the country."

Harold's face drew in a scowl. "And what are you goin' to do about it?"

"The queer thing is----" and Bill spoke quietly, slowly, "I'm not going
to do anything about it--now."

Harold's crafty eyes searched his face. He wondered if Bill was
afraid--some way it didn't fit into the stories that he had heard of him
that this woodsman should be afraid. But he might as well go on that
supposition as any other. "Maybe it's a good thing," he said. And for
an instant, something of his lost suavity of speech came back to him.
"Then to what--do I owe the honor of this visit?"

Bill sighed and straightened. The struggle within himself had, an
instant before, waged more furiously than ever. Why should he not leave
this man to his filthy cabin and his degeneracy and never let Virginia
know of their meeting? He wondered if such had been his secret plan,
concealed in the further recesses of his mind, when he had told her
to-day's expedition concerned his mine,--so that he could withdraw if
he wished. In this course most likely lay the girl's ultimate
happiness, certainly his own. He could steal back; no one would ever
know the truth. The man had sunk beneath her; even he, Bill, was more
worthy of her than this degenerate son of cities and culture.

Yet who was he to dare to take into his own hands the question of
Virginia's destiny? He had promised to bring her lost lover back to
her; the fact that he was no longer the man she had known could be only
a subterfuge to quiet his own conscience. Besides, the last sentence
that the man had spoken had been singularly portentous. For the instant
he had fallen into his own native speech, and the fact offered
tremendous possibilities. Could it be that the old days were not
entirely forgotten, that some of the virtues that Virginia had loved in
him still dwelt in his degenerate hulk, ready to be wakened again? He
had heard of men being redeemed. And all at once he knew his course.

So intent was he upon his thoughts that he scarcely heard the sound of
steps in the snow outside the cabin door, then the noise of some one on
the threshold in the act of removing snowshoes.

The task that confronted him now was that, no more and no less, to which
he had consecrated his life,--to bring happiness to the girl he loved.
There was work to do with this man. But even yet he might be redeemed;
with Bill's aid his manhood might return to him. His own love for the
gir