The fat he yielded was not greatly different from lard; and the pancakes—­or fritters, as Ben termed them—­were soon frying merrily.  Served with hot tea they constituted a filling and satisfactory breakfast for both travelers.

After breakfast they took to the river, yielding themselves once more to the whims of the current.  Once more the steep banks whipped past them in ever-changing vista; and Ben had to strain at his paddle to guide the craft between the perilous crags.  The previous day the high waters had carried them safely above the boulders of the river bed:  to-day some of the larger crags all but scraped the bottom of the canoe.  It did not tend toward peace of mind to know that any instant they might encounter a submerged crag that would rip their craft in twain.  Ben felt a growing eagerness to land.

But within an hour they came out once more upon the open forest.  The river broadened, sped less swiftly, the bank sloped gradually to the distant hills.  This was the heart of Back There,—­a virgin and primeval forest unchanged since the piling-up of the untrodden ranges.  The wild pace of the craft was checked, and they kept watch for a suitable place to land.

There was no need to push on through the seething cataracts that lay still farther below.  Shortly before the noon hour Ben’s quick eye saw a break in the heavy brushwood that lined the bank and quickly paddled toward it.  In a moment it was revealed as the mouth, of a small, clear stream, flowing out of a beaver meadow where the grass was rank and high.  In a moment more he pushed the canoe into the mud of the creek bank.

They both got out, rather sober of mien, and she helped him haul the canoe out upon the bank.  They unloaded it quickly, carrying the supplies in easy loads fifty yards up into the edge of the forest, on well-drained dry ground.

The entire forest world was hushed and breathless, as if startled by this intrusion.  Neither of the two travelers felt inclined to speak.  And the silence was finally broken by the splashing feet of a moose, running through a little arm of the marsh that the forest hid from view.

“Is this our permanent camp?” the girl asked at last.

“Surely not,” was the reply.  “It’s too near the river for one thing—­too easily found.  It’s too low, too—­there’ll be mosquitoes in plenty in that marsh two months from now.  The first thing is—­to look around and find a better site.”

“You want me to come?”

“I’d rather, if you don’t mind.”

She understood perfectly.  He did not intend to give her complete freedom until the river fell so low that the rapids farther down would be wholly impassable.

“I’ll come.”  Beatrice smiled grimly.  “We can have that picnic we planned, after all.”

They found a moose trail leading into the forest, and leaving the wolf on guard over the supplies, they filed swiftly along it in that peculiar, shuffling, mile-speeding gait that all foresters learn.  At once both were aware of a subdued excitement.  In the first place, this was unknown country and they experienced the incomparable thrill of exploration.  Besides they were seeking a permanent camp where their fortunes would be cast, the drama of their lives be enacted, for weeks to come.