She turned and saw a light shining through the V-shaped canvas on the edge of the trees, but although she was tired, felt reluctant to leave the fire. It had burned low between the logs, but it gave the lonely spot a comfortable home-like look, and the bush was dark. Thirlwell, sitting where the faint light touched him, somehow added to the charm by a hint of human fellowship. He looked as if he were resting by his hearth, and she had spent a happy hour with him in quiet, half-confidential talk. "Thank you. Good-night," she said, and went away. When she reached the tent she looked about with surprise. The earth floor was beaten smooth and sprinkled with pine-sprays that gave out an aromatic smell; a bed had been cleverly made of thin branches and packed twigs. Her blankets were neatly folded and the small canvas bucket was filled. All she was likely to need was ready, and the boxes that had held her outfit were arranged to make a seat and wash-stand. She felt grateful for this thought for her comfort, and putting out the miner's lamp, sat down on the twig-bed and hooked the canvas door back. Although there was no moon, she could distinguish the black pine-trunks across the river, the lines of foam where the current broke upon the reefs, and the canoes drawn up on the bank. Thirlwell and his _Metis_ packers had gone, and as hers was the only tent she wondered where they slept. The fires were nearly out, and except for the noise of the river a solemn quietness brooded over the camp. She began to muse. She had liked Thirlwell when she met him at the summer hotel, but she liked him better in the bush. He harmonized with his surroundings; he was, so to speak, natural, but not at all uncouth. The woods had made him quiet, thoughtful, and vigilant. She had noted his quick, searching glance, and although there was nothing aggressive about him, he had force. Yet she did not think him clever; she had met men whose mental powers were much more obvious, but when she tried to contrast them with him, he came out best. After all, character took one further than intellectual subtlety. Agatha blushed as she admitted that had she wanted a lover she might have been satisfied with a man of Thirlwell's type; but she did not want a lover. She had inherited a duty and must concentrate on finding the silver vein; the task in a manner set her apart from other women, who could follow their bent. Sometimes she envied them their freedom and gave way to bitterness, but her austere sense of duty returned. It was strong just now, but the picture of Thirlwell sitting opposite by the fire had a happy domestic touch that made her dissatisfied.