In the other cabins the rest of the party managed to double, each
family taking one of the two rooms in each, and the women at least drew
a sigh of content that the long trail had at last found an end, however
unstable of tenure.

"Ah, Maren," said Marie Baptiste, sitting on the shining new log step
of her domicile, "what it is to have a home! Does it not clutch at your
heart sometimes, ma cherie, the desire for a home, and that which goes
with it, the love of a man?"

She raised her eyes to the face of Maren leaning above her against the
lintel, and they were full of a puzzled question.

Maren answered the look with a swift smile, toying lightly with a fold
of the faded sleeve rolled above her elbow.

"Home for me, Marie, is the wide blue sky above, the wind in the
tossing trees, the ripple of soft waters on the bow of a canoe. For
me,--I grieve that we have stopped. Not this year do we reach the Land
of the Whispering Hills."

A swift change had fallen into the depth of her golden voice, a subtle
wistfulness that sang with weird pathos, and the eyes raised toward the
western rim of the forest were suddenly far and sombre.

"Forgive!" said her sister gently; "I had forgot. I know the dream, but
is it not better that we rest and gain new strength for another season?
Here might well be home, here on this pretty river. We have come a
mighty length already. What could be fairer, cherie,--even though we
leave another to win to the untracked West."