as there first, and was minding its own
business. Maybe the calf will butt and get hurt, and scamper for home.
Maybe it will succeed in eluding the fangs of the wolf, and reach its
mountain in safety. In such case it will have learned something.

"Maybe it will butt and butt against the tree until it dislodges a limb
from high among the branches, and the limb will fall to the ground and
crush, shall we say--the waiting wolf? And, maybe the calf will butt,
learn that the tree is immovable, swallow its hurt, and pass on, giving
the tree a wide berth--pass on into the quagmire, with the wolf licking
his chops, as grinning, he points out the way."

Chloe, in spite of herself, was intensely interested.

"But," she asked, "you are quite sure the tree is immovable?"

"Quite sure."

"Suppose, however, that this particular tree is rotten--rotten to the
heart? That the very roots that hold it in place are rotten? And that
the moose-calf butts 'til he butts it down--what then?"

There was a gleam of admiration in MacNair's eyes as he answered:

"If the tree is rotten it will fall. But it will fall to the mighty
push o' the winds o' God--and not to the puny butt of a moose-calf!"
Chloe Elliston was silent. The man was speaking again. "Good day to
you, madam, or miss, or whatever one respectfully calls a woman. As I
told you, I have known no women. I have lived always in the North.
Death robbed me of my mother before I was old enough to remember her.
The North, you see, is hard and relentless, even with those who know
her--and love her."

The girl felt a sudden surge of sympathy for this strange, outspoken
man of the Northland. She knew that the man had spoken, with no
thought of arousing sympathy, of the dead mother he had never known.
And in his voice was a note, not merely of deep regret, but of sadness.

"I am sorry," she managed to murmur.

"What?"

"About your mother, I mean."

The man nodded. "Yes. She was a good woman. My father told me of her
often. He loved her."

The simplicity of the man puzzled Chloe. She was at a loss to reply.

"I think--I believe--a moment ago, you asked my name."

"No."

"Oh!" The lines about the girl's mouth tightened. "Then I'll tell
you. I am Chloe Elliston--_Miss_ Chloe Elliston. The name means
nothing to you--now. A year hence it will mean much."

"Aye, maybe. I'll not say it won't. More like, though, it will be
forgot in half the time. The North has