listened. There was no reply, and Helen's fingers tightened on his
arm. Again he looked to her as though once more he asked the
explanation of her; the look hinted that upon occasion the father
leaned on the daughter more than she on him. He called again. His
voice died away echoless, the silence seeming heavier than before.
When one of the horses behind them, turning from the water, trod upon a
dry twig, both man and girl started. Then Helen laughed and went
forward again.

Since the fire had not lighted itself, it merely bespoke the presence
of a man. Men had no terror to her. In the ripe fullness of her
something less than twenty years she had encountered many of them.
While with due modesty she admitted that there was much in the world
that she did not know, she considered that she 'knew' men.

The two pressed on together. Before they had gone far they were
greeted by the familiar and vaguely comforting odours of boiling coffee
and frying bacon. Still they saw no one. They pushed through the last
clump of bushes and stood by the fire. On the coals was the black
coffee-pot. Cunningly placed upon two stones over a bed of coals was
the frying-pan. Helen stooped instinctively and lifted it aside; the
half-dozen slices of bacon were burned black.

'Hello!' shouted the man a third time, for nothing in the world was
more clear than that whoever had made the fire and begun his supper
preparations must be within call. But no answer came. Meantime the
night had deepened; there was no moon; the taller shrubs, aspiring to
tree proportions, made a tangle of shadow.

'He has probably gone off to picket his horse,' said Helen's father.