ed with a wooden bolt. When they
entered he could make out things indistinctly--a stove at first, a
stool, a box, a small table, and a bunk against the wall. Mukoki was
rattling the lids of the stove when Father Roland entered with his arms
filled. He dropped his load on the floor, and David went back to the
sledge with him. By the time they had brought its burden into the cabin
a fire was roaring in the stove, and Mukoki had hung a lighted lantern
over the table. Then Father Roland seized an axe, tested its keen edge
with his thumb, and said to David: "Let's go cut our beds before it's
too dark." Cut their beds! But the Missioner's broad back was
disappearing through the door in a very purposeful way, and David
caught up a second axe and followed. Young balsams twice as tall as a
man were growing about the cabin, and from these Father Roland began
stripping the branches. They carried armfuls into the cabin until the
one bunk was heaped high, and meanwhile Mukoki had half a dozen pots and
kettles and pans on the glowing top of the sheet-iron stove, and thick
caribou steaks were sizzling in a homelike and comforting way. A little
later David ate as though he had gone hungry all day. Ordinarily he
wanted his meat well done; to-night he devoured an inch-and-a quarter
sirloin steak that floated in its own gravy, and was red to the heart of
it. When they had finished they lighted their pipes and went out to feed
the dogs a frozen fish apiece.

An immense satisfaction possessed David. It was like something soft and
purring inside of him. He made no effort to explain things. He was
accepting facts, and changes. He felt bigger to-night, as though his
lungs were stretching themselves, and his chest expanding. His fears
were gone. He no longer saw anything to dread in the white wilderness.
He was eager to go on, eager to reach Tavish's. Ever since Father Roland
had spoken of Tavish that desire had been growing within him. Tavish had
not only come from the Stikine River; he had lived on Firepan Creek. It
was incredible that he should not know of the Girl: who she was; just
where she lived; why she was there. White people were few in that far
country. Tavish would surely know of her. He had made up his mind that
he would show Tavish the picture, keeping to himself the manner in which
he had come into possession of it. The daughter of a friend, he would
tell them--both Father Roland and Tavish. Or of an acquaintance. That,
at least,