m just admitting that at present I'm in your hands--helpless--and
many long weeks in before us," she went on. "I'm on my father's side,
last and always, and I'll strike back at you if the chance comes. Expect
no mercy from me, in case I ever see my way to strike."

The man's eyes suddenly gleamed. "Don't you know--that you'd have a
better chance of fighting me--if you didn't put me on guard?"

"I don't think so. I don't believe you'd be fooled that easy.
Besides--I can't pretend to be a friend--when I'm really an enemy."

For one significant instant the man looked down. This was what he had
done--pretended friendship when he was a foe. But his was a high cause!

"I'm warning you that I'm against you to the last--and will beat you if
I see my way," the girl went on. "But at the same time I'm going to make
the best of a bad situation, and try to get all the comfort I can. I'm
in your hands at present, and we're foes, but just the same we can talk,
and try to make each other comfortable so that we can be comfortable
ourselves, and try not to be any more miserable than we can help. I'm
not going to cry any more."

As she talked she was slowly unwrapping the little parcel she had
brought. Presently she held it out to him.

It was just a box of homemade candy--fudge made with sugar and canned
milk--that she had brought for their day's picnic. But it was a peace
offering not to be despised. A heavy load lifted from Ben's heart.

He waited his chance, guiding the boat with care, and then reached a
brown hand. He crushed a piece of the soft, delicious confection between
his lips. "Thanks, Beatrice," he said. "I'll remember all you've told
me."

XXIII

It is a peculiar fact that no one is more deeply moved by the great
works and phenomena of nature than those who live among them. It is the
visitor from distant cities, or the callow youth with tawdry clothes and
tawdry thoughts who disturbs the great silences and austerity of
majestic scenes with half-felt effusive words or cheap impertinences.
Oddly enough, the awe that the wilderness dweller knows at the sight of
some great, mysterious canyon or towering peak seems to increase, rather
than decrease, with familiarity. His native scenes never grow old to
him. Their beauty and majesty is eternal.

Perhaps the reason lies in the fact that the native woodsman knows
nature as she really is: living ever close to her he knows her power
over his life. Perhaps there is a