wo."

He stumped away up the path. MacRae piled driftwood on the fire. Then he
sat down with his back against the log, and Betty snuggled beside him,
in the crook of his arm. Beyond the Point the booming of the surf rose
like far thunder. The tide was on the ebb. Poor Man's Rock bared its
kelp-thatched head. The racing swells covered it with spray that shone
in the moonlight.

They did not talk. Speech had become nonessential. It was enough to be
together.

So they sat, side by side, their backs to the cedar log and their feet
to the fire, talking little, dreaming much, until the fluffy clouds
scudding across the face of the moon came thicker and faster and lost
their snowy whiteness, until the radiance of the night was dimmed.

Across the low summit of Point Old a new sound was carried to them.
Where the moonlight touched the Gulf in patches, far out, whitecaps
showed.

"Listen," MacRae murmured.

The wind struck them with a puff that sent sparks flying. It rose and
fell and rose again until it whistled across the Point in a steady
drone,--the chill breath of the storm-god.

MacRae turned up Betty's wrist and looked at her watch.

"Look at the time, Betty mine," he said. "And it's getting cold.
There'll be another day."

He walked with her to the house. When she vanished within, blowing him a
kiss from her finger tips, MacRae cut across the Point. He laid hold of
the _Blanco's_ dinghy and drew it high to absolute safety, then stood a
minute gazing seaward, looking down on the Rock. Clouds obscured the
moon now. A chill darkness hid distant shore lines and mountain ranges
which had stood plain in the moon-glow, a darkness full of rushing,
roaring wind and thundering seas. Poor Man's Rock was a vague bulk in
the gloom, forlorn and lonely, hidden under great bursts of spray as
each wave leaped and broke with a hiss and a roar.

MacRae braced himself against the southeaster. It ruffled his hair,
clawed at him with strong, invisible fingers. It shrieked its fury among
the firs, stunted and leaning all awry from the buffeting of many
storms.

He took a last look behind him. The lights in Gower's house were out and
the white-walled cottage stood dim against the darkened hillside. Then
MacRae, smiling to himself in the dark, set out along the path that led
to Squitty Cove.

THE END

By the author of "Big Timber"

NORTH OF FIFTY-THREE

By BERTRAND W. SINCLAIR

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth.