l come back year after year, if I have to, until I have
explored every single one of these mountains from the littlest
foothill to the top of the highest peak. And someday, I'll win!"

"Mr. Bethune is rich." She started. The thought flashed upon her
brain, vivid as whispered words. Involuntarily, she shuddered at the
memory of his burning eyes, the hot touch of his lips upon her
hand--her arm. She remembered the short, curt answers of the hard-eyed
Pierce. And the thinly veiled distrust of Bethune, voiced by Vil
Holland, Thompson, and the preacher whom he had affectionately
referred to as "The Bishop of All Outdoors." Could it be possible--was
it reasonable, that these were all so mean and contemptible of soul
that their words were actuated by jealousy of Bethune's success? Patty
thought not. Somehow, the characters did not fit the role. "If he'd
have explained their dislike upon the grounds of his Indian blood, it
might have carried the ring of truth--at least, it would have been
reasonable. But, jealousy--as Mr. Vil Holland would say, 'I don't grab
it.'"

She recalled the wolfish gleam that flashed into Bethune's eyes, and
the malicious hatred expressed in his insinuations and accusations
against these men. Could it be possible that her distrust of Vil
Holland was unfounded? But no, there was the repeated searching of her
cabin--and had not Lord Clendenning caught him in the act? There was
the trampled grass of the notch in the hills from which he was
accustomed to spy upon her. And the cut pack sack--somehow, she was
not so sure about that cut pack sack. But, anyway--there is the jug!
"I don't trust him!" she exclaimed, "and I don't trust Monk Bethune,
now. I'm glad I found him out before it was--too late. He's bad--I
could see the evil glitter in his eyes. And, how do I know that he
told the truth about Lord Clendenning and Vil Holland?" Darkness
settled upon the valley and Patty sought her bunk where, for a
restless hour, she tossed about thinking.

The following morning the girl paused, coffee pot in hand, in the act
of preparing breakfast, and listened. Distinct and clear above the
sound of sizzling bacon, floated the words of an old ballad:

Oh, ye'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,
An' I'll be in Sco'lan' afore ye;

But, oh, my true love I'll never meet again,
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Lomon'.

Hastening to the open door she peered down the valley. The song
ceas