IT WAS THE end of the day, and Joy Gargrave, kneeling down on a litter of young spruce boughs, in the shadow of a wind screen, stretched her mittened hands towards the fire. Then she removed her face mask and looked at her foster-sister, who having changed her moccasins was placing the pair she had worn through the day near the fire where they would dry slowly.

“Tired, Babette?”

“Not more than ordinary,” was the reply, “though I will own to having found those last two miles against the wind a little trying.”

They had been travelling for a week, and were growing used to the evil of the trail. Body stiffness no longer troubled them, and having been inured to the task from childhood, the agony of cramp brought on by snow-shoe work was unknown to them, the hard exercise of the trail inducing no more than a healthy tiredness at the end of the day. Joy stretched herself luxuriously on the spruce, and looked round. The darkness of the woods was behind them, and in front the waste of snow showed dimly. In the circle of firelight the Indian George was preparing the evening meal, whilst his son Jim was feeding the dogs. The girl[211] watched them meditatively for a moment or two, then she spoke to Miss La Farge—

“A little different to the Ritz, Babette!”

Babette looked up from the steaming moccasins.

“What do you mean, Joy?”

Joy waved her hand in a half circle. “Why, everything—the trees, the snow, the darkness, the dogs, the camp-fire, George and Jim, and you and I like a couple of Dianas.”

Babette laughed and looked round appreciatively. “It makes me think of a picture which I saw when we were in London. It had a fancy name—’When the World was Young,’ or something like that—and whoever painted it knew the wilderness well. It is, as you say, a little different to the Ritz—and ever so much better. I wonder how long we shall be on trail, not that I’m tired of it. Even hard work has its pleasures and compensations.”

“I do not know how long we shall be. I am content that we are on the right trail. The strange Indian with whom George talked today told a story of a white man, an officer of police, who had been taken to the winter camp of his tribe with a broken leg. The leg had healed, and the officer had departed ten days ago on the trail of a bad white man, and he went Northward. From the description given the officer was almost certainly Corporal Bracknell, and I have an idea that he may have news of Dick Bracknell and be following his trail, in which case I pray that we may come up with him soon; for if there was trouble between them, and the Corporal killed his cousin, it would be a[212] very terrible thing, in view of the situation as regards the succession to Harrow Fell.”

“Yes,” answered Miss La Farge slowly, “but it is no use shutting one’s eyes to facts. The death of Dick Bracknell would be a relief to many people—yourself included!”

“It would be no relief to me if Dick Bracknell died by his cousin’s hand,” answered Joy in a low voice. “It would be quite terrible; it is more than I dare contemplate.”

“Why?” As Babette La Farge shot the question at her foster-sister she looked at her keenly, and saw a wave of warm blood surge over the beautiful face, and as she saw it her own grew suddenly tender. “No,” she added hurriedly, “don’t answer the question, Joy. There is no need. I can guess the answer, which I am sure you would not give me. I think you are right—for everybody’s sake nothing must happen between those two men. At all costs that must be prevented.”

She dropped the moccasins, took a couple of steps forward, and stopping, kissed Joy’s warm cheek. “My dear,” she said, “you must not worry. Time will unravel this dreadful tangle, and after all you are young yet.”

Joy looked up at her trying bravely to smile, but there was the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes. She was about to speak, when the servant George announced that supper was ready, and she contented herself with a glance that was full of love and gratitude.

The next morning, just before they broke camp the younger Indian, who had been out inspecting[213] the trail, returned with news. He had been a little way up the river and had encountered a strange Indian in the act of taking a marten from a trap. He had talked with this man, and when the latter had heard who his mistress was he had betrayed considerable excitement, and had asked him to wait for him a little time, as he might have a message for his mistress. He had gone away, and a little later had returned and had then told Jim that his master—a white man—was lying sick in a cabin on a creek a little way up the river, and that he earnestly desired that Miss Gargrave would go and speak with him.

“Did he give his master’s name?” asked Joy, as a quick hope awoke within her.

“No, Miss, but he hav’ yours; he say you know him. And I wonder if he is the man we seek.”

Joy also wondered, wondered and hoped, and after consideration she nodded her head. “Yes, I will go and see this man. He may be Corporal Bracknell, or he may have seen him recently. In any case it is a Christian charity to visit any stricken white man in this desolate bush, and it will mean only a short delay. Where is the creek, Jim?”

“Up the river a little way, miss. The man he waits at the point where it joins the river.”

“Then Miss La Farge and I will go on ahead, and you can come on behind, and if you do not overtake us, you can await us at the mouth of the creek.”

The two girls started off, and presently reached the creek, where stamping his feet in the snow,[214] Dick Bracknell’s man, Joe, awaited them. Both of them glanced at him keenly, but he was a stranger to them, and then Joy addressed him.

“Your master, where is he?”

The Indian pointed up the creek. “Him sick man, I take you to him!”

Without waiting for further words the man turned in his tracks and swung up the creek at such a pace that the two girls had hard work to keep up with him. Joy questioned the man as to his master’s name, but the man either did not or would not understand, for he merely shook his head, and pressed forward. In a few minutes they reached the little cabin at the edge of the trees, and maintaining a wooden face, the Indian swung the door open and motioned them to enter.

Joy pressed forward eagerly with her foster-sister at her heels. The Indian softly closed the door behind them, an evil smile wrinkling his scarred face, then going to the rear of the hut, a moment later he appeared with a bow and some arrows in his hand, and entering the shadow of the trees, he began to walk towards the mouth of the creek.

... As she entered the cabin Joy Gargrave looked quickly about her. The only light came through a parchment window and from the improvised stove, and in the semi-darkness, at first, she could see nothing. But after a moment she discerned a tall figure standing but a little way from her. The face was in shadow, and she could not make out the features, but as her eyes fell on him, the man gave vent to a thin, choking laugh.

[215]

“Good morning, my dear Joy! This is an unexpected pleasure!”

At the sound of the voice Joy started, and with a dawning fear in her eyes leaned forward and stared into the haggard face before her. As she did so, her fear increased, and she asked suddenly, “Who are you, that you should address me in that way?”

“Then you do not recognize me?” asked the voice mockingly. “I am not surprised. Time has wrought inevitable changes—but of course, it does not change the constant heart. Look again, my dear, and you will see——”

Overwhelming fear surged in the girl’s heart. She knew who this haggard man was; indeed, she had known from the first word that he ha............