"My name is Osborne Howland, of Pittsburgh, and this is my daughter Paula. In bloomers, as you see, but nevertheless my daughter. Meet also my friend and partner, Mr. Cornwall Brand."

The party exchanged greetings, and spent some moments giving utterance to those platitudes which are so useful in such circumstances, a sort of mental marking time preparatory to further mutual acquaintance.

The girl possessed that striking, dashing kind of brunette beauty that goes with good health, good living, and abundance of outdoor exercise.

She carried herself with that air of assured self-confidence that comes as the result of a somewhat wide experience of men, women and things.

She quite evidently scorned the conventions, as her garb, being quite masculine, her speech being outspoken and decorated with the newest and most ingenious slang, her whole manner being frankly impulsive, loudly proclaimed.

But Barry liked her at once, and made no pretence of concealing his liking. To her father, also, he was immediately drawn. As to Cornwall Brand, between whom and the girl there seemed to exist a sort of understanding, he was not so sure.

For half an hour or so they stood by the river exchanging their experiences in these northern wilds, and their views upon life in the wilderness and upon things in general. By a little skilful managing the girl got the young man away from the others, and then proceeded to dissect and classify him.

Through the open woods along the river bank they wandered, pausing here and there to admire the view, until they came to an overhanging bank at the entrance to a somewhat deep gorge, through which the river foamed to the boiling rapids below. It was indeed a beautiful scene. The banks of the river were covered with every variety of shrub and tree, except where the black rocks broke through; between the banks the dark river raged and fretted itself into a foam against its rocky barriers; over them arched the sky, a perfect blue.

"What a lovely view!" exclaimed the girl, seating herself upon the edge of the bank. "Now," she said, "tell me about yourself. You gave my pater a fearful fright this morning. He was quite paralysed when I came on him."

"I am very sorry," said the youth, "but I had no intention--"

"I know. I told him not to worry," replied the girl. "I knew you would be all right."

"And how, pray?" said the young man, blushing at the memory of his startling appearance upon that rock.

"I knew that any fellow who could take that dive wouldn't likely let himself drown. I guessed, too, that if you heard me hoot--"

"I did," said the youth.

"You sure would get slippy right away."

"I did."

"I guess you were pretty well startled yourself, weren't you?" said the girl, pursuing the subject with cool persistence.

"Rather," said the young man, blushing more violently, and wishing she would change the subject. "You are going out?" he enquired.

"Yes."

"To-day?"

"Now--right away."

"Too bad," he said, his disappointment evident in his tone.

"When are you going out? But who are you, anyway?" asked the girl. "You have to tell me that."

"My life story, so to speak?"

She nodded.

"It's very short and simple, like the annals of the poor," he replied.

"From England in infancy, on a ranch in northern Alberta for ten years, a puny little wretch I was, terribly bothered with asthma, then"--the boy hesitated a moment--"my mother died, father moved to Edmonton, lived there for five years, thence to Wapiti, away northwest of Edmonton, our present home, prepared for college by my father, university course in Winnipeg, graduated in theology a year ago, now the missionary in charge of Wapiti and the surrounding district."

"A preacher!" said the girl, her face and her tone showing her disappointment only too plainly.

"Not much of a preacher, I fear," said the young man with a smile. "A missionary, rather. That's my story."

She noticed with some chagrin that he did not ask for hers.

"What are you doing here?" she enquired.

He hesitated a moment or two.

"Dad and I always take a trip into the wilds every summer." Then he added after a few moments' pause, "But of course we have other business on hand up here."

"Business? Up here?"

"Yes. Dad has some." He made as if to continue, but changed his mind and fell into silence, leaving her piqued by his reserve and by his apparent indifference to the things concerning herself. She did not know that he was eagerly hoping that she would supply this information.

At length he ventured, "Must you go away to-day?"

"I don't suppose there's any 'must' about it."

"Why not stay?"

"Why should I?"

"Oh, it would be jolly," he cried. "You see, we could--explore about here--and,"--he ended rather lamely,--"it's a lovely country."

"We've seen a lot of it. It IS lovely," she said, her eyes upon his face as if appraising him. "I should like to know you better," she added, with sudden and characteristic frankness, "so I think we will stay. But you will have to be awfully good to me."

"Why, of course," he cried. "That's splendid! Perfectly jolly!"

"Then we had better find father and tell him. Come along," she ordered, and led the way back to the camp.

The young man followed her, wondering at her, and giving slight heed to the chatter she flung over her shoulder at him as she strode along through the bushes.

"What's the matter with you?" she cried, facing round upon him. "You were thinking about me, I know. Confess, now."

"I was," he acknowledged, smiling at her.

"What were you thinking? Tell me," she insisted.

"I was thinking--" He paused.

"Go on!" she cried.

"I was thinking of what your father said about you."

"My father? About me? What did he say? To you?"

"No. To dad."