I’ve crossed this divide in August in snow so thick I could not see a rod.”

Half an hour later they began to descend. Wind-twisted, storm-bleached dwarf pines were first to show, then the firs, then the blue-green spruces, and then the sheltering deeps of the undespoiled forest opened, and the roar of a splendid stream was heard; but still the Supervisor kept his resolute way, making no promises as to dinner, though his daughter called: “We’d better go into camp at Beaver Lake. I hope you’re not starved,” she called to Wayland.

“But I am,” he replied, so frankly that she never knew how faint he really was. His knees were trembling with weakness, and he stumbled dangerously as he trod the loose rocks in the path.

They were all afoot now descending swiftly, and the horses ramped down the trail with expectant haste, so that in less than an hour from timber-line they were back into the sunshine of the lower valley, and at three o’clock or thereabouts they came out upon the bank of an exquisite lake, and with a cheery shout McFarlane called out: “Here we are, out of the wilderness!” Then to Wayland: “Well, boy, how did you stand it?”

“Just middling,” replied Wayland, reticent from weariness and with joy of their camping-place. The lake, dark as topaz and smooth as steel, lay in a frame of golden willows—as a jewel is filigreed with gold—and above it the cliffs rose three thousand feet in sheer majesty, their upper slopes glowing with autumnal grasses. A swift stream roared down a low ledge and fell into the pond near their feet. Grassy, pine-shadowed knolls afforded pasture for the horses, and two giant firs, at the edge of a little glade, made a natural shelter for their tent.

With businesslike certitude Berrie unsaddled her horse, turned him loose, and lent a skilful hand at removing the panniers from the pack-animals, while Wayland, willing but a little uncertain, stood awkwardly about. Under her instruction he collected dead branches of a standing fir, and from these and a few cones kindled a blaze, while the Supervisor hobbled the horses and set the tent.

“If the work of a forester were all like this it wouldn’t be so bad,” he remarked, wanly. “I think I know several fellows who would be glad to do it without a cent of pay.”

“Wait till you get to heaving a pick,” she retorted, “or scaling lumber in a rain, or building a corduroy bridge.”

“I don’t want to think of anything so dreadful. I want to enjoy this moment. I never was hungrier or happier in my life.”

“Do ye good,” interjected McFarlane, who had paused to straighten up the coffee-pot. “Most people don’t know what hunger means. There’s nothing finer in the world than good old-fashioned hunger, provided you’ve got something to throw into yourself when you come into camp. This is a great place for fish. I think I’ll see if I can’t jerk a few out.”

“Better wait till night,” said his daughter. “Mr. Norcross is starving, and so am I. Plain bacon will do me.”

The coffee came to a boil, the skillet gave off a wondrous savor, and when the corn and beans began to sizzle, the trailers sat down to their feast in hearty content, with one of the panniers for a table, and the fir-tree for roof. “This is one of the most perfectly appointed dining-rooms in the world,” exclaimed the alien.

The girl met his look with a tender smile. “I’m glad you like it, for perhaps we’ll stay a week.”

“It looks stormy,” the Supervisor announced, after a glance at the crests. “I’d like to see a soaking rain—it would end all our worry about fires. The country’s very dry on this side the range, and your duty for the present will be to help Tony patrol.”

While he talked on, telling the youth how to beat out a small blaze and how to head off a large one, Wayland listened, but heard his instructions only as he sensed the brook, as an accompaniment to Berea’s voice, for as she busied herself clearing away the dishes and putting the camp to rights, she sang.

“You’re to have the tent,” said her father, “and we two huskies will sleep under the shade of this big fir. If you’re ever caught out,” he remarked to Wayland, “hunt for one of these balsam firs; there’s always a dry spot under them. See here!” And he showed him the sheltered circle beneath the tree. “You can always get twigs for kindling from their inner branches,” he added, “or you can hew into one of these dead trees and get some pitchy splinters. There’s material for everything you want if you know where to find it. Shelter, food, fire are all here for us as they were for the Indians. A ranger who needs a roof all the time is not worth his bacon.”

So, one by one, the principles of camping were taught by the kindly old rancher; but the hints which the girl gave were quite as valuable, for Wayland was eager to show her that he could be, and intended to be, a forester of the first class or perish in the attempt.

McFarlane went farther and talked freely of the forest and what it meant to the government. “We’re all green at the work,” he said, “and we old chaps are only holding the fort against the thieves till you youngsters learn how to make the best use of the domain.”

“I can see that it takes more than technical training to enable a man to be Supervisor of a forest,” conceded Wayland.

McFarlane was pleased with this remark.