d her torn blouse and skirt for
the clothing which his foresight had burdened her pack with. The grey
flannel shirt was a little open at the neck, revealing the beautiful
roundness of her throat, the sleeves of it were rolled up above the
elbows after the work-man-like fashion of a lumberman, and showed a
pair of forearms, white and strong. His eyes kindled as he looked on
her.

She was radiantly beautiful and strong, he thought to himself, a fit
mate for any man who loved strength and beauty in a woman, rather than
prettiness and softness, and his admiration found sudden vent in words.

"Miss Yardely, you are wonderful!"

The colour in her face deepened suddenly, and there was a quick
brightening in her grey eyes.

"You think so?" she cried laughing in some confusion.

"I certainly do!" he answered fervently.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Well," he replied quickly, and not uttering what had been in her mind,
"you adapt yourself to difficult circumstances so easily. I don't know
another girl in the world who would so cheerfully do what you are
doing."

"Oh," she retorted gaily, "needs must when the devil drives! But was
that all you were thinking?"

She knew it was not, for she had seen the look in his eyes, and her
question was recklessly provocative and challenging. She knew it was
such as she had flung it at him; and Hubert Stane knew too. His face
flushed, his heart pounded wildly; and for a moment there was a surging
desire to tell her what he really had been thinking. The next moment he
put the temptation from him.

"No," he answered with an attempt at laughter, "but the rest is not for
publication."

There was a little tremor in his voice as he spoke which Helen Yardely
did not fail to notice. For a moment she stood there undecided. She was
conscious of an uplift of spirit for which there appeared no valid
reason, and she visioned opening out before her a way of life that a
week ago she had never even dreamed of. Three days in the solitude of
the wilderness with Hubert Stane had brought her closer to him than an
acquaintance of years could have done, and she was aware of wild
impulses in her heart. As she stood there she was half-inclined then
and there to challenge fate, and to force from him the words that he
withheld. Then, with a great effort, she checked the surging impulses,
and gave a tremulous laugh.

"That is too bad of you," she cried. "The unpublished thoughts are
always the most interesting