Her interested gaze followed the camp tender as it swung around the
wharf-end, and so her roaming eyes were led to another craft drawing
near. This might be her brother's vessel. She went back to the outer
landing to see.

Two men manned this boat. As she ranged alongside the piles, one stood
forward, and the other aft with lines to make fast. She cast a look at
each. They were prototypes of the rude crew but now departed,
brown-faced, flannel-shirted, shod with calked boots, unshaven for days,
typical men of the woods. But as she turned to go, the man forward and
almost directly below her looked her full in the face.

"Stell!"

She leaned over the rail.

"Charlie Benton--for Heaven's sake."

They stared at each other.

"Well," he laughed at last. "If it were not for your mouth and eyes,
Stell, I wouldn't have known you. Why, you're all grown up."

He clambered to the wharf level and kissed her. The rough stubble of his
beard pricked her tender skin and she drew back.

"My word, Charlie, you certainly ought to shave," she observed with
sisterly frankness. "I didn't know you until you spoke. I'm awfully glad
to see you, but you do need _some one_ to look after you."