Mr. Gerald Ainley in the meadow outside the Post, looked towards the river bank with smiling eyes. Where Hubert Stane's little tent had been the now showed an unbroken line, and he found that fact a source of satisfaction. Then between the willows he caught sight of a moving figure, and after one glance at it, began to hurry forward. A moment later the figure emerged from the willows and stood on the edge of the meadow, revealing its identity as that of the English girl with whom he had walked on the previous day. Without observing him the girl turned round and began to walk towards the Indian encampment and Ainley immediately altered his course, walking quickly so as to her. He joined her about a score of paces from the tents and smilingly his cap.  
"Good morning, Miss Yardely. You are astir early."
 
Helen Yardely laughed lightly. "It is impossible to do anything else in this country, where it is daylight all the time, and birds are crying half the night. Besides we are to make a start after breakfast."
 
"Yes, I know; I'm going with you."
 
"You are going with us, Mr. Ainley!" There was a little note of surprise in the girl's tones. "My uncle has not mentioned it!"
 
"No! It was only finally last night; though from the beginning of the excursion it has been . Sir James is making notes of his journey which I am to supplement. I believe he has an idea of bringing out a book describing the journey!"
 
"Which you are to write, I suppose?" laughed the girl.
 
"Well," countered the man also laughing, "I am to act as amanuensis. And after all you know I am in the service of the Company, whose fortunes Sir James directs."
 
"He may direct them," answered the girl lightly, "but it is other men who carry them—the men of the wilds who bring the furs to the posts, and the traders who live in from year's end to year's end. You must not take my uncle quite so seriously as he takes himself, Mr. Ainley."
 
Gerald Ainley smiled. "You forget, Miss Yardely, he can make or break a man who is in the Company's service."
 
"Perhaps!" laughed the girl. "Though if I were a man I should not so easily be made or broken by another. I should make myself and see that none broke me." She paused as if waiting for an answer, then as her companion continued silent, changed the topic. "By the by, I see that your acquaintance of other days has removed himself!"
 
"Yes," answered Ainley, "I noticed that."
 
"He must have gone in the night."
 
"Yes," was the reply. "I suppose he folded his tent like the Arabs and as silently stole away."
 
"I daresay the meeting with an old acquaintance was distasteful to him."
 
"That is possible," answered Ainley. "When a man has buried himself in this wild land he will hardly wish to be resurrected."
 
"And yet he did not appear to avoid you yesterday?" said the girl thoughtfully.
 
"A impulse, I suppose," replied her companion easily. "I daresay he thought I might fraternise and forget the past."
 
"And you couldn't?"
 
"Well, scarcely. One does not fraternise with gaol-birds even for old time's sake."
 
They had now arrived at the tepees and as they halted, the flap of one was thrown aside, and Miskodeed emerged. She did not see them, as the moment she stepped into the open air her eyes turned towards the willows where Stane's camp had been. A look of sadness clouded the wild beauty of her face, and there was a light in her eyes.
 
"Ah!" whispered Helen Yardely. "She knows that he has gone."
 
"Perhaps it is just as well for her that he has," answered Ainley carelessly. "These marriages of the country are not always happy—for the woman."
 
Miskodeed caught the sound of his voice, and, turning suddenly, became aware of their presence. In an instant a swift change came over her face. Its sadness vanished instantly, and as her eyes flashing fiercely themselves upon Ainley, a look of scorn came on her face its bizarre beauty. She took a step forward as if she would speak to the white man, then changed her mind, and swinging abruptly on her heel, re-entered the tent. Helen Yardely glanced swiftly at her companion, and surprised a look of something very like in his eyes.
 
"That was very queer!" she said quickly.
 
"What was very queer?" asked Ainley.
 
"That girl's action. Did you see how she looked at you? She was going to speak to you and changed her mind."
 
Ainley laughed a trifle uneasily. "Possibly she blames me for the of her lover!"
 
"But why should she do that? She can hardly know of your previous acquaintance with him."
 
"You forget—she saw him speak to me yesterday!"
 
"Ah yes," was the girl's reply. "I had forgotten that." The notes of a , clear and silvery in the still air, floated across the meadow at that moment, and Gerald Ainley laughed.
 
"The breakfast bell! We must hurry, Miss Yardely. It will scarcely do to keep your uncle waiting."
 
They turned and hurried back to the Post, nothing more being said in reference to Miskodeed and Hubert Stane. And an hour later, in the of the departure, the whole matter was brushed aside by Helen Yardely, though now and again through the day, it to her mind as a rather unpleasant episode; and she found herself wondering how so fine a man as Stane could stoop to the of which many men in the North were guilty.
 
