off his face. She recognized him as the man who had thrown the logger
down the slip that day at noon,--presumably Jack Fyfe. A sturdily built
man about thirty, of Saxon fairness, with a tinge of red in his hair and
a liberal display of freckles across nose and cheek bones. He was no
beauty, she decided, albeit he displayed a frank and pleasing
countenance. That he was a remarkably strong and active man she had seen
for herself, and if the firm round of his jaw counted for anything, an
individual of considerable determination besides. Miss Benton conceived
herself to be possessed of considerable skill at character analysis.

He put away his handkerchief, took up his rifle, settled his hat, and
strode off toward the camp. Her attention now diverted from the
Siwashes, she watched him, saw him go to her brother's quarters, stand
in the door a minute, then go back to the beach accompanied by Charlie.

In a minute or so he came rowing across in a skiff, threw his deer
aboard, and pulled away north along the shore.

She watched him lift and fall among the waves until he turned a point,
rowing with strong, even strokes. Then she walked home. Benton was
poring over some figures, but he pushed aside his pencil and paper when
she entered.

"You had a visitor, I see," she remarked.

"Yes, Jack Fyfe. He picked up a deer on the ridge behind here and
borrowed a boat to get home."

"I saw him come out of the woods," she said. "His camp can't be far from
here, is it? He only left the Springs as you came in. Does he hunt deer