"I'm not so sure about that," replied the father, gloomily. "People always listen to such stories, and a girl always gets the worst of a situation like this. Berrie's been brought up to take care of herself, and she's kept clear of criticism so far; but with Cliff on edge and this old rip snooping around--" His mind suddenly changed. "Your being the son of a rich man won't help any. Why didn't you tell me who you were?"

"I didn't think it necessary. What difference does it make? I have nothing to do with my father's business. His notions of forest speculation are not mine."

"It would have made a difference with me, and it might have made a difference with Berrie. She mightn't have been so free with you at the start, if she'd known who you were. You looked sick and kind of lonesome, and that worked on her sympathy."

"I _was_ sick and I was lonesome, and she has been very sweet and lovely to me, and it breaks my heart to think that her kindness and your friendship should bring all this trouble and suspicion upon her. Let's go up to the Moore camp and have it out with them. I'll make any statement you think best."

"I reckon the less said about it the better," responded the older man.

"I'm going up to the camp, but not to talk about my daughter."

"How can you help it? They'll force the topic."

"If they do, I'll force them to let it alone," retorted McFarlane; but he went away disappointed and sorrowful. The young man's evident avoidance of the subject of marriage hurt him. He did not perceive, as Norcross did, that to make an announcement of his daughter's engagement at this moment would be taken as a confession of shameful need. It is probable that Berrie herself would not have seen this further complication.

Each hour added to Wayland's sense of helplessness and bitterness. "I am in a trap. I can neither help Berrie nor help myself. Nothing remains for me but flight, and flight will also be a confession of guilt."

Once again, and in far more definite terms, he perceived the injustice of the world toward women. Here with Berrie, as in ages upon ages of other times, the maiden must bear the burden of reproach. "In me it will be considered a joke, a romantic episode, in her a degrading misdemeanor.

And yet what can I do?"

When he re-entered the cabin the Supervisor had returned from the camp, and something in his manner, as well as in Berrie's, revealed the fact that the situation had not improved.

"They forced me into a corner," McFarlane said to Wayland, peevishly. "I lied out of one night; but they know that you were here last night. Of course, they were respectful enough so long as I had an eye on them, but their tongues are wagging now."

The rest of the evening was spent in talk on the forest, and in going over the ranger's books, for the Supervisor continued to plan for Wayland's stay at this station, and the young fellow thought it best not to refuse at the moment.

As bedtime drew near Settle took a blanket and went to the corral, and Berrie insisted that her father and Wayland occupy the bunk.

Norcross protested; but the Supervisor said: "Let her alone. She's better able to sleep on the floor than either of us."

This was perfectly true; but, in spite of his bruised and aching body, the youth would gladly have taken her place beside the stove. It seemed pitifully unjust that she should have this physical hardship in addition to her uneasiness of mind.

X

THE CAMP ON THE Pa.s.s

Berea suffered a restless night, the most painful and broken she had known in all her life. She acknowledged that Siona Moore was prettier, and that she stood more nearly on Wayland's plane than herself; but the realization of this fact did not bring surrender--she was not of that temper. All her life she had been called upon to combat the elements, to hold her own amidst rude men and inconsiderate women, and she had no intention of yielding her place to a pert coquette, no matter what the gossips might say. She had seen this girl many times, but had refused to visit her house. She had held her in contempt, now she quite cordially hated her.

"She shall not have her way with Wayland," she decided. "I know what she wants--she wants him at her side to-morrow; but I will not have it so.

She is trying to get him away from me."

The more she dwelt on this the hotter her jealous fever burned. The floor on which she lay was full of knots. She could not lose herself in sleep, tired as she was. The planks no longer turned their soft spots to her flesh, and she rolled from side to side in torment. She would have arisen and dressed only she did not care to disturb the men. The night seemed interminable.

Her plan of action was simple. "I shall go home the morrow and take Wayland with me. I will not have him going with that girl--that's settled!" The very thought of his taking Siona's hand in greeting angered her beyond reason.

