Swickey climbed from the edge of the river to the woods above. Here she turned to look once more at the gorge, where the released waters, dotted here and there with stray logs, churned between the black boulders, and swept roaring round the bend below. Again she seemed to see Joe Smeaton’s lonely figure, drenched with spray, as he waved that gallantly grotesque farewell. Tears welled beneath her lids and she bit her lips to keep from sobbing. She longed to be at home, alone with Smoke. Listlessly she passed along the trail, blind to the afternoon sunshine that hung soft, radiant banners between the arches of the mast-high trees; banners that trailed and flickered from bole to bole, touching the gray-green lichens with wavering gold. Unconsciously she saw the stones in the roadway and the little streams that winked between the pebbles in the wagon ruts. So at one with her grief was she that she did not notice the two figures plodding ahead of her in the distance until one of them laughed as the other, endeavoring to jump across a muddy pool, slipped and fell with a splashing and scrambling to secure a footing.

She glanced up quickly. The taller of the two men was standing, arms akimbo, laughing at his companion, who scraped the slimy mud from his clothes with a deliberation that did not lack humor.

“It’s Dave!—and that Mr. Bascomb.”

The joy of seeing David again flashed across her lips in a quick smile, but faded in the gloom of the recent tragedy. She wanted to feel happy, if for nothing else than to make David’s welcome what it should be, but her heart quailed at the thought of meeting him now. She felt it would be disloyal to the memory of the men whom she had just seen swept away from the world and its sunshine, to allow herself the innocent happiness that David’s coming meant. She knew she must meet him sooner or later, and some of her characteristic determination came to her as she quickened her pace.

David and his companion had gone on—were walking faster than she. Why not allow them to reach the camp before her? But the sight of David had awakened something of the Swickey of three years ago. She hesitated; then called.

Neither David nor Bascomb heard her. She hollowed her hands and called through them: “Dave, it’s Swickey.”

They stopped and turned. Neither of them seemed to know where the call came from until David recognized her figure and, with a word to Bascomb, left him and came to where she stood.

“Well, Swickey!”

He put out both hands and she took them. His eyes told her he had found another than the Swickey he used to know, and yet—

“What is it, Dave?” she asked simply.

“I’m looking for Swickey; this is Nanette.”

“Oh, Dave,” she cried, restraining a sob, “I’ll never be Swickey again. Andy Slocum and Joe—Joe Smeaton—have been killed—in the gorge—the logs—oh, it was horrible! Andy fell and Joe tried to get him out—and they’re both gone.”

She pulled her hands from his and covered her face.

“Great Heavens, Swickey! Killed? When? On the drive?”

“Just now,” she sobbed. “I just came from there and I want to go home.”

“Come,” he said quietly.

Silently they walked along. Bascomb had gone ahead of them, for which she felt a grateful relief. Presently David spoke.

“Was either of the men a—any one whom I knew?” he asked.

“Joe asked me to marry him, but—”

“I beg your pardon, Swickey. I didn’t mean to be inquisitive, but you seemed to feel so badly about it—”

“It was different—Andy—but Joe. Oh, I wish I could have told him—what I wanted to.”

David thought he understood and kept silent as they walked up the slope toward the camp. He could not help noticing the change in her: the neat, trim figure, lithely erect; the easy, natural stride; the maturing fullness of the softly rounded cheek and throat; the great, heavy braids of dusky hair that were caught up beneath her cap and showed so sharply against her present pallor; the firm, slender brown hands.... He drew a long breath and turned his eyes from her toward his cabin, where Bascomb sat, pack-sack beside him, wreathed in films of smoke that drifted from his pipe.

Even with his knowledge of the accident, and her grief, so manifest, a little pang of something akin to jealousy gripped him. So she was to have been married.... When he had thought of her during his absence, it was of the girl who “wanted him—just him and no one else.” He had never dreamed of being anything more than a friend to her, even then. But now.... He brushed the thought aside with a touch of self-accusing anger.

“Wallie, this is Miss Avery.”

Bascomb, who had arisen as they approached, laid down his pipe and shook hands with her gravely. He noticed traces of her agitation and refrained from making one of his characteristic remarks, bowing as she excused herself and hastened toward the camp.

“Swickey’s all broken up about the accident. Two men just killed in the gorge—on the drive. I don’t know just how it happened.”

“Great Scott! Two of them killed? In the gorge? Why, we passed there less than an hour ago. Say, Davy, I’m going back and—”

“I wouldn’t, Wallie—not now.”

Bascomb hesitated; then he turned toward David.

“Your’re right, as usual, Davy,—I won’t.”

He picked up his pipe and relighted it.

“Davy, look!” Smoke was leaping straight up, as Swickey pointed toward them. Finally, he saw the figures in David’s doorway, and springing from her, flashed across the clearing and bounded against David, then crouched and rolled on his back, legs kicking wildly as he whined and barked in sheer happiness. “Well, Smoke!”

At the sound of Bascomb’s voice he stood up and shook himself. Then he marched to his old master, sniffed at him once or twice, and then jumped up, standing with his paws on Bascomb’s chest.

“I know you’d kiss me if I didn’t smoke, wouldn’t you, old chap? Horrid habit, isn’t it? My! but you’re looking fit. Killed anybody lately?”

The dog dropped to the ground and ran from one to the other, uncertain as to which he owed more affection. Unwittingly Swickey solved the difficulty by bringing the key of David’s cabin. When she went back to her father’s camp, Smoke, after some serious hesitation, followed her slowly.

“Smoke seems to realize the situation is a bit complicated,” said Wallie, as the dog disappeared in the other cabin.

