the evening festival planned by Ailsa in her hospitable home. A
homely supper, and a gathering of all the white folk of the post. It
was all so simple. But it was just such as these people understood and
appreciated. It was the outward sign of the profound bond which held
them all in a land that is eternally inhospitable.

It was nearly midnight when the party broke up. Farewells were said
and the men departed. Jessie, herself, closed the heavy door upon the
last of them. Alec bade his mother and sister good-night, and betook
himself to his belated rest. Mother and daughter were left alone.

The mother's knitting needles were still clicking busily as she sat
beside the great stove, whose warmth was a necessity in the chill of
the spring evenings. Jessie came slowly over and stood gazing down at
the fierce glow radiating beneath the iron door, where the damper had
been withdrawn.

No word was spoken for some moments. Then a sound broke the quiet of
the room. It was the sound of a stifled sob, and the mother looked up
anxiously.

"Why, child!" she cried, and sprang to her feet.

The next moment her protecting arms were about the pretty figure of the
girl, and she drew her to her bosom, with a world of tender affection.

For some moments Jessie struggled with her tears. The mother said no
word. It was the gentle hand stroking the girl's beautiful hair which
spoke for the lips which sympathy had rendered dumb.

Then came the half-stifled confession which could no longer be denied.

"Oh, mother, mother!" the girl cried, through her sobs. "I--I can't
help it. I--I love him, and--and he's gone."

Dr. Bill had gone on with Father Jose. To Murray's surprise, John Kars
expressed his intention of accompanying him up to the Fort, which was
the former's sleeping quarters. Murray was astonished. Nor was it a
companionship he in the least desired. The prospect even robbed him of
some of the satisfaction which the departure on the morrow inspired.
Still he was left with no choice. To refuse him on any pretext would
only be to show his hand, and bring into active expression all the
bitter feeling which lay smoldering behind his exterior of cordiality.

He knew what John Kars meant to his hopes with regard to Jessie
Mowbray. He had admitted that he feared him. The past week had only
confirmed those fears beyond all question. He realized, surely enough,
that, whatever Kars' feelings, Jessie's were unmist