at him searchingly. "I suppose you'll acknowledge yourself whipped at
last, Bryce?" she ventured.

"Would it please you to have me surrender?" He was very serious.

"Indeed it would, Bryce."

"Why?"

"Because I'm tired of fighting. I want peace. I'm--I'm afraid to let
this matter go any further. I'm truly afraid."

"I think I want peace, too," he answered wearily. "I'd be glad to
quit--with honour. And I'll do it, too, if you can induce your uncle
to give me the kind of logging contract I want with his road."

"I couldn't do that, Bryce. He has you whipped--and he is not
merciful to the fallen. You'll have to--surrender unconditionally."
Again she laid her little hand timidly on his wounded forearm.
"Please give up, Bryce--for my sake. If you persist, somebody will
get killed."

"I suppose I'll have to," he murmured sadly. "I dare say you're
right, though one should never admit defeat until he is counted out.
I suppose," he continued bitterly, "your uncle is in high feather
this morning."

"I don't know, Bryce. He left in his motor for San Francisco about
one o'clock this morning."