“I don’t know,” replied David, throwing open the door and entering his old familiar quarters. “But he seems to have made a pretty wise choice.”

“I don’t know how wise it is—but it’s a pretty one, anyway. Your little friend Swickey is simply stunning, Davy. My! what a complexion. No wonder you were in a ‘swesperation’ to get back to her. She’d make the niftiest show-girl in Boston look like the morning after.”

David, busily unpacking his knapsack, grumbled something about having forgotten to bring extra blankets.

“Blankets? Don’t you worry, Davy. Uncle Walt can bunk anywhere after that walk. Why, I’ll brace the Cy—Avery for a pair if it’s necessary.”

“That reminds me, Walt. Remember that letter you wrote to me—the one in which you sent your regards to the Cyclops and the siren child?”

“Sure thing. What about it?”

“Nothing, except I lost it and Swickey found it.”

“Whew!”

Bascomb’s whistle expressed a realization of untold possibilities.

“She’s keeping it for me,” said David, smiling as he watched Wallie’s expression. “I told her it wasn’t important enough to forward.”

“Well, you long-legged idiot, what did you do that for?”

“I didn’t want it. You may claim it yourself if you want to.”

“But she don’t know what’ Cyclops’ means, Davy. Great CÆsar! I’m a goner if she does.”

“Swickey has been going to school for two years, Wallie, and she isn’t slow. You can never tell.”

“Oh, well, I’ve got to square myself with Avery anyway. He’s had it in for me ever since I desecrated his Eden with survey-stakes. Speaking of stakes, did you notice the N. M. & Q. iron was laid up to the creek below Jim Cameron’s?”

“No, I didn’t. I was thinking of something else.”

“Asbestos?”

“Yes. Livingstone and the committee will be up here in a few days and I was wondering what we—that is, where we could put them if they stay overnight.”

“Oh, Livy’s a good sort—about as good a mining expert as there is east of the Rockies, and that’s going some. They’re satisfied with his report (you know I had him up here the first year I was in—before you came), but I think they want an excuse to annex a private car and take a joy-ride. Say, can’t I help you tidy up a bit, or something?”

“No, you sit still and talk. I’ll get the bunks straightened out in a minute.”

“All right, Mary. Don’t forget to sweep under the bed.”

“For that impertinence you may go over and get an armful of wood. I’m hungry—and you’ll have to eat my cooking. That’s my revenge.”

“I’ll annex the wood-pile—but your cooking—I don’t know. Here, where are you going?”

“Over to the house to borrow a few groceries to feed you. Come on.”

Wallie seemed in no hurry to be up and doing.

“No, I’ll interview the wood-pile.”

He glanced at his muddy clothes. David laughed.

“’Tis not alone my inky cloak—there are other reasons,” said Bascomb, with mock-seriousness. “And by heck! here comes one of them like Ulysses on the home stretch. Well, Davy, when you write, tell them I died a hero.”

As Avery, coming up the slope, saw the figures near David’s cabin, his grim features lightened.

“The boy’s back ag’in,” he exclaimed, quickening his pace. “And the surveyor feller, too, I take it.”

They went to meet him as he hurried up the hill.

“Wal, how be you, Dave? I’m a’mighty glad to see you ag’in.” His fist closed over David’s fingers vigorously.

“First rate, Avery. You’ve met Mr. Bascomb?”

“Ya-a-s,” replied the old man, shaking hands with Wallie, “I have. Dave’s been tellin’ me how you jined forces—goin’ to dig asbestos t’gither. Wal, they’s plenty of it to dig.”

“And how have you been?” asked David.

“Oh, middlin’—fur a Cyclocks,”—he glanced shrewdly at Bascomb,—“whatever thet be.”

Wallie flushed despite himself. He hesitated, and then, glancing at David, stepped up to Avery.

“See here, Mr. Avery, I know all about that letter having been lost and found by your daughter. I didn’t suppose you would ever see it, and I beg your pardon.”

“Ya-a-s,” replied Avery noncommittally.

Bascomb, taken aback by Avery’s cool acceptance of his apology, was tempted to let the matter drop right there; but the simple dignity of the old man, as he stood silently before them, awoke an impulse that he hastened to express.

“I want to apologize to your daughter also.”

“Say nothin’ more about it,” interrupted Avery. “Mebby I be a Cyclocks, but seein’ as I ain’t eddicated up to knowin’ it, it don’t bother me none. Howcome I ain’t speakin’ fur Swickey. She’s been goin’ to school.”

Avery’s shoulders straightened perceptibly.

As they walked toward the camp, Avery asked them if Swickey had told them of the catastrophe in the gorge. “Swickey never said much, but I reckon she sot some store by Joe. He would ’a’ crawled from here to Tramworth fur her—and he went down a’tween them hell-grindin’ logs like a feller goin’ to a dance. Wal, ’t ain’t the fust time I’ve seen ’em go.—You’re comin’ in to eat, ain’t you?” he asked, as David said something about borrowing some bacon and flour.

“Thanks, but we’ll have supper in my cabin to-night.”

“Can’t see no sense in thet. Swickey’s got ’most everything ready. You jest come in and feel to home.”

David glanced at Bascomb. “We’ll manage to-night, anyway.”

He caught the glance of quick approval in Swickey’s eyes, and after some joking about running two establishments to feed five people, he borrowed what he needed for supper and followed Bascomb to his own cabin, where they cooked and ate a meal that “escaped criticism merely because there wasn’t enough of it to criticize,” as Wallie remarked, with an omnivorous eye on the thirteenth and last biscuit.