She had put Cliff Belden completely out of her mind, and this was characteristic of her. She had no divided interests, no subtleties, no subterfuges. Forthright, hot-blooded, frank and simple, she had centered all her care, all her desires, on this pale youth whose appeal was at once mystic and maternal; but her pity was changing to something deeper, for she was convinced that he was gaining in strength, that he was in no danger of relapse. The hard trip of the day before had seemingly done him no permanent injury; on the contrary, a few hours' rest had almost restored him to his normal self. "To-morrow he will be able to ride again." And this thought reconciled her to her hard bed. She did not look beyond the long, delicious day which they must spend in returning to the Springs.

She fell asleep at last, and was awakened only by her father tinkering about the stove.

She rose alertly, signing to the Supervisor not to disturb her patient.

However, Norcross also heard the rattle of the poker, opened his eyes and regarded Berrie with sleepy smile. "Good morning, if it _is_ morning," he said, slowly.

She laughed back at him. "It's almost sunup."

"You don't tell me! How could I have overslept like this? Makes me think of the Irishman who, upon being awakened to an early breakfast like this, ate it, then said to his employer, an extra thrifty farmer, 'Two suppers in wan night--and hurrah for bed again.'"

This amused her greatly. "It's too bad. I hope you got some sleep?"

"All there was time for." His voice changed. "I feel like a hound-pup, to be snoring on a downy couch like this while you were roughing it on the floor. How did I come to do it? It's shameful!"

"Don't worry about me. How are you feeling this morning?"

He stretched and yawned. "Fine! That is, I'm sore here and there, but I'm feeling wonderfully well. Do you know, I begin to hope that I can finally dominate the wilderness. Wouldn't it be wonderful if I got so I could ride and walk as you do, for instance? The fact that I'm not dead this morning is encouraging." He drew on his shoes as he talked, while she went about her toilet, which was quite as simple as his own. She had spent two nights in her day dress with almost no bathing facilities; but that didn't trouble her. It was a part of the game. She washed her face and hands in Settle's tin basin, but drew the line at his rubber comb.

There was a distinct charm in seeing her thus adapting herself to the cabin, a charm quite as powerful as that which emanated from Siona Moore's dainty and theatrical personality. What it was he could not define, but the forester's daughter had something primeval about her, something close to the soil, something which aureoles the old Saxon words--_wife_ and _home_ and _fireplace_. Seeing her through the savory steam of the bacon she was frying, he forgot her marvelous skill as horsewoman and pathfinder, and thought of her only as the housewife. She belonged here, in this cabin. She was fitted to this landscape, whereas the other woman was alien and dissonant.

He moved his arms about and shook his legs with comical effect of trying to see if they were still properly hinged. "It's miraculous! I'm not lame at all. No one can accuse me of being a 'lunger' now. Last night's sleep has made a new man of me. I've met the forest and it is mine."

She beamed upon him with happy pride. "I'm mighty glad to hear you say that. I was terribly afraid that long, hard walk in the rain had been too much for you. I reckon you're all right for the work now."

He recalled, as she spoke, her anguish of pity while they stood in the darkness of the trail, and it seemed that he could go no farther, and he said, soberly: "It must have seemed to you one while as if I were all in.

I felt that way myself. I was numb from head to heel. I couldn't have gone another mile."

Her face clouded with retrospective pain. "You mustn't try any more such stunts--not for a few weeks, anyway. But get ready for breakfast."

He went out into the morning exultantly, and ran down to the river to bathe his face and hands, allured by its splendid voice. The world seemed very bright and beautiful and health-giving once more.

As soon as she was alone with her father, Berrie said: "I'm going home to-day, dad."

"Going home! What for?"

"I've had enough of it."

He glanced at her bed on the floor. "I can't say I blame you any. This has been a rough trip; but we'll go up and bring down the outfit, and then we men can sleep in the tent and let you have the bunk--you'll be comfortable to-night."

"Oh, I don't mind sleeping on the floor," she replied; "but I want to get back. I don't want to meet those women. Another thing, you'd better use Mr. Norcross at the Springs instead of leaving him here with Tony."

"Why so?"

"Well, he isn't quite well enough to run the risk. It's a long way from here to a doctor."

"He 'pears to be on deck this morning. Besides, I haven't anything in the office to offer him."

"Then send him up to Meeker. Landon needs help, and he's a better forester than Tony, anyway."