She grew wildly homesick for town.  A theatre, dance, a ride through the park.  Activity.  And people.  It was for her mother that she consented to remain here another week.  Mrs. Gaynor declared that she must have a few more days of rest; she was worn out from a year of going eternally, entertaining or being entertained.  Gloria, yielding, plunged into an orgy of letter-writing.  She answered letters weeks old; she scribbled countless bright and unnecessary notes.  Also she succeeded in getting her mother to drive with her frequently to Tahoe, to call on those of their friends there who had come to the mountains so early in the season.  Several times they remained overnight at the Tavern.

It was after one of these absences that Jim Spalding, the old timber-jack, told Mrs. Gaynor in his abashed stammer that Mark King had showed up while they were gone.  Gloria, on her way to her room, whirled and came back, and extracted the tale in its entirety, pumping it out of the brief, few-worded old Spalding in jerky details.  King had appeared late yesterday afternoon, coming out of the woods.  Looked like he’d been roughin’ it an’ goin’ it hard, at that.  Had told Jim he wanted to telephone.  Had stuck around for a while gettin’ his call through; had eaten supper with Jim; had gone back into the woods just about dark.  That was all Jim knowed about it.

Rather, that was all that he supposed he knew until Miss Gloria was done with him.  She dragged other bits of information to the surface.  King had phoned her father; they had talked ten minutes; Mr. Gaynor was to telephone to the log house again to-morrow or next day.  There would be a message for King; mos’ likely from Coloma.  King wanted to know something; Ben was to find out; King would turn up within a few days for the message.

Mrs. Gaynor that same day said to her daughter in a way so casual that Gloria immediately was on the alert: 

“You’ve been very sweet to stay up here in this lonely place with me, dear.  I am ready to go at any time now.  Shall we go to-morrow?”

“Mother thinks she is so deep!” was Gloria’s unspoken comment.

“We’ve such a lot of packing to do,” said Gloria, with an assumption of carelessness far more artistic than her mother’s.  “And I’m as sleepy and lazy as an owl after being up so late last night.”  Her yawn, softly patted by four pink-and-white fingers, was as ingenuous as a kitten’s.  “I’m really in no hurry, mamma.  To-morrow, if we’re ready.  Or next day.”

They were still in the log house when, twenty-four hours later, the telephone rang, and Gloria, quick to forestall her mother, heard the operator saying:  “Coloma calling Ben Gaynor’s residence.”

“Coloma!” thought Gloria with a quickened heartbeat.  Then it wouldn’t be her father, after all; it would be Mark King——­

But her father it was, and she was disappointed.  The message, however, was for King.