"And, anyway, I got a good rest." The trail dipped through a precipitous morass to the river's brink.

A slender pine-tree spanned the screaming foam and bent midway to touch the water.

The surge beat upon the taper trunk and gave it a rhythmical swaying motion, while the feet of the packers had worn smooth its wave-washed surface.

Eighty feet it stretched in ticklish insecurity.

Frona stepped upon it, felt it move beneath her, heard the bellowing of the water, saw the mad rush--and shrank back.