fire on a snow crust.  He crossed a raging tributary of the American, travelling upward along the rock-bound, spray-wet gorge a full mile before he came to the possible precarious ford.  At six o’clock he made a second fire in a bleak windy pass, surrounded by a glimmering ghostly waste.  Trees were stiff with frost; the wind whistled and jeered through them and about sharp crags, filling the crisp air with eerie, shuddersome music.  He set his coffee to boil while meditating that down in the Sacramento Valley, which one could glimpse from here by day, it was stifling hot, like midsummer.  He rested by his fire with his canvas drawn up about his shoulders, smoked his pipe, remade his pack, and went on.  He counted on the moon presently and a bed at a slightly lower altitude among the trees; to-night Andy Parker was sleeping in his army blanket.

He crunched along over the snow crust which rarely failed him, and though the daylight passed swiftly, the dead-white surface seemed to hold an absorbed radiance and shed it softly.  By the time he got down to the timber-line again the moon was up.  He left the country of Five Lakes well to his left, ignoring the invitation of the trail beyond down the tall walls of Squaw Creek canon.  He went straight down the long pitch of the mountain, heading tenaciously toward the tiny lakelet which, so far as he knew, had been nameless until his old friend Ben Gaynor had built a summer home there two years ago and had christened the pond among the trees.  Lake Gloria!  Mark King liked the appellation little enough, telling himself with thorough-going unreason that there was a silly name to fit to perfection a silly girl, but altogether out of place to tie on to an unspoiled Sierra lake.  Ben would have done a better job in naming it Lake Vanity.  Or Self-Regard.  King could think of a score of designations more to the point.  For though he had never so much as set his eyes on either Gloria or her mother, he had his own opinion of both of them.  Nor did he in the least realize that that opinion was based rather less on actual knowledge than moulded by his own peculiar form of jealousy, that jealousy which one time-tried friend feels when the other allows love of women to occupy a higher place than friendship.

He made his camp at eight o’clock in a sheltered spot among the firs.  He built a fire, made a mat of boughs, wrapped himself up in his canvas, and went promptly to sleep.  He awoke cold, got his blood running by stamping about, put on fresh fuel and went to sleep again, his feet toward the blaze.  Half a dozen times he was up during the night; before dawn he had his coffee boiling; before the sun was up he was well on his way again, driving the cramped chill out of him by walking vigorously.  And at nine o’clock that morning he stood on the bench of a timbered slope whence, looking downward through the trees, he got his first glimpse of Lake Gloria and of the rambling log house which Ben Gaynor had been prevailed on to build here in the wild, a dozen miles from the Lake Tahoe road.