at she was
troubled now at not being able to do this in the case of the trader of
Katleean. Probably he himself was not attractive to her--perhaps he
was even fascinatingly repellant with that electric and disturbing and
promising quality that drew almost irresistibly. There were women who,
under that impulsion, had been moved to come close and gaze into his
pale, black-lashed eyes. It was an impulse akin to that which urges
people to fling themselves from great heights; to peer into abandoned,
stagnant wells. . . . He had an idea that she knew he saw this, for he
had watched her face flush under his glance as though at the thought of
having dishonored herself by sharing with him some guilty secret. He
saw that she was uncomfortable in accepting his hospitality. Twice
during their stay she had entreated her husband to leave Katleean, or
at least go back aboard the schooner for the remainder of their visit.
But Shane Boreland, clean-hearted adventurer, to whom the vagaries of a
woman's mind were a closed book, had only laughed at her request,
retorting that life aboard the _Hoonah_ had made her into a little
sea-dog and a few weeks ashore with such a host as the White Chief
would do her a world of good.

The host now lighted one of his short-lived cigarettes. In his mind
was forming a plan suggested by Ellen Foreland's words. He might
develop it later, and again he might not, but it would not be amiss to
prepare the way.

He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace, slipping without effort
into the part he had assigned himself.

"Dreams are the things that make life worth living, Mrs. Boreland."
His low, vibrant tones sounded pleasantly in the dusky room. "Boreland
here has his dreams of a mine of gold, but I--" he hesitated, his voice
taking on a whimsical softness, "but I, in my Northern solitude, have
my dreams of a heart of gold." His look was designed to leave no doubt
in Ellen Boreland's mind that it was a feminine heart of gold that he
sought.

There was a pause during which the charred logs in the fireplace
dropped down sending up a brighter flame.

"But you mustn't be too sure that the Lost Island is a myth." He spoke
briskly now as it putting aside deliberately his own longings. "In
this part of the country some say that the Lost Island is that of Kon
Klayu."

As Boreland looked up questioningly the White Chief went on:

"Of course, it does in some ways answer the description. It is ninety