London or Liverpool,
or crossing the Atlantic. No matter how similar the two letters appeared
to him, he realized that, under the circumstances, the same person could
not have written them both. For many minutes he sat back in his chair,
with his eyes half-closed, absorbing the comforting heat of the fire.
Again the old vision returned to him. In a subconscious sort of way he
found himself fighting against it, as he had struggled a score of times
to throw off its presence, since the girl's letter had come to him.
And this time, as before, his effort was futile. He saw her again--and
always as on that night of the Hawkins' ball, eyes and lips smiling at
him, the light shining gloriously in the deep red gold of her hair.

With an effort Steele aroused himself and looked at his watch. It was
a quarter of five. He stooped to close the stove door, and stopped
suddenly, his hand reaching out, head and shoulders hunched over. Across
his knee, shining in the firelight, like a thread of spun gold, lay a
single filament of a woman's hair.

He rose slowly, holding the hair between him and the light. His fingers
trembled, his breath came quickly. The hair had fallen upon his knee
from the letter--or the envelope, and it was wonderfully like HER hair!

From the direction of the factor's quarters came the deep bellowing of
Breed's moose-horn, calling him to supper. Before he responded to it,
Steele wound the silken thread of gold about his ringer, then placed
it carefully among the papers and cards which he carried in his leather
wallet. His face was flushed when he joined the factor. Not since the
night at the Hawkins' ball, when he had felt the touch of a beautiful
woman's hands, the warmth of her breath, the soft sweep of her hair
against his lips as he had leaned over her in his half-surrender, had
thought of woman stirred him as he felt himself stirred now. He was
glad that Breed was too much absorbed in his own troubles to observe any
possible change in himself or to ask questions about the letter.

"I tell you, it may mean the short birch for me, Steele," said
the factor gloomily. "Lac Bain is just now the emptiest, most
fallen-to-pieces, unbusiness-like post between the Athabasca and the
Bay. We've had two bad seasons running, and everything has gone wrong.
Colonel Becker is a big one with the company. Ain't no doubt about that,
and ten to one he'll think it's a new man that's wanted here."

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Steele.