and after what seemed a long hour her watch told her it was still only
half-past twelve. And the fourth or fifth time that she went to look out
she was set a-tremble again by the sound of a third shot. And then at
regular intervals out of that distant brown-purple jumble of thickets
against the snow came two more shots. "Something has happened," she
said, "something has happened," and stood rigid. Then she became active,
seized the rifle that was always at hand when she was alone, fired into
the sky, and stood listening.

Prompt came an answering shot.

"He wants me," said Marjorie. "Something--perhaps he has killed
something too big to bring!"

She was for starting at once, and then remembered this was not the way
of the wilderness.

She thought and moved very rapidly. Her mind catalogued possible
requirements,--rifle, hunting knife, the oilskin bag with matches, and
some chunks of dry paper, the [v]rucksack. Besides, he would be hungry.
She took a saucepan and a huge chunk of cheese and biscuit. Then a
brandy flask is sometimes handy--one never knows,--though nothing was
wrong, of course. Needles and stout thread, and some cord. Snowshoes. A
waterproof cloak could be easily carried. Her light hatchet for wood.
She cast about to see if there was anything else. She had almost
forgotten cartridges--and a revolver. Nothing more. She kicked a stray
brand or so into the fire, put on some more wood, damped the fire with
an armful of snow to make it last longer, and set out toward the willows
into which he had vanished.

There was a rustling and snapping of branches as she pushed her way
through the bushes, a little stir that died insensibly into quiet again;
and then the camping place became very still.

Trafford's trail led Marjorie through the thicket of dwarf willows and
down to the gully of the rivulet which they had called Marjorie Trickle;
it had long since become a trough of snow-covered, rotten ice. The trail
crossed this and, turning sharply uphill, went on until it was clear of
shrubs and trees, and, in the windy open of the upper slopes, it crossed
a ridge and came over the lip of a large desolate valley with slopes of
ice and icy snow. Here Marjorie spent some time in following his loops
back on the homeward trail before she saw what was manifestly the final
trail running far away out across the snow, with the [v]spoor of the
lynx, a lightly-dotted line, to the right of it. She followed this
suggestion of