The town of Omar lay drenched in mist as the steamer bearing the representative of The Review drew in at the dock.  The whole region was sodden and rain-soaked, verdant with a lush growth.  No summer sun shone here, to bake sprouting leaves or sear tender grasses.  Beneath the sheltering firs a blanket of moss extended over hill and vale, knee-deep and treacherous to the foot.  The mountain crests were white, and down every gully streamed water from the melting snows.  The country itself lay on end, as if crumpled by some giant hand, and presented a tropical blend of colors.  There was the gray of fog and low-swept clouds, the dense, dark green of the spruces, underlaid with the richer, lighter shades where the summer vegetation rioted.  And running through it all were the shimmering, silent reaches of the sound.

Omar itself was a mushroom city, sprung up by magic, as if the dampness at its roots had caused it to rise overnight.  A sawmill shrieked complainingly; a noisy switch-engine shunted rows of flat cars back and forth, tooting lustily; the rattle of steam-winches and the cries of stevedores from a discharging freighter echoed against the hillsides.  Close huddled at the water-front lay the old cannery buildings, greatly expanded and multiplied now and glistening with fresh paint.  Back of them again lay the town, its stumpy, half-graded streets terminating in the forest like the warty feelers of a stranded octopus.  Everywhere was hurry and confusion, and over all was the ever-present shroud of mist which thickened into showers or parted reluctantly to let the sun peep through.

Dan Appleton, his clothing dewy from the fog, his cheeks bronzed by exposure, was over the rail before the ship had made fast, and had Eliza in his arms, crushing her with the hug of a bear.

“Come up to the house, Sis, quick!” he cried, when the first frenzy of greeting was over—­“your house and mine!” His eyes were dancing, his face was alight with eagerness.

“But, Danny,” she laughed, squeezing his arm tenderly, “you live with Mr. O’Neil and all those other men in a horrible, crawling bunk-house.”

“Oh, do I?  I’ll have you know that our bunk-houses don’t crawl.  And besides—­But wait!  It’s a s’prise.”

“A s’prise?” she queried, eagerly.  “For me?”

He nodded.

“Tell me what it is, quick!  You know I never could wait for s’prises.”

“Well, it’s a brand-new ultra-stylish residence for just you and me.  When the chief heard you were coming he had a cottage built.”

“Danny!  It was only five days ago that I cabled you!”

“That’s really ten days for us, for you see we never sleep.  It is finished and waiting, and your room is in white, and the paint will be dry to-morrow.  He’s a wonder!”

Remembering the nature of her mission, Eliza demurred.  “I’m afraid I can’t live there, Dan.  You know”—­she hesitated—­“I may have to write some rather dreadful things about him.”