er few and simple words of well-wishing, she
looked straight out at them from deep black eyes. The two woodsmen, awed
into a vast respect, fumbled their caps in their hands and noted, in the
unconscious manner of the forest frequenter, the fresh dusk rose of her
skin, the sharply defined red of her lips, the soft wheat colour of her
hair. It was a gracious memory to carry into the Silent Places, and was
in itself well worth the bestowal. However, Virginia, as was her habit,
gave presents. On each she bestowed a long silk handkerchief. Sam
Bolton, with a muttered word of thanks, stuffed his awkwardly into his
shirt bosom. Dick, on the other hand, with a gesture half of gallantry,
half of bravado, stripped his own handkerchief from his neck and cast it
far into the current, knotting the girl's gift in its place. Virginia
smiled. A strong push sent the canoe into the current. They began to
paddle up-stream.

For perhaps a mile their course threaded in and out the channel of a
number of islands, then shot them into the broad reach of the Moose
itself. There they set themselves to straight-forward paddling, hugging
closely the shore that they might escape as much as possible the full
strength of the current. In this manner they made rapid progress, for,
of course, they paddled in the Indian fashion--without bending either
elbow, and with a strong thrust forward of the shoulders at the end of
the stroke--and they understood well how to take advantage of each
little back eddy.

After an hour and a half they came to the first unimportant rapids,
where they were forced to drop their paddles and to use the long
spruce-poles they had cut and peeled that morning. Dick had the bow. It
was beautiful to see him standing boldly upright, his feet apart,
leaning back against the pressure, making head against the hurrying
water. In a moment the canoe reached the point of hardest suction, where
the river broke over the descent. Then the young man, taking a deep
breath, put forth the strength that was in him. Sam Bolton, poised in
the stern, holding the canoe while his companion took a fresh hold,
noted with approval the boy's physical power, the certainty of his skill
at the difficult river work, the accuracy of his calculations. Whatever
his heedlessness, Dick Herron knew his trade. It was, indeed, a powerful
Instrument that Galen Albret in his wisdom had placed in Sam Bolton's
hands.

The canoe, torn from the rapid's grasp, shot into