me."

"Yes," she shivered. "And I'm glad--glad--"

Was it an illusion of his own, or did she seem to shiver and draw away
from him AT THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND? Even in the blackness he could FEEL
that she was huddled forward, her face in her hands. She did not speak
to him again. When they entered the smooth water of the Snowbird,
Jean's canoe drew close in beside them, but not a word fell from
Croisset. Like shadows they moved up the stream between two black walls
of forest. A steadily increasing excitement, a feeling that he was upon
the eve of strange events, grew stronger in Philip. His arms and back
ached, his legs were cramped, the last of his splendid strength had
been called upon in the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this
exhaustion in anticipation of the hour that was drawing near. He knew
that Adare House would reveal to him things which Josephine had not
told him. She had said that it would, and that he would hate her then.
That they were burying themselves deeper into the forest he guessed by
the lessening of the wind.

Half an hour passed, and in that time his companion did not move or
speak. He heard faintly a distant wailing cry. He recognized the sound.
It was not a wolf-cry, but the howl of a husky. He fancied then that
the girl moved, that she was gripping the sides of the canoe with her
hands. For fifteen minutes more there was not a sound but the dip of
the paddles and the monotone of the wind sweeping through the forest
tops. Then the dog howled again, much nearer; and this time he was
joined by a second, a third, and a fourth, until the night was filled
with a din that made Philip stare wonderingly off into the blackness.
There were fifty dogs if there was one in that yelping, howling horde,
he told himself, and they were coming with the swiftness of the wind in
their direction.

From his canoe Croisset broke the silence.

"The wind has given the pack our scent, ma Josephine, and they are
coming to meet you," he said.

The girl made no reply, but Philip could see now that she was sitting
tense and erect. As suddenly as it had begun the cry of the pack
ceased. The dogs had reached the water, and were waiting. Not until
Jean swung his canoe toward shore and the bow of it scraped on a
gravelly bar did they give voice again, and then so close and fiercely
that involuntarily Philip held his canoe back. In another moment
Josephine had stepped lightly over the side in a foot of water. He
cou