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 "What was that about our ninth day in camp?" he asked her.

"We ought to go back, now!"

"Why? Aren't you happy here?"

"Oh, I'm wonderfully happy, David."

"Then—"

She broke in upon him: "But we ought to go back!"

He knew her well enough to realize that this might be merely the result of some emotion which seized her without much or any reason; whatever the cause, her indolence was at an end. Of herself she set about the business of breaking camp and when she kept at it, he asked her: "See here, Fidelia; did anything happen when I was away?"

"Happen?" she said.

"Was any one here? With a letter or a message, I mean."

"Why, no, David." And, as he bent beside her, she kissed him. "We've been awfully happy here, haven't we?" she said. "Only it's hard for you to be just happy very long, isn't it?"

"Hard!" he protested.

She kissed him again, with her soft, warm tenderness. "You're good to me; I love you. Then, let's go—won't we, David?—when we're so happy, yet?"

He said, holding her: "We'll be happy always, anywhere." But when he released her, she went on packing and he helped her; and they left camp that afternoon in time to take the night train to Chicago.

That train, which rushed them southward through the dark, reminded David of the tug-boat which had rescued Fidelia and himself from the floe in the lake and