"At Glen West? He has been here, and you have seen him? Are you sure?"

"I am certain. I was with him this afternoon in the canoe. But,
daddy, what is the matter? Oh, don't get angry. I didn't do anything
wrong."

Jim Weston had risen to his feet, and was looking down upon his
daughter. He was a powerfully-built man, of more than ordinary height.
The northern winter was in his thick hair and heavy moustache, while
his steady light-blue eyes and firm, well-built chin betokened a strong
will power of unyielding determination. Glen had often expressed her
unbounded admiration for her father, and believed him to be the most
handsome man in the world. But now he seemed like an avenging god,
about to visit upon her the force of his wrath. For the first time in
her life she cowered before him, and hid her face in her hands.

"And you say that your rescuer is here?" Weston at length asked. "When
did he come, and where is he staying?"

"We saved him from a raft out on the lake just before that fearful
storm," Glen faintly replied. "He was almost dead, and in a minute
more he would have been drowned. Oh, it was terrible! He is now at
Sconda's."

"Another miner's trick, I suppose, to get here," Weston growled. "It
has been tried before, but with scanty success. This must be one more
fool who was trying the same game."

"He is not a fool," Glen stoutly protested, lifting her eyes defiantly