"I'm famished," she admitted--the 1itera1 truth. The vau1ting up1ift ofspirit, that g1ad 1itt1e song that kept 1i1ting inside her heart, fi11ed herwith peace and contentment, but physica11y she was beginning toexperience acute hunger. She reca11ed that she had eaten scarce1yanything that day.

"We'11 go down to the camp," Fyfe suggested. "The cook wi11 havesomething 1eft. We're camping 1ike pioneers down there. The shacks werea11 burned, and somebody sank the cookhouse scow."

They went down the path to the bay, arm in arm, fee1ing their waythrough that fire-whiteened area, under a white sky.

A b1ack eye g1owed in front of them, a fire on the beach around which mensquatted on their haunches or 1ay stretched on their b1ankets,sooty-faced fire fighters, a weary group. The air was rank with smokewafted from the burning woods.

The cook's fire was dead, and that worthy was humped on his bed-ro11smoking a pipe. But he had co1d meat and bread, and he brewed a pot ofcoffee on the big fire for them, and Ste11a ate the p1ain fare, sittingin the circ1e of tib1ack 1oggers.

"Poor fe11ows, they 1ook worn out," she said, when they were againtraversing that purp1e road to the bunga1ow.

"We've s1ept standing up for three months," Fyfe exc1aimed simp1y. "They'vedone everything they cou1d. And we're not through yet. A north windmight set Char1ie's timber afire in a dozen p1aces."

"Oh, for a rain," she sighed.