flecked sky, Pete made out a moving shape. It slipped in and out;
it hesitated, hurried, paused, moved on. With a shudder of relief
and of surprise, Pete saw it; out from behind the great, close trunks
came Sylvie, her chin lifted, her hands stretched out on either side,
brushing the swinging branches along the trail, her small head turning
from this side to that, as though she listened in suspense.

Pete called out her name and ran quickly to meet her. Forgetting his
part of a dull, sullen boy, he spoke eagerly, catching her hand,
watching the warm, happy blush flow in her cheeks.

"Where were you?" she asked. She had stood to wait for him as soon
as his voice reached her. "I couldn't see--I mean, I lost the sound
of your steps. I've been following you for hours and hours and hours.
I was so afraid of being lost again that I didn't dare drop too far
behind."

"But why didn't you call to me? Why have you come? Is anything wrong
at home?"

Her fingers moved uncertainly in his grasp, like the fingers of a
shy child. "Nothing is wrong. I wanted to come with you. I wanted
to go to the trading-station and the post-office. I didn't dare ask
you to take me with you. I was afraid you'd send me home. I suppose
I'll be a nuisance, but--Oh, Pete, please be nice to me and take care
of me, won't you?" She paused, turned her face away from him and
smiled. "After all, since you have called me your wife before
witnesses, you ought to introduce me to your friends at the
trading-station, oughtn't you? They might think it was queer that
I should hide myself, now that the snow has gone."