her in a panic.

From the end of the lake she followed the trail Onistah had made. It
took into the woods, veering sharply to the right. The timber was
open. Even where the snow was deep, the crust was firm enough to hold.

In her anxiety it seemed that hours passed. The sun was still fairly
high, but she knew how quickly it sank these winter days.

She skirted a morass, climbed a long hill, and saw before her another
lake. On the shore was a camp. A fire was burning, and over this a man
stooping.

At the sound of her call, the man looked up. He rose and began to run
toward her. She snowshoed down the hill, a little blindly, for the
mist of glad tears brimmed her eyes.

Straight into Beresford's arms she went. Safe at last, she began to
cry. The soldier petted her, with gentle words of comfort.

"It's all right now, little girl. All over with. Your father's here.
See! He's coming. We'll not let anything harm you."

McRae took the girl into his arms and held her tight. His rugged face
was twisted with emotion. A dam of ice melted in his heart. The voice
with which he spoke, broken with feeling, betrayed how greatly he was
shaken.

"My bairn! My wee dawtie! To God be the thanks."

She clung to him, trying to control her sobs. He stroked her hair and
kissed her, murmuring Gaelic words of endearment. A thought pierced
him, like a sword-thrust.

He held her at arm's length, a fierce anxiety in his haggard face. "Is
a' well wi' you, lass?" he asked, almost harshly.

She understood his question. Her level eyes met his. They held no
reservations of shame. "All's well with me, Father. Mr. Whaley was
there the whole time. He stood out against West. He was my friend."
She stopped, enough said.

"The Lord be thankit," he repeated again, devoutly.

Tom Morse, rifle in hand, had come from the edge of the woods and was
standing near. He had heard her first call, had seen her go to the
arms of Beresford direct as a hurt child to those of its mother, and
he had drawn reasonable conclusions from that. For under stress
the heart reveals itself, he argued, and she had turned simply and
instinctively to the man she loved. He stood now outside the group,
silent. Inside him too a river of ice had melted. His haunted, sunken
eyes told the suffering he had endured. The feeling that flooded him
was deeper than joy. She had been dead and was alive again. She had
been lost and was found.

"Where have you been?" asked Beresford. "