It would help some, wouldn’t it?”

“It certainly would. There’s no great money in the work; but it’s about the most enlightened of all the governmental bureaus.”

Norcross was strongly drawn to this forester, whose tone was that of a highly trained specialist. “I rode up on the stage yesterday with Miss Berrie McFarlane.”

“The Supervisor’s daughter?”

“She seemed a fine Western type.”

“She’s not a type; she’s an individual. She hasn’t her like anywhere I’ve gone. She cuts a wide swath up here. Being an only child she’s both son and daughter to McFarlane. She knows more about forestry than her father. In fact, half the time he depends on her judgment.”

Norcross was interested, but did not want to take up valuable time. He said: “Will you let me use your telephone to Meeker’s?”

“Very sorry, but our line is out of order. You’ll have to wait a day or so—or use the mails. You’re too late for to-day’s stage, but it’s only a short ride across. Come outside and I’ll show you.”

Norcross followed him to the walk, and stood in silence while his guide indicated the pass over the range. It all looked very formidable to the Eastern youth. Thunderous clouds hung low upon the peaks, and the great crags to left and right of the notch were stern and barren. “I think I’ll wait for the stage,” he said, with candid weakness. “I couldn’t make that trip alone.”

“You’ll have to take many such a ride over that range in the night—if you join the service,” Nash warningly replied.

As they were standing there a girl came galloping up to the hitching-post and slid from her horse. It was Berea McFarlane. “Good morning, Emery,” she called to the surveyor. “Good morning,” she nodded at Norcross. “How do you find yourself this morning?”

“Homesick,” he replied, smilingly.

“Why so?”

“I’m disappointed in the town.”

“What’s the matter with the town?”

“It’s so commonplace. I expected it to be—well, different. It’s just like any other plains town.”

Berrie looked round at the forlorn shops, the irregular sidewalks, the grassless yards. “It isn’t very pretty, that’s a fact; but you can always forget it by just looking up at the high country. When you going up to the mill?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had any word from Meeker, and I can’t reach him by telephone.”

“I know, the line is short-circuited somewhere; but they’ve sent a man out. He may close it any minute.”

“Where’s the Supervisor?” asked Nash.

“He’s gone over to Moore’s cutting. How are you getting on with those plats?”

“Very well. I’ll have ’em all in shape by Saturday.”

“Come in and make yourself at home,” said the girl to Norcross. “You’ll find the papers two or three days old,” she smiled. “We never know about anything here till other people have forgotten it.”

Norcross followed her into the office, curious to know more about her.