mackinaw coat and was moved to thought of his companion's
comfort.

"May I find you a warm place to sit?" he asked. "That's an
uncomfortable breeze. And do you mind if I talk to you? I haven't
talked to any one like you for a long time."

She smiled assent.

"Ditto to that last," she said.

"You aren't a western man, are you?" she continued, as Hollister took
her by the arm and led her toward a cabin abaft the wheelhouse on the
boat deck, a roomy lounging place unoccupied save by a fat woman
taking a midday nap in one corner, her double chin sunk on her ample
bosom.

"No," he said. "I'm from the East. But I spent some time out here
once or twice, and I remembered the coast as a place I liked. So I
came back here when the war was over and everything gone to pot--at
least where I was concerned. My name is Hollister."

"Mine," she replied, "is Cleveland."

Hollister looked at her intently.

"Doris Cleveland--her book," he said aloud. It was to all intents and
purposes a question.

"Why do you say that?" the girl asked quickly. "And how do you happen
to know my given name?"

"That was a guess," he answered. "Is it right?"

"Yes--but----"

"Let me tell you," he interrupted. "It's queer, and still it's simple
enough. Two months ago I went into Toba Inlet to look at some timber
about five miles up the river from the mouth. When I got there I
decided to stay awhile. It was less lonesome there than in the racket
and hustle of a town where I knew no one and nobody wanted to know me.
I made a camp, and in looking over a stretch of timber on a slope that
runs south from the river I found a log cabin----"

"In a hollow full of big cedars back of the cliff along the south side
of the Big Bend?" the girl cut in eagerly. "A log house with two
rooms, where some shingle-bolts had been cut--with a bolt-chute