ng the loose hair from in front of her eyes.

"I was convinced we ought to dig a hole," said she gravely. "Now, let's
go somewhere else."

She arose to her feet, shaking the sand free from her skirts.

"I think, through these woods," she decided. "Can we get back to town
this way?"

Receiving Orde's assurance, she turned at once down the slope through
the fringe of scrub spruces and junipers into the tall woods. Here the
air fell still. She remarked on how warm it seemed, and began to untie
from over her ears the narrow band of veil that held close her hat.

"Yes," replied Orde. "The lumber-jacks say that the woods are the poor
man's overcoat."

She paused to savour this, her head on one side, her arms upraised to
the knot.

"Oh, I like that!" said she, continuing her task. In a moment or so the
veil hung free. She removed it and the hat, and swung them both from one
finger, and threw back her head.

"Hear all the birds!" she said.

Softly she began to utter a cheeping noise between her lips and teeth,
low and plaintive. At once the volume of bird-sounds about increased;
the half-seen flashes became more frequent. A second later the twigs
were alive with tiny warblers and creepers, flirting from branch to
branch, with larger, more circumspect chewinks, catbirds, and finches
hopping down from above, very silent, very grave. In the depths of the
thickets the shyer hermit and olive thrushes and the oven birds revealed
themselves ghost-like, or as sea-growths lift into a half visibility
through translucent shadows the colour of themselves. All were very
intent, very earnest, very interested, each after his own manner, in the
comradeship of the featherhood he imagined to be uttering distressful
cries. A few, like the chickadees, quivered their wings, opened their
little mouths, fluttered down tiny but aggressive against the disaster.
Others hopped here and there restlessly, uttering plaintive, low-toned
cheeps. The shyest contented themselves by a discreet, silent, and
distant sympathy. Three or four freebooting Jays, attracted not so much
by the supposed calls for help as by curiosity, fluttered among the tops
of the trees, uttering their harsh notes.

Finally, the girl ended her performance in a musical laugh.

"Run away, Brighteyes," she called. "It's all right; nobody's damaged."

She waved her hand. As though at a signal, the host she had evoked
melted back into the shadows of the forest. Only the chickade