ead there a love for the man who was her own companion, and in the
dark, wildly beautiful eyes she had seen the jealousy of an
undisciplined nature. And as she sat in the glowing light of the stove,
she was conscious of a feeling of antagonism to this rare daughter of
the wilds who dared to love the man whom she herself loved. She
understood, from the feelings she herself was conscious of, what must
be the Indian girl's attitude towards herself, and was inclined to
trace the hostility which had suddenly manifested itself to that
source. The girl had been in the neighbourhood of the cabin once, she
was sure of that, and might have come again, probably by some short
path through the woods, her hand, possibly, had drawn the bow and sent
the arrow which had awakened their apprehensions. But in that case, she
asked herself, why had the arrow been directed against her companion
rather than herself?

That she could not understand, and after a time her thoughts passed to
the story which Stane had related to the policeman, and the account of
the forged bill that the latter had given. The two together seemed
absolutely conclusive. What a man had done once on the way of crime, he
could do again, and as her conviction of Gerald Ainley's guilt grew,
she was quite sure that somehow he was the moving spirit in her
companion's deportation from Fort Malsun. He had not expected to see
Hubert Stane, and when the latter had demanded an interview he had been
afraid, and in his fear had taken steps for his removal. Ainley loved
her; but now, if he were the last man left in the world, she would
never----

A sound of movement interrupted her reverie, and she half-turned as
Stane rose from his spruce-couch.

"You have heard nothing?" he asked.

"Nothing!" she replied.

"I will take the watch now, Miss Yardely, and do you lie down and
rest."

"I will lie down," she said with a little laugh, "but I am afraid sleep
will be another matter. My mind is in a ferment."

"You can try at any rate," he said. "I will call you if any untoward
thing occurs."

"You promise?" she asked. "I wouldn't miss one bit of anything that is
happening--not for worlds."

"I promise," he answered with a smile.

"Though I devoutly hope there will be no need for me to keep the
promise."

"I'm not at all sure I do," laughed Helen, and obediently retired to
her screened bunk.

Stane lit his pipe, and seated himself near the stove. He had, as he
had previously