the silence the door opened, and Pete and Sylvie came into the room.
Wet and storm-beaten and beautiful they were, with scarlet cheeks.

Pete came quickly over to Hugh's chair; he let fall his pack and gazed
resolutely down at his brother's face.

"Sylvie had a fancy to come with me to the trading-station," he said.
"She came out after me and didn't overtake me until just where the
trail comes out into the road. We hurried back, but the storm caught
us. It was pitch-black in the woods; we couldn't keep the trail. We
had to wait for daylight. I hope you weren't too anxious about her,
Hugh.--Bella"--he glanced over his shoulder--"could you make us some
hot coffee and help Sylvie into some dry clothes? We are properly
drenched, both of us."

This speaker of terse, authoritative sentences was not the boy that
had gone out that morning. That boy was gone forever.

Hugh stood up and looked slowly from Sylvie, who had stayed near the
door and held her head up like a queen, to Pete.

"Where were you," he asked gently--"where were you while it stormed?"

Pete moved toward the fire, holding out his hands. "Ugh!" he shivered,
"I'm numb with cold."

"Where were you," Hugh repeated, "during the storm?"

Pete lifted his eyes slowly. They were bluer than the blue heart of
a sapphire. "Under a pine-tree," he answered casually enough, and