r Grassette. "Water--queeck!" he said.

The Sheriff stooped and held a hatful of water to Bignold's lips, while
another poured brandy from a flask into the water.

Grassette watched them eagerly. When the dying man had swallowed a little
of the spirit and water, Grassette leaned over him again, and the others
drew away. They realized that these two men had an account to settle, and
there was no need for Grassette to take revenge, for Bignold was going
fast.

"You stan' far back," said Grassette, and they fell away.

Then he stooped down to the sunken, ashen face, over which death was fast
drawing its veil.

"Marcile--where is Marcile?" he asked.

The dying man's lips opened. "God forgive me--God save my soul!" he
whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now.

"Queeck--queeck, where is Marcile?" Grassette said, sharply. "Come back,
Bignold. Listen--where is Marcile?"

He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened
again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled
to be free.

"Ten years--since--I saw her," he whispered. "Good girl--Marcile. She
loves you, but she--is afraid." He tried to say something more, but his
tongue refused its office.

"Where is she?--spik!" commanded Grassette, in a tone of pleading and
agony now.

Once more the flying spirit came back. A hand made a motion toward his
pocket, then lay still.

Grassette felt hastily in the dead man's pocket, drew forth a letter, and
with half-blinded eyes read the few lines it contained. It was dated from
a hospital in New York, and was signed, "Nurse Marcile."

With a groan of relief Grassette stood staring at the dead man. When the
others came to him again, his lips were moving, but they did not hear what
he was saying. They took up the body and moved away with it up the
ravine.

"It's all right, Grassette. You'll be a free man," said the Sheriff.

Grassette did not answer. He was thinking how long it would take him to
get to Marcile, when he was free.

He had a true vision of beginning life again with Marcile.

A MAN, A FAMINE, AND A HEATHEN BOY

I

Athabasca in the Far North is the scene of this story--Athabasca, one of
the most beautiful countries in the world in summer, but a cold, bare land
in winter. Yet even in winter it is not so bleak and bitter as the
districts southwest of it, for the Chinook winds steal through from the
Pacific and temper the fierceness of the froz