he tragedy of his
life, he was sleeping calmly, and dreaming those happy things which only
child slumbers may know.

Good fortune smiled on the early efforts at the fort For ten days the
arch-enemy withheld his hand. For ten days the weary sun was dragged
from its rest by the evil "dogs" which seemed to dominate its movements
completely. But each day their evil eyes grew more and more portentious
and threatening as they watched the human labourers they seemed to
regard with so much contempt.

Then came the change. It was the morning of the eleventh day. The "dogs"
had hidden their faces and the weary sun remained obscured behind a mass
of grey cloud. The crisp breeze which had swept the valley with its
invigorating breath had died out, and the world had suddenly become
threateningly silent.

A few great snowflakes fluttered silently to the ground. Steve was at
the gateway of the stockade, and his constant attendant was beside him
in his bundle of furs. The man's eyes were measuring as they gazed up at
the grey sky. Little Marcel was wisely studying, too.

"Maybe us has snow," he observed sapiently at last, as he watched the
falling flakes.

"Yes. I guess we'll get snow."

Steve smiled down at the little figure beside him.

"Wot makes snow, Uncle Steve?" the boy demanded.

"Why, the cold, I guess. It just freezes the rain in the clouds. And
when they get so heavy they can't stay up any longer, why--they just
come tumbling down and makes folk sit around the stove and wish they
wouldn't."

"Does us wish they wouldn't?"

"Most all the time."

The child considered deeply. Then his face brightened hopefully.

"Bimeby us digs, Uncle Steve," he said. "Boy likes digging."

Steve held out a hand and Marcel yielded his.

"Boy'll help 'Uncle Steve,' eh?"

"I's always help Uncle Steve."

The spontaneity of the assurance remained unanswerable.

Steve glanced back into the enclosure. Then his hand tightened upon the
boy's with gentle pressure.

"Come on, old fellow. We'll get along in, and make that stove, and--wish
it wouldn't."

He led the way back to the house.

The snowfall grew in weight and density. Silent, still, the world of
Unaga seemed to have lost all semblance of life. White, white, eternal
white, and above the heavy grey of an overburdened sky. Solitude,
loneliness, desperately complete. It was the silence which well nigh
drives the human brain to madness. From minutes to hours; from inches to