likely never will."

"Isn't it horrible?"

"You don't seem to think so. So long's she has Hugh to paint pictures
for her, what does she need eyes for? What's to come of it, Pete? She's
falling in love with the fine figure of a hero he's made her believe he
is. But how can he marry her?"

"Couldn't he go off somewhere else and marry her and start again?
Honest, I think if Hugh had some one who thought he was a god, he'd
likely enough be one. He--he lives by--illusion--isn't that the word?
It's kind of easy to be noble when some one you love believes you to be,
isn't it? That's Hugh; he--"

Bella threw down her rag, turned fiercely upon him and gripped his
shoulders.

"Are you a man or a child?" she said. "You love this girl yourself!"

"No!" he cried and broke from her and went limping out into the frosty
night with its comfortless glitter of stars.

As soon as his ankle was stronger, Pete spent all day and most of the
night on his skis, trying to outrun the growing shadow of his misery.
Hugh's work fell on his shoulders. He had not only his accustomed
chores, the Caliban duties of woodchopping and water-carrying, the
dressing of wild meat, the dish-drying and heavier housework, the
repairs about the cabin--but he had the trapping. In Hugh's profound
new absorption he seemed to have forgotten the necessity for making a
livelihood. During the first years of their exile they had lived on his
savings, ordering their supplies by the mail, which left them at the
foot of that distant trail leading into the forest. Thence Hugh, under
shelter of night, would carry them--lonely, terrible journeys that taxed
even his strength. When Pete grew big enough to load, he was sent to the
trading-station, and Hugh became an expert trapper. The savings were
not entirely spent, but they were no longer touched; the pelts brought a
livelihood.

Pete had had his instructions concerning his behavior at the
trading-station; many years before, he had stammered a legend of a
sickly father who had died, who was buried back there by the lonely
cabin where he and his "mother" chose to live. Bella and Hugh had even
dug up a mound for which they had fashioned a rude cross. It could
be seen, in summer, from the living-room window--that mock grave more
terrible in its suggestions than a real grave ever could have been.
There was also a hiding-place under the boards of the floor. No one
had ever seen the grave or driven Hugh into hiding. It was