n a few days," Jean said in French. "Michel is anxious to get
back to his traps."

"Oh, don't go so soon, Jean. I haven't yet had an opportunity to talk to
you as I wished."

"If you mean to thank me, I am glad of that," he said, his lips curling
in a faint smile.

"Why should I not thank you, Jean Marcel, who risked your life like a
madman to help me? I do now thank you with all my heart. But for you, I
would not be here. Dr. Hunter told me I could not have lived had he
arrived one day later."

With a gesture of impatience Marcel turned in his chair and gazed
through the window on the world of snow.

The dark eyes in the pale face of the girl were strangely soft as they
rested on the sinewy strength of the man's figure; then lifted to the
strong profile, with its bony jaw and bold, aquiline nose.

"You do not care for my thanks, Jean?" she asked.

"Please!" he begged. "It is over, that! You are well again! I am happy;
and will go back to my trap-lines."

"But it is not all over with Julie Breton," she insisted.

He turned with brows raised questioningly.

"It has left her--changed. She will never be the same."

"What do you mean? Dr. Hunter said you would be as strong as ever, by
spring."

"Ah, but I do not speak of my body, Jean Marcel."

He gazed in perplexity at her wistful face. In a moment his eyes again
sought the window.

For a long space, she was silent. Then a suppressed sob roused him from
his bitter thoughts and he heard the strained voice of the girl.

"I know all," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Gillies, and Dr. Hunter--when I asked him--told me--long ago. We
have kept it from Pere Henri. It seems years, for I have been thinking
much since then--lying awake, thinking."

"Julie, what has been worrying you? Don't let what I did cause you
pain," he pleaded, not catching the significance of her words. "It's all
right, Julie. You owe me nothing--I understand."

"Ah, but you do not understand," she said, smiling at the man's averted
face.

"Julie, I have suffered, but I want you to be happy. Don't think of Jean
Marcel."

"But it is of Jean Marcel of the great heart that I must think--have
been thinking, for days and days." She was sitting erect, tense; her
pale face drawn with emotion.

"I tell you I know it all," she cried, "how they--_he_, feared to start
in the storm--and waited--ordered you to wait. But no wind or snow could
hold Jean Marcel, and in spite of them, he brou