Briefly Aldous explained what had happened at Quade’s, and that the young woman was leaving on the Tete Jaune train.  The good-humoured smile left Mrs. Otto’s face when he mentioned Quade.

“I’ve told Jack I’d like to poison that man some day,” she cried.  “You poor dear, come in, I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

“Which always means dinner in the Otto camp,” added Aldous.

“I’m not so hungry, but I’m tired—­so tired,” he heard the girl say as she went in with Mrs. Otto, and there was a new and strangely pathetic note in her voice.  “I want to rest—­until the train goes.”

He followed them in, and stood for a moment near the door.

“There’s a room in there, my dear,” said the woman, drawing back a curtain.  “Make yourself at home, and lie down on the bed until I have the tea ready.”

When the curtain had closed behind her, John Aldous spoke in a low voice to the woman.

“Will you see her safely to the train, Mrs. Otto?” he asked.  “It leaves at a quarter after two.  I must be going.”

He felt that he had sufficiently performed his duty.  He left the tent, and paused for a moment outside to touzle affectionately the trampish heads of the bear dogs.  Then he turned away, whistling.  He had gone a dozen steps when a low voice stopped him.  He turned.  Joanne had come from the door.

For one moment he stared as if something more wonderful than anything he had ever seen had risen before him.  The girl was bareheaded, and she stood in a sun mellowed by a film of cloud.  Her head was piled with lustrous coils of gold-brown hair that her hat and veil had hidden.  Never had he looked upon such wonderful hair, crushed and crumpled back from her smooth forehead; nor such marvellous whiteness of skin and pure blue depths of eyes!  In her he saw now everything that was strong and splendid in woman.  She was not girlishly sweet.  She was not a girl.  She was a woman—­glorious to look at, a soul glowing out of her eyes, a strength that thrilled him in the quiet and beautiful mystery of her face.

“You were going without saying good-bye,” she said.  “Won’t you let me thank you—­a last time?”

Her voice brought him to himself again.  A moment he bent over her hand.  A moment he felt its warm, firm pressure in his own.  The smile that flashed to his lips was hidden from her as he bowed his blond-gray head.

“Pardon me for the omission,” he apologized.  “Good-bye—­and may good luck go with you!”

Their eyes met once more.  With another bow he had turned, and was continuing his way.  At the door Joanne Gray looked back.  He was whistling again.  His careless, easy stride was filled with a freedom that seemed to come to her in the breath of the mountains.  And then she, too, smiled strangely as she reentered the tent.

CHAPTER III