At the end of that day her uncle ordered the camp to be pitched on a little meadow backed by a sombre forest of spruce. And after the evening meal, in company with Gerald Ainley, she walked towards the timber where an was . The air was still, the sky above crystal clear, and the Northern horizon filled with a golden glow. As they reached the shadow of the spruce, and seated themselves on a fallen trunk, a fox barked somewhere in the of the wood, and from afar came the long-drawn howl of a wolf. Helen Yardely looked down the long reach of the river and her eyes fixed themselves on a tall crowned with spruce, distant perhaps a mile and a half away.
 
"I like the Wild," she said suddenly, breaking the silence that had been between them.
 
"It is all right," laughed Ainley, "when you can journey through it comfortably as we are doing."
 
"It must have its attractions even when comfort is not possible," said the girl , "for the men who live here live as nature meant man to live."
 
"On straight moose-meat—sometimes," laughed Ainley. "With bacon and beans and flour brought in from the outside for luxuries."
 
"I was not thinking of the food," answered the girl quickly. "I was thinking of the , the hardship—the Homeric labours of those who face the hazards of the North."
 
"Yes," agreed the man, "the labours are certainly Homeric, and there are men who like the life well enough, who have made fortunes here and have gone back to their kind in Montreal, New York, London, only to find that civilization has lost its attraction for them."
 
"I can understand that," was the quick reply. "There is something in the silence and wildness of vast spaces which gets into the blood. Only yesterday I was thinking how small and tame the lawns at home would look after this." She swept a hand in a half-circle, and then gave a little laugh. "I believe I could enjoy living up here."
 
Ainley laughed with her. "A year of this," he said, lightly, "and you would begin to hunger for parties and theatres and dances and books—and you would look to the Southland as to Eden."
 
"Do you really think so?" she asked seriously.
 
"I am sure of it," he answered with conviction.
 
"But I am not so sure," she answered slowly. "Deep down there must be something in me, for I find myself thrilling to all sorts of wild things. Last night I was talking with Mrs. Rodwell. Her husband used to be the trader up at Kootlach, and she was telling me of a white man who lived up there as a chief. He was a man of education, a graduate of and he preferred that life to the life of civilization. It seems he died, and was buried as a chief, wrapped in furs, a hunting spear by his side, all the tribe chanting a wild funeral chant! Do you know, as she described it, the dark woods, the barbaric burying, the wild chant, I was able to vision it all—and my sympathies were with the man, who, in spite of Oxford, had chosen to live his own life in his own way."
 
Ainley laughed. "You see it in the of romance," he said. "The reality I imagine was pretty beastly."
 
"Well!" replied the girl quickly. "What would life be without romance?"
 
"A dull thing," answered Ainley, , with a sudden flash of the eyes. "I am with you there, Miss Yardely, but romance does not lie in barbarism, for most men it is in a woman."
 
"Possibly! I suppose the mating instinct is the one elemental thing left in the modern world."
 
"It is the one thing," answered Ainley, with such emphasis of conviction that the girl looked at him in quick surprise.
 
"Why, Mr. Ainley, one would think that you—that you——" she hesitated, stumbled in her speech, and did not finish the sentence. Her companion had risen suddenly to his feet. The monocle had fallen from its place, and he was looking down at her with eyes that had a strange glitter.
 
"Yes," he cried, answering her unfinished . "Yes! I do know. That is what you would say, is it not? I have known since the day Sir James sent me to the station at Ottawa to meet you. The knowledge was born in me as I saw you stepping from the car. The one woman—my heart whispered it in that moment, and has shouted it ever since. Helen, I did not mean to speak yet, but—well, you see how it is with me! Tell me it is not altogether hopeless! You know what my position is; you know that in two years——"
 
Helen Yardely rose swiftly to her feet. Her beautiful face had paled a little. She stopped the flood of words with her lifted hand.
 
"Please, Mr. Ainley! There is no need to enter on such details."
 
"Then——"
 
"You have taken me by surprise," said the girl slowly. "I had no idea that you—that you—I have never thought of it."
 
"But you can think now, Helen," he said urgently. "I mean every word that I have said. I love you. You must see that—now. Let us join our lives together, and together find the romance for which you ."
 
