It was curious to Hollister,—­the manner in which Doris could see so clearly this valley and river and the slope where his timber stood.  She could not only envision the scene of their home and his future operations, but she could discuss these things with practical wisdom.  They had talked of living in the old cabin where he had found her shelf of books, but there was a difficulty in that,—­of getting up the steep hill, of carrying laboriously up that slope each item of their supplies, their personal belongings, such articles of furniture as they needed; and Doris had suggested that they build their house in the flat and let his men, the bolt cutters, occupy the cabin on the hill.

He had two hired woodsmen with him, tools, food, bedding.  When the steamer set them on the float at the head of Toba Inlet, Hollister left the men to bring the goods ashore in a borrowed dugout and himself struck off along a line blazed through the woods which, one of Carr’s men informed him, led out near the upper curve of the Big Bend.

A man sometimes learns a great deal in the brief span of a few minutes.  When Hollister disembarked he knew the name of one man only in Toba Valley, the directing spirit of the settlement, Sam Carr, whom he had met in MacFarlan’s office.  But there were half a dozen loggers meeting the weekly steamer.  They were loquacious men, without formality in the way of acquaintance.  Hollister had more than trail knowledge imparted to him.  The name of the man who lived with his wife at the top of the Big Bend was Mr. J. Harrington Bland; the logger said that with a twinkle in his eye, a chuckle as of inner amusement.  Hollister understood.  The man was a round peg in this region of square holes; otherwise he would have been Jack Bland, or whatever the misplaced initial stood for.  They spoke of him further as “the Englishman.”  There was a lot of other local knowledge bestowed upon Hollister, but “the Englishman” and his wife—­who was a “pippin” for looks—­were still in the forefront of his mind when the trail led him out on the river bank a few hundred yards from their house.  He passed within forty feet of the door.  Bland was chopping wood; Myra sat on a log, her tawny hair gleaming in the sun.  Bland bestowed upon Hollister only a casual glance, as he strode past, and went on swinging his axe; and Hollister looking impersonally at the woman, observed that she stared with frank curiosity.  He remembered that trait of hers.  He had often teased her about it in those days when it had been an impossible conception that she could ever regard seriously any man but himself.  Men had always been sure of a very complete survey when they came within Myra’s range, and men had always fluttered about her like moths drawn to a candle flame.  She had that mysterious quality of attracting men, pleasing them—­and of making other girls hate her in the same degree.  She used to laugh about that.

“I can’t help it if I’m popular,” she used to say, with a mischievous smile, and Hollister had fondly agreed with that.  He remembered that it flattered his vanity to have other men admire his wife.  He had been so sure of her affections, her loyalty, but that had passed like melting snow, like dew under the morning sun.  A little loneliness, a few months of separation, had done the trick.