"There will be no more timber-cruising when he takes his position at the new mills," she said as they started up the trail; "no more chances to prospect. But he is coming out to the settlement before he goes to Seattle, for a last trip into the hills, and, if your mother can go with us, he intends to take me, to see the Cascades at close range, and the canyon and the leaning tower, and spend a night or two in his favorite camp at the headwaters." A few rods from the schoolhouse the trail to the Myers clearing, which was her boarding-place, began an abrupt ascent across the face of a burned over ridge. They made the first part in silence, then she paused to look back on the desolate waste. "Oh," she said, "it’s like the end of the world. It’s always so wretchedly hot on this dead side-hill; the gravel shifts so underfoot. It’s very different on the Tumwater road." "Whar’s that?" asked Lem. "Why, it’s the way from Olympia to the Tumwater mills where Mr. Forrest has lived since he was a small boy. And it’s through the woods and down a great ridge, with glimpses of blue sea between the firs, and always, even in warmest weather, a cool, salt breeze. The lower falls of the Des Chutes plunge into the Sound there, at Tumwater, and their thunder fills the gorge. We used to go down often, walking or riding, and sometimes when the wind and tide were right, we sailed. I suppose, Lem, you never have seen a yacht?" "Wal, no, I dunno’s I hev." "Then you have missed a great deal. But the first time I go down to the Sound I’ll take you; and Mr. Kingsley, my brother-in-law, will have us aboard the _Phantom_. Then, out past the old monastery on Priest Point, we’ll catch a swinging breeze, and all the running waves will toss their whitecaps,—you’ll like that, even if the scud whips your face,—and someone, my sister perhaps, will start ’The White Squall.’ It’s the best sea song, made for the accompaniment of water on a cleaving keel." For a moment she forgot the boy. She stood looking off across the charred stumps and skeletons of trees, as though she saw far away that blue sea she loved, and expected to hear that rush and gurgle along a moving keel. And he, this urchin who had lived his life among the weasels and squirrels in the heart of the great forest, who knew nothing of whitecaps, to whom scud was a new and vague torment, waited with his ferret eyes upon her, sharp chin lifted, lips apart. Her glance fell. Their eyes met and she laughed. "Would you like to make that trip down to Puget Sound, Lem?" He dropped his head, and slipping back to his place at her heels as she resumed the climb, answered with brief emphasis, "You bet."