step and
struck again. This time it was his left hand that clove the air in a
long, clean swing, and the man went down into the snow without a sound
as the fist thudded against his neck just below the ear.

Without so much as a glance at the man in the snow, Bill Carmody turned
on his heel and started back down the skidway.

Few seconds had elapsed, and a strange, barbaric thrill ran through the
girl's body as she looked out upon the scene, quickly followed by a
wave of sickening pity for the poor wretch who lay sprawled in the
snow.

And, then, a great anger surged into her heart against the man who had
felled him. She dashed from her hiding-place, and in a moment stood
facing him, her blue eyes flashing.

"You _brute_!" she cried, "what right had you? Why did you strike him?"
The man regarded her gravely, lifting his cap politely as if answering
a most commonplace question.

"Because," he replied, "I wanted to," and, with a curt bow, stepped
into the timber and disappeared, leaving her alone in the skidway with
the bloody, unconscious form in the snow.

Never in her life had Ethel Manton been so furiously angry--not because
a man had been felled by a blow--she had forgotten that--but because,
in demanding an explanation, in attempting to call Bill Carmody to
account, she had laid herself open to his stinging rebuff.

Without pretense of defense or justification, the man had quietly told
her that he knocked the swamper down "because he wanted to"; and
without waiting for comment--as if the fact that "he wanted to" was
sufficient in itself--had gone about his business without giving the
matter a second thought.

The flash of anger, which in the first place had prompted her to speak
to the man, was but an impulsive protest against what she considered an
act of brutality; but that quickly passed.

The anger that surged through her heart as she gazed, white-faced, at
the spot where the big man disappeared, was the bitter anger of
outraged dignity and injured pride.

He had not taken the trouble to find out what she thought, for the very
obvious reason that he had not cared what she thought--and so he left
her. And when he had gone the girl plodded wrathfully back to camp and
spoke to no one of what she had seen. But, deep down in her heart, she
knew there had been a reason for Bill's act--and she knew that the
reason was good.

That same evening Appleton pushed his chair back from the table and
glanced towar