experience has done ye no harm. Now, we'll go over the
seetuation in detail to-morrow, an' the next day ye'll start north, wi'
Joe Lamont. The freeze-up's due, an' it's quicker an' easier travelin'
by canoe than wi' dogs."

They talked desultorily for half an hour, until MacLeod, growing drowsy
before the big fire, yawned and went off to bed, after pointing out a
room for his guest and employee-to-be.

Thompson shut the door of his bedroom and sat down on a stool. He was
warm, comfortable, well-fed. But he was not happy, unless the look of
him belied his real feelings. He raised his eyes and stared curiously at
his reflection in a small mirror on the wall. The scars of Tommy Ashe's
fists had long since faded. His skin was a ruddy, healthy hue, the
freckles across the bridge of his nose almost wholly absorbed in a coat
of tan. But the change that marked him most was a change of expression.
His eyes had lost the old, mild look. They were hard and alert, blue
mirrors of an unquiet spirit. There was a different set to his lips.

"I don't look like a minister," he muttered. "I look like a man who has
been drunk. I feel like that. There must be a devil in me."

He had brought with him from Lone Moose a small bag. Out of this he now
took paper, envelopes, a fountain pen, changed his seat to the edge of
the bed, and using the stool for a desk began to write. When he had
covered two sheets he folded them over the green slip he had that day
received, and slid the whole into an envelope which he addressed:

Mr. A.H. Markham,
Sec. M.E. Board of Home Missions,
412 Echo St.,
Toronto, Ont.

He laid the letter on the bed and regarded it with an expression in
which regret and relief were equally mingled.

"They'll say--they'll think," he muttered disconnectedly.

He got up, paced across the small room, swung about to look at the
letter again.

"I've got to do it," he said aloud defiantly. "It's the only thing I can
do. Burn all my bridges behind me. If I can't honestly be a minister, I
can at least be a man."

CHAPTER XII

A FORTUNE AND A FLITTING

Christmas had come and gone before Thompson finished his job at
Porcupine Lake, some ninety-odd miles, as the crow flies, north of Fort
Pachugan. The Porcupine was a marshy stretch of water, the home of
muskrat and beaver, a paradise for waterfowl when the heavy hand of
winter was lifted, a sheet of ice now, a white oval in the dusky green
of the fore