ld see the white ribbon of foaming
cascades in each. Between lifted a great mountain, and on the lakeward
slope of this stood a terrible scar of a slide, yellow and brown, rising
two thousand feet from the shore. A vaporous wisp of cloud hung along
the top of the slide, and above this aerial banner a snow-capped
pinnacle thrust itself high into the infinite blue.

"What an outlook," she said, barely conscious that she spoke aloud. "Why
do these people build their houses in the bush, when they could live in
the open and have something like this to look at. They would, if they
had any sense of beauty."

"Sure they haven't? Some of them might have, you know, without being
able to gratify it."

She started, to find Jack Fyfe almost at her elbow, the gleam of a
quizzical smile lighting his face.

"I daresay that might be true," she admitted.

Fyfe's gaze turned from her to the huge sweep of lake and mountain
chain. She saw that he was outfitted for fishing, creel on his shoulder,
unjointed rod in one hand. By means of his rubber-soled waders he had
come upon her noiselessly.

"It's truer than you think, maybe," he said at length. "You don't want
to come along and take a lesson in catching rainbows, I suppose?"

"Not this time, thanks," she shook her head.

"I want to get enough for supper, so I'd better be at it," he remarked.
"Sometimes they come pretty slow. If you should want to go up and watch
the boys work, that trail will take you there."

He went off across the grassy level and plunged into the deep timber
that rose like a wall beyond. Stella looked after.

"It is certainly odd," she reflected with some irritation, "how that man
affects me. I don't think a woman could ever be just friends with him.
She'd either like him a lot or dislike him intensely. He isn't anything
but a logger, and yet he has a presence like one of the lords of
creation. Funny."

Then she went back to the house to converse upon domestic matters with
Mrs. Howe until the shrilling of the donkey whistle brought forty-odd
lumberjacks swinging down the trail.

Behind them a little way came Jack Fyfe with sagging creel. He did not
stop to exhibit his catch, but half an hour later they were served hot
and crisp at the table in the big living room, where Fyfe, Stella and
Charlie Benton, Lefty Howe and his wife, sat down together.

A flunkey from the camp kitchen served the meal and cleared it away. For
an hour or two after that the three