He discussed it
too matter-of-factly for that. She wondered what became of the
bride-to-be. But that Fyfe could not tell her.
"Hale showed me her picture once," he said, "but I never saw her. Oh, I
suppose she's married some other fellow long ago. Hale was a good sort.
He was out-lucked, that's all."
The _Panther_ slid in to the float. Jack and Stella went ashore. Lefty
Howe came down to meet them. Thirty-five or forty men were stringing
away from the camp, back to their work in the woods. Some waved greeting
to Jack Fyfe, and he waved back in the hail-fellow fashion of the camps.
"How's the frau, Lefty?" he inquired, after they had shaken hands.
"Fine. Down to Vancouver. Sister's sick," Howe answered laconically.
"House's all shipshape. Wanta eat here, or up there?"
"Here at the camp, until we get straightened around," Fyfe responded.
"Tell Pollock to have something for us in about half an hour. We'll go
up and take a look."
Howe went in to convey this message, and the two set off up the path. A
sudden spirit of impishness made Jack Fyfe sprint. Stella gathered up
her skirt and raced after him, but a sudden shortness of breath overtook
her, and she came panting to where Fyfe had stopped to wait.
"You'll have to climb hills and row and swim so you'll get some wind,"
Fyfe chuckled. "Too much easy living, lady."
She smiled without making any reply to this sally, and they entered the
house--the House of Fyfe, that was to be her home.
If the exterior had pleased her, she went from room to room inside with
growing amazement.
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