solation of her home
she was no stranger to romance; but the romance that was to be seen,
like a gentleness, in her face was that of the great, shadowed forest in
which she dwelt.

Pensive, wistful, enthralled in a dreamy sadness,--what could be nearer
the tone and pitch of the northern forest itself? There might have been
also depths of latent passion such as is known to all who live the full,
strong life of the woods. The lines were soft about her lips and eyes,
indicating a marked sweetness and tenderness of nature; but these traits
did not in the least deny her parentage. No one but the woodsman knows
how gentle, how hospitably tender, the forest may be at times.

She had fine, dark straight brows that served to darken her eyes, dark
brown hair waving enough to soften every line of her face, a girlish
throat and a red mouth surprisingly tender and childish. As might have
been expected her garb was neither rich nor smart, but it was pretty and
well made and evidently fitted for her life: a loose "middy," blue
skirt, woolen stockings and rather solid little boots.

As she passed the door of the hotel one of the younger men who had been
lounging about the stove strode out and accosted her. She half-turned,
recognized his face in the lamplight, and frankly recoiled.

She had been lost in dreams before, vaguely pensive, for Beatrice had
been watching the darkness overspread and encompass the dark fringe of
the spruce forest that enclosed the town. Now, because she recognized
the man and knew his type--born of the wild places even as herself, but
a bastard breed--the tender, wistful half-smile sped from her childish
mouth and her eyes grew alert and widened as if with actual fear. She
halted, evidently in doubt as to her course.

"Going home?" the man asked. "I'm going up to see your pop, and I'll see
you there, if you don't mind."

Ray Brent's voice had an undeniable ring of power. It was deeply bass,
evidently the voice of a passionate, reckless, brutal man. The covetous
caress of his thick hand upon her arm indicated that he was wholly sure
of himself in regard to her.

She stared with growing apprehension into his even-featured, not
unhandsome face. Evidently she found it hard to meet his eyes,--eyes
wholly lacking in humor and kindliness, but unquestionably vivid and
compelling under his heavy, dark brows. "I'm going home," she told him
at last. "I guess, if you're going up to see Pop, you can walk along
too.