ed that
the packer should be busy. Failing this, she patiently bore
discomforts from which she usually shrank, and put her companions to a
good deal of trouble by favoring them with her company. The major
naturally did not notice what was going on, and she did not enlighten
him; nor did Weston, for that matter; while Arabella stood aside and
looked on with quiet amusement. It is probable that had Ida stooped to
diplomacy, she would have been beaten, but, as it was, her
uncompromising imperiousness stood her in good stead.

In any case, she went up the river alone with Weston on several
occasions, in spite of Mrs. Kinnaird, and one morning the two sat
together among the boulders beside a pool not far above the fall.
There had been heavy rain, and the stream, which had risen, swirled in
an angry eddy along the rock that rose close in front of them from
that side of the pool. A great drift-log, peeled white, with only
stumps of branches left, had jammed its thinner top on a
half-submerged ledge, and the great butt, which was water borne, every
now and then smote against the rock. The pines along the river were
still wet, and the wilderness was steeped in ambrosial odors. Ida sat
with thoughtful eyes regarding the endless rows of trunks, through
which here and there a ray of dazzling sunlight struck; but her whole
attention was not occupied with that great colonnade.

"I think you were right when you said that the bush gets hold of one,"
she said. "I sometimes feel that I don't want to go back to the cities
at all."

Weston smiled, though there was something curious in his manner. It
seemed to suggest that he was trying to face an unpleasant fact.

"Well," he said, "I told you that would probably be the case. In one
way it's unfortunate, because I suppose you will have to go. You
belong to civilization, and it will certainly claim you."

"And don't you?"

Weston made a little whimsical gesture.

"In the meanwhile, I don't quite know where I belong. It's
perplexing."

Ida noticed the "in the meanwhile." It had, she fancied, a certain
significance, and hinted that by and by he expected to be more sure of
his station.

"You don't wish to go back?" she asked.

"No," said Weston decisively. "Anyway, not to the packed
boarding-house and the flour-mill. Even in winter, when these rivers
are frozen hard and the pines stand white and motionless under the
Arctic frost, this is a good deal nicer."

"You're getting away