her new strength. She knew that Jolly Roger would take
this trail, for it was the one trail leading from the Missioner's cabin
through the thick forest country north. And in half an hour he would
not travel far. The thrilling thought came to her that possibly he had
sought shelter in the lee of a big tree trunk during the fury of the
storm. If he had done that he would be near, very near. She paused in
the trail and gathered her breath, and cried out his name. Three times
she called it, and only the low whine in Peter's throat came in answer.
Twice again during the next ten minutes she cried out as loudly as she
could into the darkness. And still no answer came back to her through
the gloom ahead.

The trail had dipped, and she felt the deepening slush of swamp-mire
under her feet. She sank in it to her shoe-tops, and stumbled into
pools knee-deep, and Peter wallowed in it to his belly. A quarter of an
hour they fought through it to the rising ground beyond. And by that
time the last of the black storm clouds had passed overhead. The rain
had ceased. The rumble of thunder came more faintly. There was no
lightning, and the tree-tops began to whisper softly, as if rejoicing
in the passing of the wind. About them--everywhere--they could hear the
run and drip of water, the weeping of the drenched trees, the gurgle of
flooded pools, and the trickle of tiny rivulets that splashed about
their feet. Through a rift in the breaking clouds overhead came a
passing flash of the moon.

"We'll find him now, Peter," moaned the girl. "We'll find him--now. He
can't be very far ahead--"

And Peter waited, holding his breath, listening for an answer to the
cry that went out for Jolly Roger McKay.

The glory of July midnight, with a round, full moon straight overhead,
followed the stress of storm. The world had been lashed and inundated,
every tree whipped of its rot and slag, every blade of grass and flower
washed clean. Out of the earth rose sweet smells of growing life, the
musky fragrance of deep moss and needle-mold, and through the clean air
drifted faintly the aroma of cedar and balsam and the subtle tang of
unending canopies and glistening tapestries of evergreen breathing into
the night. The deep forest seemed to tremble with the presence of an
invisible and mysterious life--life that was still, yet wide-awake,
breathing, watchful, drinking in the rejuvenating tonic of the air
which had so quietly followed thunder and lightning