The Sky Line of Spruce

s lie deep, pale lights spring up here and there in windows, with gaping, cavernous darkness between; a wet mist is clammy on the face. At such times

immersed in their silence, overspread by their gloom, and th

who would not recognize it at once. The silence is a forest silence, and if the air is tense and electric, it is because certa

equacy and meekness. Only a few-those who have given their love and their lives to the wild places-have any idea of sympathetic understanding with it. Among t

of an imaginative girl born to live in an uninhabited portion of the earth-were inextricably bound up in it; whatever plans she had for the future always included it. Not that she was blind to its more terr

see. The quality could be discerned in her very carriage-swift and graceful and silent-vaguely suggesting that of the wild creatures themselves. But there was no coarseness or ruggedness about her face and form such as superficial observation might have expected. Physically she was like a deer, strong, straight-

woman who, in gold-rush days, had been the acknowledged beauty of the province. Nor was it merely the attractive, animal beauty that is so often

n lights, and they were so shadowed and pensive that sometimes they gave the image of actual sadness. For all the isolation of her home she was no

passion such as is known to all who live the full, strong life of the woods. The lines were soft about her lips and eyes, indicating a marked sweetness and tendern

lish throat and a red mouth surprisingly tender and childish. As might have been expected her garb was neither rich nor smart, but it w

been lounging about the stove strode out and accosted her. She half

est that enclosed the town. Now, because she recognized the man and knew his type-born of the wild places even as herself, but a bastard breed-the tender,

going up to see your pop, and I'll

the voice of a passionate, reckless, brutal man. The covetous caress of his thick

et his eyes,-eyes wholly lacking in humor and kindliness, but unquestionably vivid and compelling under his heavy,

manner of her consent did not in the least disturb him. "You're just letting me because I'm goi

that out long ago," she responded. "I wish you wouldn

nce to the fact that many of the loungers on the street were listening to the little scene. "I've never seen anything I want

it any more. I've already giv

the board sidewalk into the shadows, finally turning in at a ramshackle, three-room house that

st to her arm. "Wait just a minute, Bee," he

er an attractive face to her, even in first, susceptible girlhood; and in the moonlight it suddenly filled her with dread. Ray Brent was a dangerous type: imperious willed, slave to his most degenerate instincts, reckless,

ays just under the skin, seemed to be getting out of bounds. "When I want something, I don't know how to quit ti

e you-for his pardners, I c

e places you read about in your story books-it's a man's country. Oh, I know you well enough. It's time you got down to brass tacks. If you're going to be a northe

reams, the dearest part of her being, s

our body, and certainly the hardest, going further to get your own way-but a real man would break you in two in a minu

up here-not a story-book way. The strong man gets what he wants-

pless in his grasp. His arms went about her and he pressed his lips to

ung out and up-with really startling force. Her half-closed hand struck with a sharp, drawing mot

ittle-

pon her, and her eyes blazed as