The launch had churned clear of the dock and was beating to northward through the mist barrier. Shadowy shores slipped past them. To their left, out of the fog, loomed the boathouse of a camp. Beyond its float men and girls in shiny bathing suits were splashing about in the water. Caleb trailed his hand over the launch side. At the nip of the icy water he accorded the swimmers such a glance as he might have bestowed on the martyrs of old. A wind danced down from the north, playfully tearing the lake vapors to silver tatters. A lance of white sunlight struck through the flying mist-reek. Out of the obscurity leaped an island; emerald green, sparkling with diamonds of moisture. Then another, and another. The mainland’s vague shores took shape and beauty. Broad reaches of water flashed azure and pale gold under the swift caress of wind and sun. “See!” cried Desirée. “Isn’t it perfect?” “Yes,” he murmured. “It is.” “But _look_!” she commanded. “You haven’t once taken your eyes from my face. How can you say--?” “What I said goes,” he answered curtly. “There’s nothin’ to take back.” * * * * * Conover’s first day at the Antlers was pleasant; for he and Desirée were together from morning to night. He was welcomed with effusive cordiality by Jack Hawarden; with graceful tolerance by the lad’s mother. The big tent wherein he was quartered was near enough to the Hawarden cottage to make the trip to and fro seem as nothing. More and more strongly as the day wore on did he feel as though he had reached some long-sought Mecca. The beauty of the “top of the world” was lost on him; but the beauty of the girl had in a moment became an integral part of his every thought. He was dully surprised at himself. Heretofore he had always taken Desirée as much for granted as he had taken the sunlight itself. To her he had turned for whatever was happiest and restful in his life; had done it unthinkingly, as part of his established routine. But now, after two months of separation from her, he grasped for the first time all her presence had meant to him. The mighty silences of the mountains--the tumbled miles of multi-shaded green, strewn with fire-blue lakes--all these carried no message to the hard-headed Fighter, the man of cities. But ever he caught himself staring at Desirée in awed wonder; as though some veil between them had of a sudden been snatched away.