With the breaking of the full dawn the Clown called the old dog, rose and stretched himself, and, noticing Alice awake, whispered:

"Good mornin\',—how d\'ye stand it? Kinder coolish, warn\'t it, \'long \'bout three o\'clock?"

Alice placed her finger on her lips.

"Yes—let \'em sleep," whispered the Clown.

He rose, drew on his brogans and tiptoed noiselessly out to the ashes of the dead fire. With the crackling of a blaze freshly built, the rest awoke. The second day of their flight had begun.

It was rough and slow going along the shore of Bear Pond, with the exception of the spit of sand on which they had camped. The shore was lined with dead trees and jagged masses of rock; there was no alternative but to follow the shore, the swamp lands, which were even worse, extending far back of the dead timber. By noon they had only reached the foot of the range of mountains. By another twilight they found themselves on the other side of the range and within half a day\'s tramp of Alder Swamp.

All that day Alice kept patiently on with the rest. Her husband\'s grit was a revelation to her; not once since they left the burned camp had he mentioned the catastrophe.

Thayor\'s mind was also occupied. His loss had been a heavy one; the camp he loved had been criminally laid in ashes—such had been his reward for generosity. The very men he had befriended had burned him out with murderous intent. They would at that moment take his life could they find him. His money had been the cause of jealousy and discontent; it had resulted in a catastrophe—one that had been premeditated, carefully planned and carried swiftly into execution, presumably by the help of Morrison\'s liquor. It was clear, too, that the fire had started simultaneously in half a dozen places. The identity of the burned man was still a mystery. "Pray God it wasn\'t poor Bob Dinsmore hunting for food!" he said to himself. If Holcomb and the trapper had any suspicion they made no comment. They had left the body lying where it was. Neither had they referred to the hero who had risked his life to save both Holcomb and Alice.

As for Holcomb\'s thoughts, they had been all fastened on Margaret. In fact, there was no moment when she was out of his mind. He was continually near her during every step of their forced march as they followed the trapper—often her hand in his for better support.

It was while helping her over the hard places, she leaning on his arm, clasping his fingers for a better spring over a wind-slash or slippery rock that the currents of their lives flowed together.

Margaret, who, though tired out, had kept up her spirits all day, had wandered off by herself a little way into the silent woods during a half hour\'s rest and had sunk down on a bed of moss behind the lean-to. There, half hidden by a thicket of balsam, Holcomb had discovered her pitiful little figure huddled in the rough ulster. She did not hear him until he stood over her and, bending, laid his hand on the upturned collar of the overcoat that lay damp against the fair hair.

"Don\'t cry," he had said tenderly; "we\'ll soon be out of this."

"I know," she returned faintly, meeting his eyes in an effort to be brave, "but—but—Billy, I\'m so unhappy."

"But that\'s because you\'re tired out. That\'s what\'s the matter. It\'s been too rough a trip for you. I told Holt yesterday we must go slower."

"No," she moaned, "no—it\'s not that."

"But it will come out all right," he pleaded, "I feel sure of it. Think of it—to-morrow you will be out of the woods and—and—safely on your way home." Yet he was not sure of either.

She looked up at him with her brown eyes wide open, her lips trembling.

"But then you will be gone, Billy!"

His own lips trembled now. That which he had tried all these days to tell her, she had told him out of her frank young heart. He took one of her plump, little hands in both his own, holding it as gently as he would have held a wounded bird. A strange sensation of weakness stole through him. He bent lower, until his bronzed cheek felt the flush of her own through the maze of spun gold. Then he sank on his knees in the damp moss, pressing his lips to the warm fingers.

"God knows!" he burst out, "I have no right to talk to you. I\'ve tried not to, but I must tell you."

"Don\'t, Billy—don\'t!" she sobbed, and she looked into his eyes through her tears, her limp form in the coarse ulster swaying as if she was about to faint.

He felt the hot tears strike his hand; saw the dim wonder in her eyes.
Then slowly, still trembling, she sank in his arms.

"And I love you too, Billy," she breathed as she yielded her lips. "I love you with all my heart—with all my soul!"

None of these happenings did they ever breathe to Alice—time enough for that when the fear that haunted them all had passed. The mother had looked at them both in wonder when the two fell into line again, noting the new spring in their steps and the glad light in the girl\'s eyes, but she made no comment.

They had now reached a desolate region of oozy moss and dead trees; here they camped for the second night. It was a place even a hungry lynx would have avoided. The stillness was oppressive—a silence that one could hear. Before it grew quite dark this audible hush was twice broken by the plaintive note of a hermit thrush—a bird so shy that he leaves his mate, seeking his hermitage among forgotten places. The place was inanimate—dead like the trees—their skeletons rising weirdly from the spongy moss.

The moon rose at length, seemingly shedding its light over the desolate spot out of pity. Again Alice Thayor lay awake until long past midnight. The very deso............