is voice.
"Oh, Catharine! Where did you get her?"

"The shores of Kootenay Lake," she answered.

"Was--was--she _alone_?" he cried.

The woman looked away, slowly shaking her head, and her voice was
very gentle as she replied: "No, she alive a little, but _the
other_, whose arms 'round her, she not alive; my people, the
Kootenay Indians, and I--we--we bury that other."

For a moment there was a speaking silence, the young Wingate, with
the blessed realization that half his world had been saved for him,
flung himself on his knees, and, with his arms locked about the
little girl, was calling:

"Margie! Margie! Papa's little Margie girl! Do you remember papa?
Oh, Margie! Do you? Do you?"

Something dawned in the child's eyes--something akin to a far-off
memory. For a moment she looked wonderingly at him, then put her
hand up to his forehead and gently pulled a lock of his fair hair
that always curled there--an old trick of hers. Then she looked
down at his vest pocket, slowly pulled out his watch and held it to
her ear. The next minute her arms slipped round his neck.

"Papa," she said, "papa been away from Margie a long time."

Young Wingate was sobbing. He had not noticed that the big, rough
foreman had gone out of the shack with tear-dimmed eyes, and had
quietly closed the door behind him.

* * * * *

It was evening before Wingate got all the story from Catharine, for
she was slow of speech, and found it hard to explain her feelings.
But Brown, who had returned alone to the camp in the morning, now
came back, packing an immense bundle of all the tinned delicacies
he could find, which, truth to tell, were few. He knew some words
in Kootenay, and led Catharine on to reveal the strange history
that sounded like some tale from fairyland. It appeared that the
reason Catharine did not attempt to go to the camp that morning was
that Margie was not well, so she would not leave her, but in her
heart of hearts she knew young Wingate would come searching to her
lodge. She loved the child as only an Indian woman can love an
adopted child. She longed for him to come when she found Margie
was ill, yet dreaded that coming from the depths of her soul. She
dreaded the hour he would see the child and take it away. For the
moment she looked upon his face, the night he rode over to engage
her to cook, months ago, she had known he was Margie's father. The
little thing was the perfect mirror of hi