can be done safely. You're in charge of this
outfit, and not that major man."

Stirling was never addicted to mincing matters, but Weston could not
quite repress a grin.

"It would make things a little difficult if Major Kinnaird understands
that," he said.

"Then you must see that he doesn't. You can fix it somehow. It's up to
you."

He rose, as if there were nothing more to be said, and then as he
moved away he turned and waved his hand.

"I'll have you moved up a grade on the pay-roll."

He started down the river in another half-hour, and left Weston
thoughtful. He had never seen his employer before; but it was evident
that the latter had made a few inquiries concerning him, and had been
favorably informed.

For another fortnight Weston tactfully carried out his somewhat
difficult task; and then it was with a curious sense of regret that he
stood one evening in a little roadside station. Major Kinnaird was
apparently counting the pile of baggage some little distance away, his
wife and daughter were in the station-room, and Ida and Weston stood
alone where the track came winding out of the misty pines. She glanced
from him to the forest, and there was just a perceptible hint of
regret in her voice.

"It has been very pleasant, and in one way I'm almost sorry we are
going to Vancouver," she said. "This"--and she indicated the wall of
hillside and the shadowy bush--"grows on one."

Weston nodded gravely.

"It does," he said. "You have been up among the high peaks, and you'll
never quite forget them, even in the cities. Now and then you'll feel
them drawing you back again."

The girl laughed, perhaps because she realized that the memory of the
last few weeks would remain with her. She also remembered that he had
said that the stillness among the white peaks and in the scented bush
was filled with a glamour that seized on one.

"Well," she confessed, "I may come back with other friends some day;
and in that case we shall certainly ask for you as guide. I want to
say, as Major Kinnaird did, that we owe a good deal to you. I am only
sorry that the trip is over."

Then her tone changed a little, and Weston supposed that she was
unwilling to make too great an admission.

"There are so many little discomforts you have saved us."

"Yes," he agreed, a trifle dryly, "I suppose there are. However, I
shall probably have gone away when you come back again."

He broke off for a moment, and then turned toward her