* A canoe made from a hollowed log.
“Your father?” he said joyfully.
She smiled pityingly. “It's Tom Flynn. Father's got suthin' else to look arter. Tom Flynn hasn't.”
“And who's Tom Flynn?” he asked, with an odd sensation.
“The man I'm engaged to,” she said gravely, with a slight color.
The rose that blossomed on her cheek faded in his. There was a moment of silence. Then he said frankly, “I owe you some apology. Forgive my folly and impertinence a moment ago. How could I have known this?”
“You took no more than you deserved, or that Tom would have objected to,” she said, with a little laugh. “You've been mighty kind and handy.”
She held out her hand; their fingers closed together in a frank pressure. Then his mind went back to his work, which he had forgotten,—to his first impressions of the camp and of her. They both stood silent, watching the canoe, now quite visible, and the man that was paddling it, with an intensity that both felt was insincere.
“I'm afraid,” he said, with a forced laugh, “that I was a little too hasty in disposing of your goods and possessions. We could have kept afloat a little longer.”
“It's all the same,” she said, with a slight laugh; “it's jest as well we didn't look too comf'ble—to HIM.”