his face, accompanying the act with another tirade of
words of which the Indian understood less than he had of the previous
outburst.

Wee Johnnie Tamarack took his orders only from MacNair. MacNair had
said, "Go to the school for provisions," and to the school he must go.
Nevertheless, the sight of the letter impressed him. For in the
Northland His Majesty's mail is held sacred and must be carried to its
destination, though the heavens fall.

To the mind of Wee Johnnie Tamarack a letter was "mail," and the fact
that its status might be altered by the absence of His Majesty's stamp
upon its corner was an affair beyond the old man's comprehension.

Therefore he ordered the other Indians to continue their journey, and,
motioning the girl to a place on the sled, headed his dogs northward
and sent them skimming over the back-trail.

Wee Johnnie Tamarack was counted one of the best dog-mushers in the
North, and as the girl had succeeded in implanting in the old man's
mind an urgent need of haste, he exerted his talent to the utmost.
Mile after mile, behind the flying feet of the tireless _malamutes_,
the sled-runners slipped smoothly over the crust of the ice-hard snow.

And at midnight of the second day they dashed across the smooth surface
of the lake and brought up with a rush before the door of MacNair's own
cabin, which luckily had been spared by the flames.

It was a record drive, for a "two-man" load--that drive of Wee Johnnie
Tamarack's, having clipped twelve hours from a thirty-six-hour trail.

MacNair's door flew open to their frantic pounding. The girl thrust
the letter into his hand, and with a supreme effort told what she knew
of the disappearance of Chloe and Big Lena. Whereupon, she threw
herself at full length upon the floor and immediately sank into a
profound sleep.

MacNair fumbled upon the shelf for a candle and, lighting it, seated
himself beside the table, and tore the envelope from the letter. Never
in his life had the man read words penned by the hand of a woman. The
fingers that held the letter trembled, and he wondered at the wild
beating of his heart.

The story of the Louchoux girl had aroused in him a sudden fear. He
wondered vaguely that the disappearance of Chloe Elliston could have
caused the dull hurt in his breast. The pages in his hand were like no
letter he had ever received. There was something
personal--intimate--about them. His huge fingers gripped them lightly,
an