a girl's commands, he would do the opposite of what
she asked if his love and confidence were destroyed. It seemed to be a
case of two and two making four, as Crowley viewed the thing. He was
done with tangled subtleties.

He put his hand again on his breast pocket as he walked with the drive
master down the hill. There was a letter in that pocket; Crowley had
purloined it from the girl's bureau that day when he had so quickly
returned from following her. And he also had a telegram in that pocket;
the wire had come along that morning, addressed to Miss Patsy Jones, in
his care.

The job, as Crowley understood orders, was to keep Latisan off the river
that season. Crowley saw a way of doing that job and of getting the
credit for the performance.

The girl, staring through the window with strained attention, noting
every detail of the meeting, seeing the appearance of amity and of
understanding, beholding Crowley put his hand on Latisan's shoulder in
the pose of friendly adviser, suspected the worst; she was stricken with
anguished certainty when Latisan strode toward the tavern; according to
her belief, two men were now arrayed against her. The drive master's
haste indicated that she had been betrayed by the sullen botcher of
methods.

In that room she felt like a creature that had been run to
cover--cornered. She wanted to escape into the open. There was honesty
outside, anyway, under the sky, at the edge of the forest, where the
thunder of the great falls made human voices and mortal affairs so petty
by contrast.

She ran through the tavern office and faced Latisan in the yard; there
were curious spectators on the porch, the loungers of the hamlet, but
she paid no attention to them; she was searching the countenance of
Latisan, avidly anxious, fearfully uncertain regarding what mischief had
been wrought in him.

He smiled tenderly, flourishing a salute. "All serene in the big house!"

The white was succeeded by a flush in her cheeks. She looked up into his
honest eyes and was thrilled by an emotion that was new to her. It was
impossible not to answer back to that earnest affection he was
expressing. Gratitude glowed in her--and gratitude is a sister of love!

"I beg your pardon," put in Crowley, "But can't the three of us step
inside and have a little private talk?"

He made a gesture to indicate the gallery of listeners on the tavern
porch.

Once that morning Lida had found protection by handling an impor