Dusk was falling and the tired horses plodded slowly past the rows of shadowy trunks when the sound of running water came out of the gloom.  Agatha ached from the jolting and felt cramped and sleepy, but she roused herself when a light began to flicker among the trees.  The driver urged his team, the light got brighter as the rig lurched down a rough incline, and Agatha saw a man standing in the trail.  His figure was indistinct and she could not see his face, but she no longer felt jaded and lonely, for she knew who he was.

“Tired?” he said in a sympathetic voice as he gave her his hand to get down when the rig stopped in an opening.  “It’s a long ride from the railroad, but after all it was better for you to make it in the day.  Besides, we must pull out to-morrow.”

Agatha said she was not excessively tired.  She liked his matter-of-fact manner and thought he had struck the right note.

“Have you got the tent I recommended?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.  “It’s in the small box.”

“Then as the poles are cut, the boys will soon put it up.  In the meantime, supper’s ready.”

He took her across the narrow open space, and when near the fire she stopped and looked about.  It was after ten o’clock, but a pale-green glow shone above the pines, whose ragged tops cut against it in a black saw-edge.  Below, a river brawled among dark rocks, catching a reflection here and there, and then plunging into shadow.  It was not dark; she could see the brush and the wild-berry vines that crawled between the trunks.  Then she turned towards the fire that burned at the foot of a ledge.  Two or three figures moved about the rocks behind it; sometimes picked out with hard distinctness so that she could see their brown faces and travel-stained overalls, and sometimes fading into gloom.

The smoke went nearly straight up and then spread slowly across the river; the flames leaped among the snapping branches and sank.  Strong lights and puzzling shadows played about the camp; there was an aromatic smell, and the air was keen and bracing.  The turmoil of the river rather emphasized than disturbed the quietness.  It was different from the noisy city where the big arc-lights burned above the hurrying crowds, but Agatha did not find it strange.  She felt as if she were revisiting a scene she had known before, and thought this was an inheritance from her father, who had loved the wilds.  But perhaps she might go further back; it was, relatively, not long since all Ontario was a wilderness, and she sprang from pioneering stock.

Then Thirlwell indicated a folding chair and she sat down beside two logs, rolled close together to make a cooking hearth.  A kettle and two frying-pans stood on the logs, supported by both, and the space between was filled with glowing embers, about which flickered little blue and orange flames.  Thirlwell gave her a plate and a tin mug, and she found the fresh trout and hot bannocks appetizing.  Then she liked the acid wild-berries he brought on a bark tray, and the strong, smoke-flavored tea.  She smiled as she remembered that in Toronto she had been fastidious about her meals and sometimes could not eat food that was roughly-served.