you didn't mash his fingers, Berrie."

She smiled guiltily. "I'm afraid I did. I hope I didn't hurt
you--sometimes I forget."

Norcross, Senior, was waking up. "You have a most extraordinary grip.
What did it? Piano practice?"

Wayland grinned. "Piano! No--the cinch."

"The what?"

Wayland explained. "Miss McFarlane was brought up on a ranch. She can
rope and tie a steer, saddle her own horse, pack an outfit, and all the
rest of it."

"Oh! Kind of cowgirl, eh?"

Mrs. McFarlane, eager to put Berrie's better part forward, explained:
"She's our only child, Mr. Norcross, and as such has been a constant
companion to her father. She's not all cow-hand. She's been to school,
and she can cook and sew as well."

He looked from one to the other. "Neither of you correspond exactly to my
notions of a forester's wife and daughter."

"Mrs. McFarlane comes from an old Kentucky family, father. Her
grandfather helped to found a college down there."

Wayland's anxious desire to create a favorable impression of the women
did not escape the lumberman, but his face remained quite expressionless
as he replied:

"If the life of a cow-hand would give you the vigor this young lady
appears to possess, I'm not sure but you'd better stick to it."

Wayland and the two women exchanged glances of relief.

"Why not tell him now?" they seemed to ask. But he said: "There's a long
story to tell before we decide on my career. Let's finish our lunch. How
is mother, and how are the girls?"

Once, in the midst of a lame pursuit of other topics, the elder Norcross
again fixed his eyes on Berea, saying: "I wish my girls had your weight
and color." He paused a moment, then resumed with weary infliction: "Mrs.
Norcross has always been delicate, and all her children--even her
son--take after her. I've maintained a private and very expensive
hospital for nearly thirty years."

This regretful note in his father's voice gave Wayland confidence. His
spirits rose.

"Come, let's adjourn to the parlor and talk things over at our ease."

They all followed him, and after showing the mother and daughter to their
seats near a window he drew his father into a corner, and in rapid
undertone related the story of his first meeting with Berrie, of his
trouble with young Belden, of his camping trip, minutely describing the
encounter on the mountainside, and ended by saying, with manly
directness: "I would be up there in the mountains in a box if Berrie had