Presently they were drawing in to Cougar Point, with the weather-bleached buildings of Fyfe's camp showing now among the upspringing second-growth scrub. Fyfe went forward and spoke to the man at the wheel. The Panther swung offshore.
"Why are we going out again?" Stella asked.
"Oh, just for fun," Fyfe smiled.
He sat down beside her and slipped one arm around her waist. In a few minutes they cleared the point. Stella was looking away across the lake, at the deep cleft where Silver Creek split a mountain range in twain.
"Look around," said he, "and tell me what you think of the House of Fyfe."
There it stood, snow-white, broad-porched, a new house reared upon the old stone foundation she remembered. The noon sun struck flashing on the windows. About it spread the living green of the grassy square, behind that towered the massive, darker-hued background of the forest.
"Oh," she exclaimed. "What wizard of construction did the work. That was why you fussed so long over those plans in Los Angeles. I thought it was to be this summer or maybe next winter. I never dreamed you were having it built right away."
"Well, isn't it rather nice to come home to?" he observed.
"It's dear. A homey looking place," she answered. "A beautiful site, and the house fits,—that white and the red tiles. Is the big stone fireplace in the living room, Jack?"
"Yes, and one in pretty nearly every other room besides," he nodded. "Wood fires are cheerful."