strings, and brought forth a small canvas
bag, from which he drew sandwiches of fried trout and bacon thrust
between two slabs of doubtful looking baking-powder bread. "No dainty
lunch prepared by woman's hand," he apologized, "but we of the hills,
no matter how exotic or aesthetic our tastes may be, must of stern
necessity descend to the common level of cowboys and offscourings in
the matter of our eating. See, beside your own palatable food, this
rough fare of mine presents an appearance unappetizing almost to
repugnance."

"At least, it looks eminently satisfying," said Patty, eyeing the
thick sandwiches.

"Satisfying, I grant you. Satisfying to the beast that is in man, in
that it stays the pangs of hunger. So is the blood-dripping carcass of
the fresh-killed calf satisfying to the wolf, and carrion satisfying
to the buzzard. But, not at all satisfying to the unbestial ego--to
the thing that makes man, man."

"You should have been a poet," smiled the girl. "But come, even poets
must eat."

"God help the man who has no poetry in his soul--no imagination!"
exclaimed Bethune, a trifle sententiously, thought the girl, as she
resumed the chipping of her egg. "Imagination," the word hovered
elusively in her brain--she had applied that word only recently to
someone--oh, yes, the man whose habit it was to search her cabin. She
smiled ever so slightly as she glanced sidewise at Bethune who was
nibbling at one of his own sandwiches.

"Please try one of mine," she urged, "and there are some pickles, and
an olive or two. I have loads of them at home, and really I believe I
should like that other sandwich of yours. I haven't tasted fish for
ages."

"Take it and welcome," smiled the man. "But do not deny yourself the
pleasure of eating all the fish you want. Why, with a bent pin, a bit
of thread, and housefly, you can catch yourself a mess of trout any
morning without venturing a hundred yards from your own door. Monte's
Creek is alive with them, and taken fresh from the water and fried to
a crisp in butter, they make a breakfast fit for a king, or in the
present instance, I should have said, a queen."

"Tell me," asked Patty, abruptly. "Has Vil Holland imagination?"

"Imagination! My dear lady, Vil Holland is the veriest clod! Too lazy
to do the honest work for which he is fitted, he roams the hills under
pretense of prospecting."

"But, how does he make a living?"

Bethune shrugged. "Who can tell? I know for a cer