Now, however, the young man had not only to trade his pelts but to
trap them, and for this business of trapping which was distasteful
to him, he had not a tithe of Hugh's skill. His bundle of pelts
brought him a sorry supply of necessities. He was ashamed, himself,
and having dumped the burden from his shoulders to the kitchen floor
would hurry into the other room, not to see Bella's expression when
she opened her bundles.

To-night Pete was tired; the load had not been heavy, but the snow
was beginning to soften under the mild glowing of an April sun, and
his skis had tugged at his feet and gathered a clogging mass. His
body ached, and there was a sullen and despairing weight upon his
spirit. A mob of rebels danced in his heart. He watched Hugh's face,
saw the flaring adoration of his eyes, thought that Sylvie must feel
the scorch of them on her cheek, so close. In his own eyes there
showed a brooding fire.

Bella broke into the room.

"Look here," she said, "you'd better get to trapping again, Hugh
Garth. Pete's pelts don't bring a quarter of what we need--especially
these days."

Sylvie quivered as though a wound had been touched. "Oh, you mean
me," she said, "I know you mean me. I'm making trouble. I'm eating
too much. I'll go. Pete, has anybody been asking about me at the
post-office, trying to find me? They _must_ be hunting for me." She
had stood up and was clasping and unclasping her hands. Hugh and Pete
protested in one breath: "Nonsense, Sylvie!"