seemed that the canoe had taken the fatal plunge which he was
dreading. Every minute he figured the distance from the shore, and
his chances of swimming it if they were overturned. And then,
after a long time, there came a sudden lull in the wind, and the
seas grew less rough. Jean's voice came from near them, filled
with a thrill of relief.

"We are behind the point," he shouted. "Another mile and we will
enter the Snowbird, M'sieur!"

Philip leaned forward in the gloom. Josephine's cap had fallen
off, and for a moment his hand rested on her wet and wind-blown
hair.

"Did you hear that?" he cried. "We're almost home."

"Yes," she shivered. "And I'm glad--glad--"

Was it an illusion of his own, or did she seem to shiver and draw
away from him AT THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND? Even in the blackness he
could FEEL that she was huddled forward, her face in her hands.
She did not speak to him again. When they entered the smooth water
of the Snowbird, Jean's canoe drew close in beside them, but not a
word fell from Croisset. Like shadows they moved up the stream
between two black walls of forest. A steadily increasing
excitement, a feeling that he was upon the eve of strange events,
grew stronger in Philip. His arms and back ached, his legs were
cramped, the last of his splendid strength had been called upon in
the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this exhaustion in
anticipation of the hour that was drawing near. He knew that Adare