An older woodsman than Jim, a man experienced in the handling of logs, would have shaken his head. Such a man would have seen the difficulties of the task; would have declared it impossible to haul timber across that swamp before winter. Jim’s inexperience refused to be daunted. His head was clear now; he was himself. Marie—she had been there. He turned upon her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, fiercely, but she was not upright before him. She lay upon the cross-ties, one arm dangling limply through, the garish light exaggerating the pallor of her face. “Marie!” he whispered, hoarsely. She did not stir or answer. Her endurance had been urged to the point of breakage, had given way. He was on his knees beside her, his heart gripped by fear, for he had never seen a woman faint. He lifted her. Her head lopped grotesquely to one side as he moved her, and this multiplied his fright. He had loved her, and she was dead. She had not been worth a man’s love; had been treacherous; had betrayed him; but he had given her all of his love. Her breast lifted laboriously. He was conscious of a feeling of relief, not of gladness. So this would not be the end of things between them. They would continue to inhabit the same world. To him it seemed the world was oversmall to house them both. Whatever she had done, he could not leave her so. He strained until she lay partly across his shoulder—a weight it would have been joy for him to bear a few short hours before—and so, staggering under his burden, he strove toward Diversity. Long miles lay between him and town; no help was nearer; no shelter for Marie. He found himself near the point of exhaustion. But he labored on. After a length of time that seemed to have stretched into hours Jim was aware of the dark figure of a man standing between the tracks before him. Somehow Jim was not interested in it, was not interested in anything save the effort to keep on his feet and make progress. The man spoke with a voice Jim knew but did not identify. “Who are you?” Jim asked, in a whisper. “Gilders,” said the man. “Here, I’ll take her. You carry my rifle. You’ve lugged her about as far as you can, hain’t you?” “All of that,” Jim said, surrendering his burden and sitting down abruptly. “Rest a bit,” said Gilders. “When you’re ready, say so. We’ll take her to my place—it’s nearer ’n Diversity.” Presently Jim got to his feet. “All right,” he said. Gilders raised Marie without effort and strode away with her in his arms. Jim followed. At times Gilders waited to permit Jim to rest, for Jim could not equal the woodsman’s pace, indeed could not have sustained any pace at all without frequent stops.