the wind was rippin' an' roarin' through the woods, down the valleys,
an' along the mountain passes. That's the music fer me!"

"You seem to love this country," Reynolds remarked, as he noted the
intense admiration upon his companion's face.

"I sartinly do, young man. It grips me jist as soon as I cross this
range. Thar's nuthin' like it to my way of thinkin', though it takes
ye years to find it out. Yet, it doesn't altogether satisfy the soul,
although it helps. Thar's something within a man that needs more'n the
mountains an' the wonderful things around him. But, thar, I must see
what Curly's doin'. He may be up to some more mischief."

Although Reynolds was much interested in the scenery and in listening
to the philosophy of the old prospector, yet his mind turned
continually to Glen, for it was by that name he now thought of her. He
knew that she was on the train, for he had seen her as she stepped
aboard but a few minutes before it left the coast. She had passed
close to where he was standing, carrying a grip in her hand. He had
caught sight of the leather tag fastened to the handle of the grip, and
had strained his eyes in a futile effort to read the name written
thereon. He was determined in some manner to find out what that name
was, as he feared lest he should lose her altogether when the journey
by rail was ended. He must have something more definite than the one
word Glen.

This opportunity was afforded him when he entered the principal hotel
of the little town of Whitehorse at the terminus of the railway. It
was just across the street from the station, and when he arrived at the
office she was there before him, and about to enter her name in the