ared
wild things--had left its mark on Pete. His fear for Hugh now threw him
back into the half-forgotten state of apprehension which had been the
atmosphere of all his little boyhood. He had not known then why strange
men were creatures to be feared and shunned. In fact, he had never
been told the reason for Hugh's flight. Only, bit by bit, he had pieced
together hints and vague allusions until he knew that this strange,
embittered, boasting poet of a brother had killed or had been accused of
killing. In his loyal boy mind Hugh Garth was promptly acquitted. It was
the world that was wrong--not Hugh. Yet to-day, after all the long years
of carefulness, he had gone back to the cruelty of the world.

Like a beast the boy's anxiety for his brother began to prowl about the
walls of his mind. He imagined Hugh appearing at the trading-station. He
pictured the curious glances of the Indians and the white natives.
This limping, extravagant, energetic Hugh with his whitening hair and
eyebrows and flaring hazel eyes--with his crooked nose and mouth,
his magnificently desperate manner and his magnificently desperate
voice--attention would inevitably fasten upon him anywhere; how much
more in an empty land such as this! Pete fancied the inquiring looks
turned from the man to the man's posted picture. It was no longer a
faithful likeness, of course; still, it was a likeness. There was no
other man in all the world like Hugh! He was made of odd, fantastic
fragments, of ill-fitting parts--physically, mentally, spiritually. It
was as if a soul had seen itself in a crooked mirror and had fashioned a
form to match the distorted image. Hugh wouldn't, couldn't force himself
to be inconspicuous. He would swagger; he would talk loud; his big,
beautiful voice would challenge attention, create an audience. He would
have some impossible, splendid tale to tell.

Pete sat up straighter in his chair, gingerly rearranging the ankle, and
lifted his blue and haunted eyes--the eyes of the North--to the window.

The dazzle of noon had faded to a glow. The short winter day was nearly
done. There would be a long violet twilight, and then, the blaze of
stars.

But for his aching ankle Pete would be sliding out on soundless skis,
now poised for breathless flight down some long slope, now leaping
fallen trees or buried ditches. He spent half of his wild young
restlessness in such long night runs when, in a sort of ecstasy, he
outraced the stifled longin