If Any Man Sin

UNFOLDING

When morning dawned the horrors of the night lessened, and although weary from want of sleep Martin was not so much depressed. This was due principally to the fact that Nance was somewhat improved. The change had come very quietly, and toward morning she had opened her eyes and had spoken to the bowed man crouching in the chair before the fire. Martin had bounded to her side, and when he saw the new expression in her eyes he knew that the turn for the better had come, and that with care she would recover.

There was complete silence in the cabin all through the day, for Nance, who had sunk into a natural sleep, must not be disturbed. Quabee, and often Taku, kept a patient and faithful watch by the child, while Martin slept on the couch to the left of the fire-place.

Thus through the days and weeks which followed this season of anxiety Nance rapidly improved. Martin was ever with her, played with her, told her stories, and did all in his power to atone for his past neglect. The story he was called upon to tell more than any other was about Beryl. Nance was never weary of hearing about her, and it was the one which Martin was never tired of relating. A mere general and vague idea of what her heroine was like would not satisfy the child. She had to know the colour of her eyes, hair, what kind of dresses she wore, and how she looked when she sang, in fact so many things that Martin's memory was severely put to the test.

To Nance Beryl was more than human. The child's vivid imagination wrought a marvellous transformation, and invested her heroine with qualities little short of divine. As the months passed and Nance's mind steadily developed this silent adoration instead of diminishing increased. Beryl was her standard of perfection in everything. She must have her hair arranged just like Beryl's, and she endeavoured to teach Quabee to make her dresses like those of her heroine. The Indian woman would often gaze in amazement as Nance talked about Beryl. She could not see with the eyes of the child, nor enter into her bright and wonderful world of fancy.

The greatest thing of all to Nance was that Beryl could sing. She, accordingly, must do the same. She had a sweet voice herself, and a true ear, and picked up tunes almost intuitively. Able to sing himself, Martin taught her all the songs and hymns he could remember. Then when she became old enough he gave her lessons upon the violin. It was a great day for the child when she was allowed to take the instrument into her own hands. She had often looked upon it with deep longing, and would sit for any length of time watching Martin drawing the bow so skilfully across the strings, and producing such marvellous music.

Since Nance's illness Martin's mind had been much concerned as to the child's future. He had brought her into the wilderness, and was it right that she should grow up in ignorance? He began to realise his responsibility more and more. Some day, no doubt, she would go out into the world of civilisation, and should she go as a young savage? No, such should not be the case. He would teach her here in the little cabin. It would be the schoolhouse, he the teacher, and Nance the pupil. He would instruct her year after year, develop her mind, and lead her into many fields of knowledge. Although far away from the great centres of education she should have learning which should not make her ashamed if ever she should leave her forest home.

With his mind thus made up Martin at once outlined a course of studies for Nance. The instruction was very simple at first. Martin was a good teacher, the child an apt scholar, and so rapid progress was made. By the time Nance was able to read there came the great necessity for books. Martin had printed everything for her upon scraps of paper. But this was a laborious and a never-ending task. He, therefore, sent an order to the trading post, and after waiting for over a year the books at last arrived. Martin had written for children's books suitable for a little girl. This order the trader had forwarded to his company in England, and the selection was accordingly made there.

It was a great event for Nance when the books arrived. It was a cold night in midwinter when the Indians returned from their trip to the post. There were other things as well in the various packages, but the girl had no eyes for anything but the books. Martin, too, was much interested. The sight of a book was to him like a sparkling spring of water to a thirsty traveller. Although they were only books for children, yet he unwrapped the parcel with feverish haste and examined each volume. He and Nance were on the floor before the fire, and as the thick paper wrapping gave way, and the books were exposed to view, the maiden clapped her hands with delight.

"Oh, daddy, look at this!" and she picked up one of the treasures with a bright picture on the cover.

"You will like that, Nance," Martin replied. "It's 'Alice in Wonderland,' the story your mother used to tell you, and suppose we begin upon it first."

Thus sitting upon Martin's knee, with her head resting against his shoulder, Nance heard again that sweet, thrilling story of Alice's marvellous adventures. Never before had she listened to a tale from a real book, and often she would interrupt the reading that she might look upon the funny, and, to her, wonderful pictures.

That night after Nance was asleep Martin sat for a long time before the fire. The book he was reading was not new to him, but it had been years since he had first read "Little Women." It fascinated him now more than ever. He could enter into the ways of children, and in every incident Nance always rose up before him. How pure and innocent were the little folk mentioned in the book, and what a confiding trust they had in their elders.

After a while he laid the volume aside and began to muse upon what he had just been reading. Suppose that the children should have found out that the older ones, surrounding them with such love and care, were very wicked, and had committed evil deeds in the past. What a fearful and heart-breaking revelation it would have been to them. Then he thought of Nance. What if she in some way should learn that he himself was a bad man! What would she think? He knew that she looked upon him as her hero, and if she should find out the truth about his past life what a terrible grief it would bring to her.

