and he fell to analyzing the forest scents, the odors of mould and
rotting vegetation, the resiny smells of pine cones and needles, the
aromatic savors of many camp-smokes. Twice Fairfax looked up, but said
nothing, and then:

"And ... Emily ...?"

"Three years a widow; still a widow."

Another long silence settled down, to be broken by Fairfax finally
with a naïve smile. "I guess you're right, Van Brunt. I'll go along."

"I knew you would." Van Brunt laid his hand on Fairfax's shoulder. "Of
course, one cannot know, but I imagine--for one in her position--she
has had offers--"

"When do you start?" Fairfax interrupted.

"After the men have had some sleep. Which reminds me, Michael is
getting angry, so come and eat."

After supper, when the Crees and _voyageurs_ had rolled into their
blankets, snoring, the two men lingered by the dying fire. There was
much to talk about,--wars and politics and explorations, the doings
of men and the happening of things, mutual friends, marriages,
deaths,--five years of history for which Fairfax clamored.

"So the Spanish fleet was bottled up in Santiago," Van Brunt was
saying, when a young woman stepped lightly before him and stood by
Fairfax's side. She looked swiftly into his face, then turned a