hed the balsams he cursed his luck until he was red in the face. No
one had seen him. That quarter-mile of labor was lost, its finesse a
failure. But he kept up the play, and staggered weakly through the
sheltering balsams to the cabin. His artifice had no shame, even when
played on women; and he fell heavily against the door, beat upon it
with his fist; and slipped down into the snow, where he lay with his
head bowed, as if his last strength was gone.

He heard movement inside, quick steps--and then the door opened. He did
not look up for a moment. That would have been crude. When he did raise
his head, it was very slowly, with a look of anguish in his face. And
then--he stared. His body all at once grew tense, and the counterfeit
pain in his eyes died out like a flash in this most astounding moment
of his life. Man of iron though he was, steeled to the core against the
weaknesses of sudden emotions, it was impossible for him to restrain
the gasp of amazement that rose to his lips.

In that stifled cry Jan Thoreau's wife heard the supplication of a
dying man. She did not catch, back of it, the note of a startled beast.
She was herself startled, frightened for a moment by the unexpectedness
of it all.

And Blake stared. This--the fiddler's wife! She was clutching in her
hand a brush with which she had been arranging her hair. The hair, jet
black, was wonderful. Her eyes were still more wonderful to Blake. She
was not an Indian--not a half-breed--and beautiful. The loveliest face
he had ever visioned, sleeping or awake, was looking down at him.

With a second gasp, he remembered himself, and his body sagged, and the
amazed stare went out of his eyes as he allowed his head to fall a
little. In this movement his cap fell off. In another moment she was at
his side, kneeling in the snow and bending over him.

"You are hurt, m'sieu!"

Her hair fell upon him, smothering his neck and shoulders. The perfume
of it was like the delicate scent of a rare flower in his nostrils. A
strange thrill swept through him. He did not try to analyze it in those
few astonishing moments. It was beyond his comprehension, even had he
tried. He was ignorant of the finer fundamentals of life, and of the
great truth that the case-hardened nature of a man, like the body of an
athlete, crumbles fastest under sudden and unexpected change and strain.

He regained his feet slowly and stupidly, assisted by Marie. They
climbed the one step to the doo