In the moment of silence that followed he thought of those little people--of how they had begun to soften his heart and prepare him for what had come. The Emperor paddled back to the landing and returned to Lost River camp. XXVIII MASTER accepted the counsel of his friend and kept away from Buckhom. He was, at least, relieved of the dark fears which Dunmore's angry face had imparted to him. He left camp to look after his canvass and was gone a fortnight. Strong had promised to let him know if any word came down the trail from their neighbors. The young man returned to his little shanty at Catamount and suffered there a sublime sort of loneliness. The silence of Dunmore seemed to fill the woods. Every day Master went to Birch Cove and wandered through the deer trails. Every graceful thing in the still woods reminded him of her beauty and every bird-song had the music of her voice in it. He began to think of her as the embodied spirit of the woodland. She was like Strong himself, but Strong was the great pine-tree while she was like the young, white birches. One bright morning--it was nearly a month after Strong had returned from Buckhom---Sinth put on her best clothes and started for the camp of Dunmore alone. The Emperor had gone away with some fishermen and Master with the children. Sinth had said nothing of her purpose. Her heart was in the cause of the young people, and she had waited long enough for developments. The injustice and the folly of Dunmore filled her with indignation. She had her own private notion of what she was going to say, if necessary, and was of no mind to "mince matters." She stood for a few moments at the landing on Buckhom and waved her handkerchief. The old lady saw her and sent the colored manservant to fetch her across. Dunmore and his mother welcomed her at the veranda steps. "My land! So you're Mis' Dunmore!" said Sinth, coolly, as she took a chair and glanced about her. "Yes, and very glad to see you.". "An' you've stayed fifteen years in this camp?" The old lady nodded. "It's a long time," said she. "It's a wonder ye ain't all dead--livin' here on the bank of a pond like a lot o' mushrats!" Sinth went on. "Cyrus Dunmore, you ought t' be 'shamed o' yerself. Heavens an' earth! I never heard o' nothin' so unhuman." A moment of silence followed. Dunmore smiled. He had never been talked to in that way. The droll frankness of the woman amused him.