I must. You don't know; you
can't know--" He dropped his grizzled head against Pete's neck, and his
breath caught. "You don't know what I felt when I saw you there, when I
thought--Tell me the truth, Pete. You are not going to take my love, my
only joy, my one prize away from me?"

After a long and difficult silence Pete put his arm half mechanically
across the twisted, gasping back.

"Of course not, Hugh. I--I couldn't. But I've had to play a part, and
it's not come easy. You must have guessed how hard it's been, because
you seem to have guessed how I--how Sylvie--Perhaps if I went away?"

He was gripped again, shaken a little. "No, don't leave me. Wait. It
won't be long. She will go away with me soon, as soon as she gets over
a girl's timidity. Pete, she does love me. She does. Don't stand dumb;
tell me that she does."

"She does," Pete repeated tonelessly.

"I'm sorry I struck you. I have a devil's temper. And I think of you as
still a boy. I wanted to beat you. A few years ago I would have beaten
you." He put this forward as though it were a reasonable excuse.

"Yes." Pete smiled grimly. "I can remember your beatings." He drew
himself away. "Shall we go back?"

Hugh still held him, though at arm's length. "First I must have a
promise from you." He spoke sternly.

"What do you want?"

"I want your promise to keep hands off, to hold your tongue to the end."

"You won't trust me, then?"

"Not since I watched you moving toward her, not since I felt your arm."

Pete was silent. He studied the ground. There was a sullen look on his
face, and his tightened mouth deepened the odd, incongruous dimple.

"Well, perhaps you're right. I promise." He flashed up a blue
desperation of young eyes as he asked: "How long will it last, Hugh?"

"Not long. Not long. Surely not long."

"I promise."

"Give me your hand."

They came back down from the hill.

CHAPTER XIII

Pete looked forward with white-hot impatience to the day of his trip
to the trading-station; twelve hours of relief, it would mean, from the
worst pressure of his torment--twelve hours of merciful solitude in the
old, voiceful friendliness of his forest trail. He started early, at the
break of a sweet, singing dawn. The earth was elastic under his feet,
the air tingling and mellow with a taste of growth; the flooded river
chattered loudly like a creature half beside itself with joy. Pete
came out of the dark and silent cabin in which he had