in your presence, Mrs. Boreland--to enslave the entire Aleut nation to
do their hunting. They gave them a little--and a mighty little--trade
goods in return." By the inflections of his voice the agent of the
Alaska Fur and Trading Company sought to convey to his listeners the
impression that the policy of those early companies was against _his_
principles, though the books, so carefully kept by Add-'em-up Sam might
have told a different story.

"And it's possible the Russians thought the yarn to be merely another
native fairy tale," continued Kilbuck, waving a careless hand. "As I
said there may be no other foundation for it. It has come down now for
over two hundred years, and you may be sure when an Indian tells a
story it loses nothing in the telling."

The drowsy crackle of the flaming logs filled a short interval.

Shane Boreland sat lost in meditation, his hand resting quietly on the
dog's head, his eyes adream as with visions of the golden sands of the
Lost Island.

His wife glanced up at him, uneasily, almost apprehensively it seemed
to Kilbuck who was again watching her. Never in all his varied amorous
experiences had a woman's eyes held such a look for the White Chief--a
look in which there was a protecting tenderness, comradeship and
something more.

He settled farther back in his cushions, his eyes narrowing. Love had
yet some new delight to offer him. . . . His virile years were
slipping by--he was surprised and disturbed how often this thought had
been with him of late. Should he grasp the opportunity offered? There
might be a way--up here in Katleean where his word was law. . . .
Perhaps----

Kilbuck brought himself up with a start. Ellen Boreland had dropped
her knitting and had crossed to her husband's chair. Her hand rested
on his broad shoulder and there was a wistful little twist to her smile
as she shook him gently to rouse him.

"He's forever dreaming of the gold that lies beyond the skyline--this
man of mine--and always going to find it," she said fondly. "So
please, Mr. Kilbuck, don't get him interested in any mythical island.
We've been gone from the States six months now, and I want him to go
back for the winter." There was a half-playful, half-earnest note of
pleading in her voice, but the White Chief noticed that her eyes did
not fully meet his.

During all her thirty years, doubtless, Ellen Boreland had looked a
friendly world in the eye. She was that sort. He saw th