Martin sat straight up in his chair as these thoughts swept upon him. Nance must never know. She must always think of him as a man true and pure. Neither must he give her any cause to believe otherwise.

Martin was not at all satisfied with himself. He longed to be worthy of Nance's trust. What would he not give to be able to look into her clear, confiding eyes, and to feel that he was just what she considered him to be. This was what gave him so much concern now. He wanted the child to believe in him, and at the same time he wished to be worthy of that belief.

A new life was now opened up to Nance. She was growing fast, not only in body, but in mind as well. The books had admitted her into a world of wonder of which she had never before dreamed. They were only a few to be sure, but she knew them almost by heart. Her music, too, gave her much delight, and Martin was astonished at the rapid progress she made. The next year more books arrived, with some sheet-music as well, and thus Nance's mind was fed upon new delights. Then, one Christmas morning, when she opened her eyes, she found at the foot of the Christmas tree a fine new violin—her very own. She did not know how much the instrument had cost, nor the effort which had been made to obtain it. Her cup of joy was now overflowing. Martin, too, was happy as he watched Nance. Her eyes sparkled with animation, and her face beamed with happiness as she drew the bow deftly across the strings.

That she was developing into a beautiful maiden he was well aware. She was growing fast, with a figure lithe and graceful. Her dark eyes reflected as in a clear spring the various moods of her nature. They twinkled with fun, and danced with delight. Often they grew sad and thoughtful, and at times they were soft with the light of love. Hers was an affectionate nature, which was revealed more and more as the years passed. To her Martin was all in all, and as her mind expanded she saw the difference between him and the Indians. The latter were very dear to her, especially Quabee. But the native women could not understand the deep longings hidden within her bosom. She knew that Martin could, and to him she talked.

Nance often wondered what the great world was like beyond the mountains, about which she had read so much in the books. Why were she and Martin living away in the wilderness among the Indians? she asked herself many a time. Martin often noticed the far-away expression in her eyes, and partly surmised the cause. It gave him considerable uneasiness. He was afraid lest Nance should become dissatisfied and wish to go to the places of which he had so often told her. He had expected this, and had even looked forward to the day when they would leave their forest home. But now when the time seemed to be drawing near he shrank more and more from the idea.

Although Nance had just entered her teens when these thoughts came to Martin, yet he realised that every year would make the life more unbearable to her. She was longing for some white girl to play with. The Indian children, notwithstanding the teaching they had received from Martin, did not suit her as companions. She seldom cared to play with them, preferring to be by herself or with Martin.

During the summer Nance lived mostly in the open. When not roaming along the river gathering wild flowers, which grew in such abundance, she was out upon the lake with Martin. What life could be more congenial than that spent in God's Great Open. Yet in the maiden's heart there was a longing for other things. She wished to know more of the world beyond the mountains, and to mingle with the people of whom she had heard so much from Martin and read about in the books. She often pictured to herself what it would be like, how she should act, and what people would think of her. At such times she always thought of Beryl, and tried to imagine what she would do and say. Such an influence was by no means without its effect, and Martin often marvelled how Nance acquired such a quiet and graceful manner, never having seen a white woman, except her mother, whom she did not even remember. He did not know that the silent daily worship of an ideal woman was working the transformation. Everything he had told her about Beryl had been thought over so continually that the very character of the woman of beauty, refinement and nobleness had become indelibly impressed upon the maiden's plastic nature.

Thus, while Nance was living in her enchanted world of fancy, Martin was brooding deeply over more serious things. Of his burden, which grew all the heavier as the years passed, he could in no way lighten it by speaking of it to Nance. He had to bear it alone, no matter how crushing it might become.

THE EDGE OF EVENTS

It was a night of wind and storm in the Quaska valley. It had been snowing all day, and a fierce wind was driving down the river. As long as daylight lasted Nance had stood by the window, looking out towards the lake. The mountains were all hidden from view, and nothing could she see but the snow which swirled and raved around the house. It was the last of January, and all through the winter Nance had been thinking seriously of that life beyond the mountains which was drawing her with irresistible, invisible cords. She was not a child now, but a young woman of seventeen, tall and graceful.

Leaving at length the window, she began to prepare the evening meal. The cabin had undergone considerable changes during the past five years. It was no longer a bare dingy place. The rough walls had been carefully covered with cotton, and this coloured with a light-blue paint, which had been procured at the trading post. Magazine-pictures were tacked on all sides, while several large rare pelts were stretched out upon the walls. The bareness of the floor was relieved by a number of well-dressed bear skins. On the side of the fire-place, where Nance's cot had formerly stood, a room had been curtained off especially for her own use. Instead of scraped skins letting in the light through the windows, glass had been obtained at much expense. In the middle of the room stood the table as of old, but this now was covered with a cloth of a deep rich shade. It had been one of Martin's ambitions to make this little home as cosy and comfortable as possible, and each year he had added some of the refinements of civilisation. In this way he had hoped not only to educate Nance but to make her more satisfied with her lot.

