orm. It had been snowing since morning on this, the most
memorable day in the history of Klassan.

Caribou Sol stood in front of his cabin, looking out into the darkness.
He did not mind the driving wind, laden with snow, which beat against
him; in fact, he never noticed it. His face was marked with anguish as
he closed the door and moved slowly along the trail leading to the
Radhurst cabin. Up the hill he crept like a worn-out, weary man. He
breasted the tempest with his head bent forward, while his long white
beard was tossed across his breast like seaweed flung upon some
surf-beaten rock. Constance was sitting by the table with a look of
expectancy upon her face when Sol knocked at the door. Much had she
changed since the previous evening. Her old lightness of spirit was
gone, and a sadness weighed upon her soul. Tears glistened in her
eyes, and the rosy colour had fled her cheeks, leaving them very white.

Joe Simkins had brought the news early that morning, and all day long
the suspense had been terrible. Not for an instant did she or her
father believe that Keith was guilty. There was something wrong, they
felt sure of that. Constance longed to go to him, that he might know
that they had not deserted him at any rate, and at times she was
tempted to go to the trial, face the men, and give him a word of
encouragement.

She fancied him defending himself against the base charge with all the
determination of his manly nature. That he would fight hard, she had
no doubt, but she shuddered when she thought how little one man could
do against so many. She was surprised, too, to find what an interest
she took in his welfare, and how his trouble pierced her heart like a
sharp sword.

As the evening wore on, and the storm howled and raged outside, and no
one came near the cabin, the suspense became almost unbearable. Had
the worst happened, so that even Joe did not dare to come and break the
news? She had often heard how gold thieves were treated by enraged
miners, and she shivered as the idea came to her this night.
Mechanically, she picked up a book, a small copy of Keble's "Christian
Year," which Keith had left there. Opening it at random, her eyes
rested upon a verse for the twenty-third Sunday after Trinity, which
attracted her attention. Slowly she read:

"But first by many a stern and fiery blast
The world's rude furnace must our blood refine,
And many a blow of keenest woe be passed,