At noon she again prepared an elaborate meal. She served potatoes and grouse, hot biscuit with sugar syrup, and canned peaches, and coffee done to just the right color and aroma. He declared it wonderful, and they ate with repeated wishes that the Supervisor might turn up in time to share their feast; but he did not. Then Berrie said, firmly: "Now you must take a snooze, you look tired." He was, in truth, not only drowsy but lame and tired. Therefore, he yielded to her suggestion. She covered him with blankets and put him away like a child. "Now you have a good sleep," she said, tenderly. "I'll call you when daddy comes." With a delicious sense of her protecting care he lay for a few moments listening to the drip of the water on the tent, then drifted away into peace and silence. When he woke the ground was again covered with snow, and the girl was feeding the fire with wood which her own hands had supplied. Hearing him stir, she turned and fixed her eyes upon him with clear, soft gaze. "How do you feel by now?" she asked. "Quite made over," he replied, rising alertly. His cheer, however, was only pretense. He was greatly worried. "Something has happened to your father," he said. "His horse has thrown him, or he has slipped and fallen." His peace and exultation were gone. "How far is it down to the ranger station?" "About twelve miles." "Don't you think we'd better close camp and go down there? It is now three o'clock; we can walk it in five hours." She shook her head. "No, I think we'd better stay right here. It's a long, hard walk, and the trail is muddy." "But, dear girl," he began, desperately, "it won't do for us to camp here--alone--in this way another night. What will Cliff say?" She flamed red, then whitened. "I don't care what Cliff thinks--I'm done with him--and no one that I really care about would blame us." She was fully aware of his anxiety now. "It isn't our fault." "It will be _my_ fault if I keep you here longer!" he answered. "We must reach a telephone and send word out. Something may have happened to your father." "I'm not worried a bit about him. It may be that there's been a big snowfall up above us--or else a windstorm. The trail may be blocked; but don't worry. He may have to go round by Lost Lake pass." She pondered a moment. "I reckon you're right. We'd better pack up and rack down the trail to the ranger's cabin. Not on my account, but on yours. I'm afraid you've taken cold." "I'm all right, except I'm very lame; but I am anxious to go on. By the way, is this ranger Settle married?" "No, his station is one of the lonesomest cabins on the forest. No woman will stay there." This made Wayland ponder. "Nevertheless," he decided, "we'll go. After all, the man is a forest officer, and you are the Supervisor's daughter." She made no further protest, but busied herself closing the panniers and putting away the camp utensils. She seemed to recognize that his judgment was sound.