on which their books were
scattered, David received a shock. Clinging to the Missioner's shoulder,
shimmering like a polished silken thread in the lampglow, was a long,
shining hair--a woman's hair. With an effort David choked back the word
of amazement in his throat, and began turning over the pages of a book.
And then suddenly, the Missioner saw that silken thread. David heard his
quick breath. He saw, without raising his eyes, the slow, almost
stealthy movement of his companion's fingers as he plucked the hair from
his arm and shoulder, and when David looked up the hair was gone, and
one of Father Roland's hands was closed tightly, so tightly that the
veins stood out on it. He rose from the table, and again went into the
room beyond the locked door. David's heart was beating like an unsteady
hammer. He could not quite account for the strange effect this incident
had upon him. He wanted more than ever to see that room beyond the
locked door.

February--the Hunger Moon--of this year was a month of great storm in
the Northland. This meant sickness, and a great deal of travel for
Father Roland. He and David were almost ceaselessly on the move, and its
hardships gave the finishing touches to David's education. The
wilderness, vast and empty as it was, no longer held a dread for him. He
had faced its bitterest storms; he had slept with the deep snow under
his blankets; he had followed behind the Missioner through the blackest
nights, when it had seemed as though no human soul could find its way;
and he had looked on death. Once they ran swiftly to it through a night
blizzard; again it came, three in a family, so far to the west that it
was out of Father Roland's beaten trails; and again he saw it in the
Madonna-like face of a young French girl, who had died clutching a cross
to her breast. It was this girl's white face, sweet as a child's and
strangely beautiful in death, that stirred David most deeply. She must
have been about the age of the girl whose picture he carried next his
heart.

Soon after this, early in March, he had definitely made up his mind.
There was no reason now why he should not _go on_. He was physically
fit. Three months had hardened him until he was like a rock. He believed
that he had more than regained his weight. He could beat Father Roland
with either rifle or pistol, and in one day he had travelled forty miles
on snow shoes. That was when they had arrived just in time to save the
life of Jean