Several times George stopped and listened for the sound of oars which would signify Alma's coming. But each time all was silent, and on they spun. Edith was surprised at her own happiness. Was it nature's whispering or George's strong, manly presence, that made her feel so sure of herself, and subdued her restless spirit? Finally, the fourth lake was reached. Its shores were wild and lonely, unlike those of the other lakes. Not a bungalow could be seen. Here and there an opening appeared, where open camp had been kept. Otherwise it was a perfect wilderness of pine and brush. "Would you like to land and rest awhile?" George asked. "The clouds have gathered slightly, but it promises no rain for several hours." Edith gave consent and George made for one of the camp openings. When they had alighted and fastened the boat to an old stump, of a tree George looked about the clearing. "I have it!" he exclaimed, and, leaving Edith, he returned in a few moments with two logs. "Rather rustic, isn't it?" he said. "Best we can do, however. There! Sit on this, and rest yourself against the tree. Are you comfortable?" "Very, thank you," she replied. "And you?" "Shall do the same," he said, adjusting the log and leaning against the tree opposite to hers, with a full sigh of satisfaction. For a few moments he feasted his eyes upon her loveliness. The green forest and open camp made an odd setting for Edith's pale beauty. There was nothing in his glance to embarrass Edith. Far too honorable to convey his feelings through even unspoken language, he simply gazed at her with open, friendly scrutiny. She smiled back at him. "Do you pronounce me well?" she asked. "To all appearances--yes. After two weeks, you can return to New York any time you wish." "After two weeks? Why not in a few days?" "We want your good condition to be lasting. Mrs. Lambert tells me you looked better one week ago than you do now. Did you feel better then?" It seemed unkind for George to ask her such a question. But he was determined to see for himself how deep a trouble was hers. His eyes regarded her intently. He noticed the sudden droop of the eye-lids to hide the shadow beneath them. Her lips quivered in spite of herself, and her hands toyed nervously with the lace of her dress. A sudden rush of pity destroyed his own self-control. Leaning toward her, he laid one strong hand on her two small fair ones. "Edith, look at me! Tell me--your old friend, little girl--what troubles you?" Compelled, she raised her eyes to his. The violet in them seemed deeper and darker with a great overpowering sadness. It expressed such melancholy depression, that George's whole being thrilled with the pain of it. "Thank you for your sympathy George. If you are my friend, you will ask me nothing." "You will not confide in me?" he pleaded, his whole heart's love unconsciously vibrating in his voice.