He was kneeling on the ground before the cabin door, she sitting on the low step under the shadow of the roof. Her chin rested on the backs of her hands, the limber wrists bent up a little, the sleeves slipped away from her slim, white wrists. Her face was brightly rosy, her lips very red--at once a little stern, yet very sweet. “Traps are cruel,” she said. “I think so myself. But we have to make a living, don’t we?” “Aren’t you ashamed of yourself sometimes, Pete?” “For making traps, and catching live things in them?” “Yes. It’s a sort of deceitful cruelty, catching the little blind, wandering wild things.” “Blind?” he repeated blankly, then flushed. “Yes, blind. But it wasn’t only that I meant.” “What else ought I to be ashamed of?” “Of living on your brother.” He winced sharply, but she went on coolly: “Of staying here in the wilderness. You are a big boy now. Many a boy of your age, even smaller and weaker, has gone out in the world to make his own way. There’s no reason for _you_ to hide, is there? _You_ haven’t sacrificed your life for anyone.” “No,” he answered doubtfully, “n-no; but, you see, Sylvie, some one has to take the skins. It isn’t safe for Hugh.” “Yes, of course. So that’s what you’ll do all your life--carry loads to and fro, between this cabin and the trading-station. But if Hugh goes away himself?” “Yes?” he asked breathlessly. His skillful hands paused in their fashioning of a snare. “You know, of course, that he wants to take me away with him, to marry me, to start life again.” “And--and you will, Sylvie?” “Give me your advice,” she said. She pressed her red lips together; her face was bent upon him as though she watched. “But,” he stammered, “you tell me all the time, a dozen times a day, that I’m badly trained. What good’s my advice?” “_Are_ you badly trained?” “I suppose so.” “You are absurdly unselfish, Pete!” She moved a chip along the ground with her foot, but Pete failed to notice this curious seeing gesture. “Why? What do you mean?” She waited, waited until, in the sickness of his vague suspense, his hands had turned cold and the color had sucked itself in irregular heartbeats from his lips. At last she spoke deliberately. “You would lay down your life for your friend?” she said. It was almost a whisper. Pete’s face went red and white and red again. Through the tumult of his heart he searched for loyal words. “I love Hugh--if that’s what you mean,” he said. “I love you?” she repeated softly, perversely. “Did you say ‘Hugh’ or ‘you,’ Pete?” His face tightened; faint lines came about his mouth. “I said ‘Hugh!’” “Ah--you love only him--nobody else in all the world?” Her young and wistful voice came to him like a fragrance. He struggled as though his spirit were fighting in deep water. He tried to remember Hugh. He rose up slowly to meet this passionate moment, and now he made a short step toward the waiting girl. She _was_ waiting, breathing fast. Pete’s arms quivered at his sides.