Fifteen minutes later they were thrusting themselves through the
crowd of men, women, children, and dogs congregated at the foot of
the long stone pier alongside which the ship would lie for two or
three hours at each high tide. Philip stopped among a number of
Crees and half-breeds, and laid a detaining hand upon Gregson's
arm.

"This is near enough, if you don't want to make yourself
conspicuous," he said.

The York boat was returning. Philip pulled a cigar from his pocket
and lighted it. He felt his heart throbbing excitedly as the boat
drew nearer. He looked at Gregson. The artist was taking short,
quick puffs on his cigarette, and Philip wondered at the evident
eagerness with which he was watching the approaching craft.

Until the boat ran close up under the pier its sail hid the
occupants. While the canvas still fluttered in the light wind
Bludsoe sprang from the bow out upon the rocks with a rope. Three
or four of his men followed. With a rattle of blocks and rings the
sheet dropped like a huge white curtain, and Philip took a step
forward, scarce restraining the exclamation that forced itself to
his lips at the picture which it revealed. Standing on the broad
rail, her slender form poised for the quick upward step, one hand
extended to Bludsoe, was Eileen Brokaw! In another instant she was
upon the pier, facing the strange people before her, while her
father clambered out of the boat behind. There was a smile of
expectancy on her lips as she scanned the dark, silent faces of
the forest people. Philip knew that she was looking for him. His