kness of the
pines the moon rose, flooding the timberland with the mystery of her
soft radiance.

Ethel tossed uneasily in her cot and glanced across to where her aunt
and Mrs. Sheridan slumbered heavily. Then she arose and stood at the
window gazing out on the moonlit clearing with its low, silent
buildings, and clean-cut, black shadows.

Noiselessly she dressed and stole into the silvery world. Utterly
wretched, dispirited, heartsick, she wandered aimlessly, neither
knowing nor caring whither her slow, dragging steps carried her.

Somewhere in the distance, sounding faint and far, came the shouts of
men. Unconsciously she wandered toward the river. On the edge of a high
bluff overlooking the rollways and the rushing waters she paused,
leaning wearily against the bole of a giant birch.

Thanks to the quick action of Bill Carmody Moncrossen's scheme of
fouling the upper drive had taken no toll of human life. The few
rollways that were broken out, however, were sufficient to cause a
nasty jam, and far below where the girl stood the men of both crews
worked furiously among the high-piled logs.

Weird and unreal it seemed to Ethel as she gazed down upon the flare of
huge fires built upon the bank, the tiny flash of lanterns and the
flicker of torches, where the men swarmed out upon the uncertain
footing.

Rough calls of rough men sounded above the crash and pound of logs and
the roar of the rushing waters. Now and then a scrap of rude chantey
reached her ears, a hoarse oath, or a loud, clear order in a voice she
knew so well.

It was like some eery fantasy, born of an overwrought brain. And yet
she knew it was real--intensely real. Down there among the flashing
lights men played with death--big, rough men who laughed loud as they
played, and swore mighty oaths, and sang wild, full-throated songs.

From the shadow almost at her side came the sound of a half-stifled
sob. She started. There was a soft footfall on the leaf-mold, and
before her stood Jeanne Lacombie. The soft moonlight touched with
silvery sheen the long hairs of the great, white wolf-skin which the
girl wore thrown loosely across her shoulders.

As Ethel gazed upon the wild, dark beauty of the Indian girl her tiny
fists clenched, and her breath came in short, quick gasps.

Why was she here? Had she followed to taunt her to her face? A mighty
rage welled up within her, her shoulders stiffened, and as she faced
the girl her blue eyes flashed.

And