This was a matter of fact; but Kitty Blake had produced a deeper effect
on him, although he was not yet aware of it.

"It's a shame to keep you handing me things to eat," he added
disconnectedly. "Still, I'd like another piece."

She smiled delightfully as she passed the food to him.

"You can't help yourself and steer the boat. Besides--after the
restaurant--I don't mind waiting on you."

Vane made no comment, but he watched her with satisfaction while he ate.
There was no sign of the others; they were alone on the waste of tumbling
water in the early dawn. The girl was pretty, and there was a pleasing
daintiness about her. What was more, she was a guest of his, dependent
for her safety upon his skill with the tiller. So far as he could
remember, it was a year or two since he had breakfasted in a woman's
company; it was certain that no woman had waited on him so prettily. Then
as he remembered many a lonely camp in the dark pine forest or high on
the bare rangeside, it occurred to him for the first time that he had
missed a good deal of what life had to offer. He wondered what it would
have been like if when he had dragged himself back to his tent at night,
worn with heavy toil, as he had often done, there had been somebody with
blue eyes and a delightful smile to welcome him.

Kitty Blake belonged to the people--there was no doubt of that; but then
he had a strong faith in the people, native-born and adopted, of the
Pacific Slope. It was from them that he had received the greatest
kindnesses he could remember. They were cheerful optimists; indomitable
grapplers with forest and flood, who did almost incredible things with ax