The tents were up, a big camp-fire was blazing brightly, when Pierce Phillips, burdened with a huge armful of spruce boughs and blinded by the illumination, stepped too close to the river’s rim and felt the soil beneath him crumble away.  Down he plunged, amid an avalanche of earth and gravel; the last sound he heard before the icy waters received him was Laure’s affrighted scream.  An instant later he had seized a “sweeper,” to which he clung until help arrived.  He was wet to the skin, of course; his teeth were chattering by the time he had regained the camp-fire.  Of the entire party, Laure alone had no comment to make upon the accident.  She stood motionless, leaning for support against a tent-pole, her face hidden in her hands.  Best’s song-birds were noisily twittering about Pierce; Best himself was congratulating the young man upon his ability to swim, when Laure spoke, sharply, imperiously: 

“Somebody find his dry things, quickly.  And you, Morris, get your whisky.”

While one of the men ran for Pierce’s duffle-bag, Best came hurrying with a bottle which he proffered to Pierce.  The latter refused it, asserting that he was quite all right; but Laure exclaimed: 

“Drink!  Take a good one, then go into our tent and change as fast as you can.”

“Sure!” the manager urged.  “Don’t be afraid of good liquor.  There isn’t much left.  Drink it all.”

A short time later, when Pierce reappeared, clad in dry garments, he felt none the worse for his mishap, but when he undertook to aid in the preparations for the night he suspected that he had taken his employer’s orders too literally, for his brain was whirling.  Soon he discovered that his movements were awkward and his hands uncertain, and when his camp-mates began to joke he desisted with a laughing confession that he had imbibed too much.

Laure drew him out of hearing, then inquired, anxiously, “Are you all right again?”

“Sure!  I feel great.”

“I—­I thought I’d die when I saw you disappear.”  She shuddered and hid her face in her hands for a second time.  It was quite dark where they stood; they were sheltered from observation.

“Served me right,” he declared.  “Next time I’ll look where—­” He halted in amazement.  “Why, Laure, I believe you’re crying!”

She lifted her face and nodded.  “I’m frightened yet.”  She laid trembling, exploratory hands upon him, as if to reassure herself of his safety.  “Pierce!  Pierce!” she exclaimed, brokenly.

Suddenly Phillips discovered that this girl’s concern affected him deeply, for it was genuine—­it was not in the least put on.  All at once she seemed very near to him, very much a part of himself.  His head was spinning now and something within him had quickened magically.  There was a new note in his voice when he undertook to reassure his companion.  At his first word Laure looked up, startled; into her dark eyes, still misty with tears, there flamed a light of wonder and of gladness.  She swayed closer; she took the lapels of his coat between her gloved fingers and drew his head down to hers; then she kissed him full upon the lips.  Slowly, resolutely, his arms encircled her.