The blood was back in the girl's cheeks now, running in tides, and there was a light in her grey eyes that made Ainley's pulse leap with hope, since he mistook it for something else. His passion was real enough, as the girl felt, and she was simple and elemental enough to be thrilled by it; but she was wise not to mistake the response in herself for the greater thing. The grey eyes looked into his for a moment, then a thoughtful look crept into them, and Ainley knew that for the moment he had lost.
 
"No," she said slowly, "no, I am not sure that would be wise. I do not feel as I ought to feel in taking such a decision as that. And besides——"
 
"Yes?" he said, urgently, as she paused. "Yes?"
 
"Well," she flushed a little, and her tongue stumbled among the words, "you are not quite the man—that I—that I have thought of—for—for——." She broke off again, laughed a little at herself and then confusedly: "You see all my life, from being a very little girl, I have worshipped heroes."
 
"And I am not a hero," said Ainley with a harsh laugh. "No! I am just the ordinary man doing the ordinary things, and my one claim to notice is that I love you! But suppose the occasion came? Suppose I——." He broke off and stood looking at her for a moment. Then he asked, "Would that make no difference?"
 
"It might," replied the girl, the shrinking from the of too severe a blow.
 
"Then I live for that occasion!" cried Ainley. "And who knows? In this wild land it may come any hour!"
 
As a matter of fact the occasion offered itself six days later—a Sunday, when Sir James Yardely had insisted on a day's rest. The various members of the party were employing their leisure according to their , and Ainley had gone after birds for the pot, whilst Helen Yardely, taking a small canoe, had paddled down stream to explore a where, according to one of the Indians, a colony of had established itself.
 
When Ainley returned with a couple of of wood partridges it was to find that the girl was still absent from the camp. The day wore on towards evening and still the girl had not returned, and her uncle became anxious, as did others of the party.
 
"Some one had better go to look for her, Ainley," said Sir James. "I gather that a mile or two down the river the current quickens, and that there are a number of islands where an inexpert canoeist may come to grief. I should never forgive myself if anything has happened to my niece."
 
"I will go myself, Sir James, and I will not return without her."
 
"Oh, I don't suppose anything very serious has happened," replied Sir James, with an uneasy laugh, "but it is just as well to take precautions."
 
"Yes, Sir James! I will go at once and take one of the Indians with me—one who knows the river. And it may be as well to send upstream also, as Miss Yardely may have changed her mind and taken that direction."
 
"Possibly so!" answered Sir James, turning away to give the necessary orders.
 
Gerald Ainley called one of the Indians to him, and ordered him to put three days' supply of food into the canoe, blankets and a small folding tent, and was just preparing to depart when Sir James drew near, and stared with evident surprise at the load in the canoe.
 
"Why, Gerald," he said, "you seem to have made preparations for a long search."
 
"That is only wise, Sir James. This river runs for sixty miles before it falls into the main river, and sixty miles will take a good deal of searching. If the search is a short one, and the food not needed, the burden of it will matter little; on the other hand——"
 
"In God's name go, boy—and bring Helen back!"
 
"I will do my best, Sir James."
 
The canoe pushed off, leaping forward under the combined propulsion of the paddles and the current, and round a tall bluff was soon out of sight of the camp.
 
The Indian in the bow of the canoe, after a little time, set the course slantingly across the current, making for the other side, and Ainley asked a sharp question. The Indian replied over his shoulder.
 
"The white Klootchman go to see the ! Beaver there!"
 
He jerked his head towards a creek now opening out on the further shore, and a look of came on Ainley's face. He said nothing however, though to any one observing him closely it must have been abundantly clear that he had no expectation of finding the missing girl at the place which the Indian indicated. As a matter of fact they did not. Turning into the creek they presently caught sounds that were new to Ainley, and he asked a question.
 
"It is the beavers. They the water with their tails!"
 
Two minutes later they came in sight of the dam and in the same moment the Indian turned the canoe towards a soft bar of sand. A few seconds later, having landed, he to the sand. A canoe had been beached there, and plain as the footprints which startled Crusoe, were the marks of moccasined feet going from and returning to the sand bar.
 
"White Klootchman been here!" said the Indian. "She go away. No good going to the beaver."
 
He turned to the canoe again, and Gerald Ainley turned with him, without a word in reply. There was no sign of disappointment on his face, nor when they struck the main current again did he even glance at the shore on either side. But seven miles further down, when the current visibly quickened, and a series of small spruce-clad islands began to come in view, standing out of the water for all the world like ships in battle line, a look of interest came on his face, and he began to look alertly in front of him and from side to side, all his demeanour betraying expectation.