On either hand rose thick walls of snow-white boles, and in the mystic glow of their gilded leaves the face of the girl shone with unearthly beauty. It was as if the very air had become auriferous. Magic coins dangled from the branches. Filmy shadows fell over her hair and down her strong young arms like priceless lace. Gold, gold! Everywhere gold, gold and fire!

Twice she stopped to gaze into Wayland’s face to say, with hushed intensity: “Isn’t it wonderful! Don’t you wish it would last forever?”

Her words were poor, ineffectual; but her look, her breathless voice made up for their lack of originality. Once she said: “I never saw it so lovely before; it is an enchanted land!” with no suspicion that the larger part of her ecstasy arose from the presence of her young and sympathetic companion. He, too, responded to the beauty of the day, of the golden forest as one who had taken new hold on life after long illness.

Meanwhile the Supervisor was calmly leading the way upward, vaguely conscious of the magical air and mystic landscape in which his young folk floated as if on wings, thinking busily of the improvements which were still necessary in the trail, and weighing with care the clouds which still lingered upon the tallest summits, as if debating whether to go or to stay. He had never been an imaginative soul, and now that age had somewhat dimmed his eyes and blunted his senses he was placidly content with his path. The rapture of the lover, the song of the poet, had long since abandoned his heart. And yet he was not completely oblivious. To him it was a nice day, but a “weather breeder.”

“I wonder if I shall ever ride through this mountain world as unmoved as he seems to be?” Norcross asked himself, after some jarring prosaic remark from his chief. “I am glad Berrie responds to it.”

At last they left these lower, wondrous forest aisles and entered the unbroken cloak of firs whose dark and silent deeps had a stern beauty all their own; but the young people looked back upon the glowing world below with wistful hearts. Back and forth across a long, down-sweeping ridge they wove their toilsome way toward the clouds, which grew each hour more formidable, awesome with their weight, ponderous as continents in their majesty of movement. The horses began to labor with roaring breath, and Wayland, dismounting to lighten his pony’s burden, was dismayed to discover how thin the air had become. Even to walk unburdened gave him a smothering pain in his breast.

“Better stay on,” called the girl. “My rule is to ride the hill going up and walk it going down. Down hill is harder on a horse than going up.”

Nevertheless he persisted in clambering up some of the steepest parts of the trail, and was increasingly dismayed by the endless upward reaches of the foot-hills. A dozen times he thought, “We must be nearly at the top,” and then other and far higher ridges suddenly developed. Occasionally the Supervisor was forced to unsling an ax and chop his way through a fallen tree, and each time the student hurried to the spot, ready to aid, but was quite useless. He admired the ease and skill with which the older man put his shining blade through the largest bole, and wondered if he could ever learn to do as well.

“One of the first essentials of a ranger’s training is to learn to swing an ax,” remarked McFarlane, “and you never want to be without a real tool. I won’t stand for a hatchet ranger.”

Berrie called attention to the marks on the trees. “This is the government sign—a long blaze with two notches above it. You can trust these trails; they lead somewhere.”

“As you ride a trail study how to improve it,” added the Supervisor, sheathing his ax. “They can all be improved.”

Wayland was sure of this a few steps farther on, when the Supervisor’s horse went down in a small bog-hole, and Berrie’s pony escaped only by the most desperate plunging. The girl laughed, but Wayland was appalled and stood transfixed watching McFarlane as he calmly extricated himself from the saddle of the fallen horse and chirped for him to rise.

“You act as if this were a regular part of the journey,” Wayland said to Berrie.

“It’s all in the day’s work,” she replied; “but I despise a bog worse than anything else on the trail. I’ll show you how to go round this one.” Thereupon she slid from her horse and came tiptoeing back along the edge of the mud-hole.

McFarlane cut a stake and plunged it vertically in the mud. “That means ‘no bottom,’” he explained. “We must cut a new trail.”

Wayland was dismounting when Berrie said: “Stay on. Now put your horse right through where those rocks are. It’s hard bottom there.”

He felt like a child; but he did as she bid, and so came safely through, while McFarlane set to work to blaze a new route which should avoid the slough which was already a bottomless horror to the city man.

This mishap delayed them nearly half an hour, and the air grew dark and chill as they stood there, and the amateur ranger began to understand how serious a lone night journey might sometimes be.