of the spit of sand on which they had camped. The shore
was lined with dead trees and jagged masses of rock; there was no
alternative but to follow the shore, the swamp lands, which were even
worse, extending far back of the dead timber. By noon they had only
reached the foot of the range of mountains. By another twilight they
found themselves on the other side of the range and within half a
day's tramp of Alder Swamp.

All that day Alice kept patiently on with the rest. Her husband's grit
was a revelation to her; not once since they left the burned camp had
he mentioned the catastrophe.

Thayor's mind was also occupied. His loss had been a heavy one; the
camp he loved had been criminally laid in ashes--such had been his
reward for generosity. The very men he had befriended had burned him
out with murderous intent. They would at that moment take his life
could they find him. His money had been the cause of jealousy and
discontent; it had resulted in a catastrophe--one that had been
premeditated, carefully planned and carried swiftly into execution,
presumably by the help of Morrison's liquor. It was clear, too,
that the fire had started simultaneously in half a dozen places. The
identity of the burned man was still a mystery. "Pray God it wasn't
poor Bob Dinsmore hunting for food!" he said to himself. If Holcomb
and the trapper had any suspicion they made no comment. They had left
the body lying where it was. Neither had they referred to the hero who
had risked his life to save both Holcomb and Alice.

As for Holcomb's thoughts, they had been all fastened on Margaret.
In fact, there was no moment when she was out of his mind. He was
continually near her during every step of their forced march as they
followed the trapper--often her hand in his for better support.

It was while helping her over the hard places, she leaning on his arm,
clasping his fingers for a better spring over a wind-slash or slippery
rock that the currents of their lives flowed together.

Margaret, who, though tired out, had kept up her spirits all day, had
wandered off by herself a little way into the silent woods during
a half hour's rest and had sunk down on a bed of moss behind the
lean-to. There, half hidden by a thicket of balsam, Holcomb had
discovered her pitiful little figure huddled in the rough ulster. She
did not hear him until he stood over her and, bending, laid his hand
on the upturned collar of the overcoat that lay damp against