logger
down the slip that day at noon,--presumably Jack Fyfe. A sturdily built
man about thirty, of Saxon fairness, with a tinge of red in his hair and
a liberal display of freckles across nose and cheek bones. He was no
beauty, she decided, albeit he displayed a frank and pleasing
countenance. That he was a remarkably strong and active man she had seen
for herself, and if the firm round of his jaw counted for anything, an
individual of considerable determination besides. Miss Benton conceived
herself to be possessed of considerable skill at character analysis.

He put away his handkerchief, took up his rifle, settled his hat, and
strode off toward the camp. Her attention now diverted from the
Siwashes, she watched him, saw him go to her brother's quarters, stand
in the door a minute, then go back to the beach accompanied by Charlie.

In a minute or so he came rowing across in a skiff, threw his deer
aboard, and pulled away north along the shore.

She watched him lift and fall among the waves until he turned a point,
rowing with strong, even strokes. Then she walked home. Benton was
poring over some figures, but he pushed aside his pencil and paper when
she entered.

"You had a visitor, I see," she remarked.

"Yes, Jack Fyfe. He picked up a deer on the ridge behind here and
borrowed a boat to get home."

"I saw him come out of the woods," she said. "His camp can't be far from
here, is it? He only left the Springs as you came in. Does he hunt deer
for sport?"

"Hardly. Oh, well, I suppose it's sport for Jack, in a way. He's always
piking around in the woods with a gun or a fishing rod," Benton
returned. "But we kill 'em to eat mostly. It's good meat and cheap. I
get one myself now and then. However, you want to keep that under your
hat--about us fellows hunting--or we'll have game wardens nosing around
here."

"Are you not allowed to hunt them?" she asked.

"Not in close season. Hunting season's from September to December."

"If it's unlawful, why break the law?" she ventured hesitatingly. "Isn't
that rather--er--"

"Oh, bosh," Charlie derided. "A man in the woods is entitled to venison,
if he's hunter enough to get it. The woods are full of deer, and a few
more or less don't matter. We can't run forty miles to town and back and
pay famine prices for beef every two or three days, when we can get it
at home in the woods."

Stella digested this in silence, but it occurred to her that this mild
sample of la