eginning of time. She thought of Hilliard. His life must have been just
such a series of disconnected experiments. Danger was in the very pattern
of such freedom. But she was a girl, _only_ a girl as the familiar phrase
expresses it--a seventeen-year-old girl. She was reminded of a pathetic
and familiar line, "A woman naturally born to fears ..." A wholesome
reaction to pride followed and, suddenly, an amusing memory of Miss
Blake, of her corduroy trousers stuffed into boots, of her broad, strong
body, her square face with its firm lips and masterful red-brown eyes; a
very heartening memory for such a moment. Here was a woman that had
adventured without fear and had quite evidently met with no disaster.

Sheila came to a little tumbling tributary and crossed it on a log. On
the farther side the trail broadened, grew more distinct; through an
opening in tall, gray, misty cottonwoods she saw the corner of a log
house. At the same instant a dreadful tumult broke out. The sound sent
Sheila's blood in a slapping wave back upon her heart. All of her body
turned cold. She was fastened by stone feet to the ground. It was the
laughter of a mob of damned souls, an inhuman, despairing mockery of
God. It tore the quiet evening into shreds of fear. This house was a
madhouse holding revelry. No--of course, they were wolves, a pack of
wolves. Then, with a warmth of returning circulation, Sheila remembered
Miss Blake's dogs, the descendants of the wolf-dog that had littered on
the body of a dead man. Quarter-wolf, was it? These voices had no hint
of the homely barking of a watchdog, the friend of man's loneliness! But
Sheila braced her courage. Miss Blake made good use of her pack. They
pulled her sled, winters, in Hidden Creek. They must then be partly
civilized by service. If only--she smiled a desperate smile at the
uncertainty--they didn't tear her to pieces when she came out from the
shelter of the trees. There was very great courage in Sheila's short,
lonely march through the little grove of cottonwood trees. She was as
white as the mountain columbine. She walked slowly and held her head
high. She had taken up a stone for comfort.

At the end of the trees she saw a house, a three-sided, one-storied
building of logs very pleasantly set in a circle of aspen trees,
backed by taller firs, toppling over which stood a great sharp crest
of rocky ledges, nine thousand feet high, edged with the fire of
sunset. At one side of the house eig