The Belle and her brown mother came to the camp of the Silent first one glorious morn in the moon of August, with a basket of wild berries and a pair of beaded moccasins.  Smith bought both—­the berries for Jaquis, out of which he built strange pies, and the moccasins for himself.  He called them his night slippers, but as a matter of fact there was no night on the Athabasca at that time.  The day was divided into three shifts, one long and two short ones,—­daylight, dusk, and dawn.  So it was daylight when the Belle first fixed her large dark eyes upon the strong, handsome face of Smith the Silent, as he sat on his camp stool, bent above a map he was making.  Belle’s mother, being old in years and unafraid, came close, looked at the picture for a moment, and exclaimed:  “Him Jasper Lake,” pointing up the Athabasca.

“You know Jasper Lake?” asked the engineer, glancing up for the first time.

“Oui,” said the old woman (Belle’s step-father was half French); “know ‘im ver’ well.”

Smith looked her over as a matter of habit, for he allowed no man or woman to get by him with the least bit of information concerning the country through which his imaginary line lay.  Then he glanced at Belle for fully five seconds, then back to his blue print.  Nobody but a he-nun, or a man already wedded to the woods, could do that, but to the credit of the camp it will go down that the chief was the only man in the outfit who failed to feel her presence.  As for Jaquis, the alloyed Siwash, he carried the scar of that first meeting for six months, and may, for aught I know, take it with him to his little swinging grave.  Even Smith remembers to this day how she looked, standing there on her two trim ankles, that disappeared into her hand-turned sandals or faded in the flute and fringe of her fawn skin skirt.  Her full bosom rose and fell, and you could count the beat of her wild heart in the throb of her throat.  Her cheeks showed a faint flush of red through the dark olive,—­the flush of health and youth,—­her nostrils dilated, like those of an Ontario high-jumper, as she drank life from the dewy morn, while her eye danced with the joy of being alive.  Jaquis sized and summed her up in the one word “magnific.”  But in that moment, when she caught the keen, piercing eye of the engineer, the Belle had a stroke that comes sooner or later to all these wild creatures of the wilderness, but comes to most people but once in a lifetime.  She never forgot the gleam of that one glance, though the Silent one was innocent enough.

It was during the days that followed, when she sat and watched him at his work, or followed him for hours in the mountain fastnesses, that the Belle of Athabasca lost her heart.

When he came upon a bit of wild scenery and stopped to photograph it, the Belle stood back of him, watching his every movement, and when he passed on she followed, keeping always out of sight.

The Belle’s mother haunted him.  As often as he broke camp and climbed a little higher upstream, the brown mother moved also, and with her the Belle.