will be there--surely?"

"Yes," said the girl, softly; "I will be there--surely."

"Good! Feel the wind on your cheek? It is from the Southland, where I
am going. I have ventured--and I have not lost! It is something not to
lose, when one has ventured against many. They have my goods--but
I--"

"You?" repeated Virginia, as he hesitated.

"Ah, I don't go back empty-handed!" he cried. Her heart stood still,
then leaped in anticipation of what he would say. Her soul hungered
for the words, the words that should not only comfort her, but should
be to her the excuse for many things. She saw him--shadowy, graceful
against the dim gray of the river and sky--lean ever so slightly
toward her. But then he straightened again to his paddle, and
contented himself with repeating merely: "Quebec--in August, then."

The canoe grated. Ned Trent with an exclamation drove his paddle into
the clay.

"Lucky the bottom is soft here," said he; "I did not realize we were
so close ashore."

He drew the canoe up on the shelving beach, helped Virginia out, took
his rifle, and so stood ready to depart.

"Leave the canoe just where we got in," he advised; "it is around the
point, you see, and that may fool them a little."