ed the same critical
curiosity which appeared in the eye of his dog when it dwelt upon the
painter. Fox had divined in his way that Westover was not only not to be
molested, but was to be respectfully tolerated, yet no gleam of kindness
ever lighted up his face at sight of the painter; he never wagged his
tail in recognition of him; he simply recognized him and no more, and he
remained passive under Westover's advances, which he had the effect of
covertly referring to Jeff, when the boy was by, for his approval or
disapproval; when he was not by, the dog's manner implied a reservation
of opinion until the facts could be submitted to his master.

On the Saturday morning which was the last they were to have together,
the three comrades had strayed from the vague wood road along one of the
unexpected levels on the mountain slopes, and had come to a standstill
in a place which the boy pretended not to know his way out of. Westover
doubted him, for he had found that Jeff liked to give himself credit
for woodcraft by discovering an escape from the depths of trackless
wildernesses.

"I guess you know where we are," he suggested.

"No, honestly," said the boy; but he grinned, and Westover still doubted
him.

"Hark! What's that?" he said, hushing further speech from him with a
motion of his hand. It was the sound of an axe.

"Oh, I know where we are," said Jeff. "It's that Canuck chopping in
Whitwell's clearing. Come along."

He led the way briskly down the mountain-side now, stopping from time
to time and verifying his course by the sound of the axe. This came and
went, and by-and-by it ceased altogether, and Jeff crept forward with
a real or feigned uncertainty. Suddenly he stopped. A voice called,
"Heigh, there!" and the boy turned and fled, crashing through the
underbrush at a tangent, with his dog at his heels.

Westover looked after them, and then came forward. A lank figure of a
man at the foot of a poplar, which he had begun to fell, stood waiting
him, one hand on his axe-helve and the other on his hip. There was the
scent of freshly smitten bark and sap-wood in the air; the ground was
paved with broad, clean chips.

"Good-morning," said Westover.

"How are you?" returned the other, without moving or making any sign of
welcome for a moment. But then he lifted his axe and struck it into the
carf on the tree, and came to meet Westover.

As he advanced he held out his hand. "Oh, you're the one that stopped
that