ss and nerve."

There were signs that his formal tone had cost him an effort, but the
fact that, slightly dazed as he was, he had forced himself to make it,
and had called her Miss Stirling, was significant, and Ida fell in
with the course he had adopted. It was difficult for both of them, but
she recognized that the matter must be passed over as lightly and as
speedily as possible.

"You shouldn't have gone out on that log at all," she said. "You must
have seen it wasn't safe."

Weston laughed, though the signs of struggle were still on his face.

"Did you notice that?" he asked.

"I didn't," said Ida, and then a curious little thrill of anger ran
through her. The man's attitude was only what should be expected of
him in view of the difference between their stations, but, after all,
it seemed to her that he had almost too much self-control.

"That is, not at first," she added. "Afterward I did notice it, and I
called to you. You didn't hear?"

"No," said Weston, "I didn't hear you."

He looked at her steadily; and the girl, who felt the impulsive desire
to wound him too strong for her, made a little gesture.

"I am rather ashamed of it, but the next moment I quite forgot that
there was any danger," she said. "You see I was so intent upon the
fish."

"Then," said Weston, very quietly, "I don't think you could blame me."

He stooped, and, picking up the rod, set about taking it to pieces
with a curious deliberation. Then he glanced at the girl.

"I can only offer you my thanks, Miss Stirling, but they're very
sincere," he said. "Don't you think it would be better if we went back
to camp?"

Ida rose and returned with him through the scented bush, but neither
said anything further, for the same restraint was upon both of them.

CHAPTER XVI

ON THE LAKE

It was rather late that night when Weston and Grenfell sat smoking
beside the dying fire. The breeze that came off the lake was colder
than usual, and the rest of the party had retired indoors, but one
window of the little wooden house stood open, and Miss Kinnaird's
voice drifted softly out of it. She was evidently singing a selection
from an opera. Grenfell, who lay with his back against one of the
hearth-logs, appeared to be listening critically.

"It's pretty and nothing more," he said. "That girl's too diffuse--she
spreads herself. She might have painted if she'd been poor; though
that's not a sure thing either."

"Why isn't it?" asked W