As Nance now prepared supper she laid a white cloth upon the table, and brought from a little cupboard to the left plates, cups, saucers, knives, and forks. She was a good housekeeper, for Martin had instructed her in such matters, as well as in music and other accomplishments. She was thus busy at work when the door opened and Martin entered. He stood for a few seconds looking upon the scene before him. The bright light of the fire illumined the room, forming a pleasing contrast to the roughness of the night outside. Nance turned towards him with a smile of welcome.

"Oh, daddy," she began, "I'm so glad you are back, as I have been very lonesome. What has kept you so long?"

Martin walked over to the fire and laid aside his heavy coat.

"Supper is ready, I see," and he glanced at the nicely-browned piece of moose meat sizzling by the fire. "I'm hungry as a bear, so can't tell you now what I've been up to. But you shall know before long."

When both were seated at the table, and the meal was well under way, Martin looked over at Nance.

"I've heard important news to-day," he remarked.

"At Taku's?"

"Yes. It's somewhat startling, too. The Indians have brought in word that there has been a rush of white men into the country. There's been a gold strike somewhere down the Heena, and they came in by way of the Ayan River."

"Will it affect us here, do you think?" and Nance looked earnestly at Martin.

"Not for a while," was the reply. "But we can't expect to be left alone for any length of time. There will be prospectors prowling all over the country now, and they are bound to strike the rich diggings up the Quaska. When that happens there'll be hordes and hordes up this way."

"Will they trouble us any, daddy, do you think?"

"Will they! You may be sure they will. This will be no place for us if they discover the gold up yonder. They will swarm in here like flies, and our days of peace will be over."

Nance did not reply to these words, and save for the crackling of the fire there was silence in the room. Martin's mind dwelt upon the changes which would take place around the quiet lake should the miners come. He thought also of the gold, so carefully concealed in the ground at the rear of his house. He and Nance were the only ones supposed to know anything about the treasure buried there.

"Daddy, let us go away from this place," Nance at length remarked.

Martin started, and almost dropped the cup he was raising to his lips. He looked keenly into the flushed face before him, and then partly understood what an effort it had been for Nance to make such a request.

"Are you tired of living here, little one?" he asked, and his voice had a pathetic note, which did not escape Nance's attention. "Are you dissatisfied with your lot?"

"Not altogether, daddy. But we used to talk, you remember, how some day we would go away to the great world outside, although we have not spoken about it for several years. In a way I am happy here, and you do so much for me that I should be satisfied. But I do want to see some of the things of which you have told me."

"Sure, sure; it's only natural," Martin assented.

"It seems as if we should go soon," Nance continued, "if we are to go at all. Should the miners come here our quiet home-life would be broken up, and you would not wish to remain any longer if they came, would you?"

Martin did not at once reply to these words. He pushed back the stool upon which he was sitting, and drew forth his pipe. His mind was in a perturbed state. He had been dreading the coming of the time when Nance should wish to leave the Quaska valley. He had taught her for years, and she had responded to his teaching. He was proud of her, and he well knew that she could soon take her place in the great world beyond. There were many things, of course, which she would have to learn there in addition to what he had taught her. He had kept from her all knowledge of the Church, and of clergymen. Of them she knew absolutely nothing. She would naturally be astonished when they went outside, and would ask why he had not spoken to her about such things. What answer would he be able to give? At times during her reading Nance had come across various things about the Church, but as Martin had told her that it was merely a society of men and women she had thought nothing more about it then.

Martin dreaded, moreover, the idea of mingling again with many people. He tried to believe that all had forgotten him, and what he had done. But now he did not feel so sure, as he felt that some would remember. For himself he did not care so much. But suppose that Nance should hear of it! There were bound to be meddlesome people, who would consider it their duty to tell everything they knew. He had met such persons, who seemed to consider it a part of their religion to make it as uncomfortable as possible for any one who had stepped aside from the path of rectitude. He recalled the case of a young man who had slipped in life, and had spent several years in prison. Upon his release he determined to redeem the past. He obtained a position with a large firm, and was giving excellent satisfaction when several human vultures recognised him, and with hypocritical solicitude informed the manager about the young man's past life. The result was that he was discharged. The same thing occurred wherever he went, until, broken in spirit, he gave up the fight, and drifted into evil ways. He knew the people who had wrecked that young man's after life, and they firmly believed that they were doing the Lord's work.

This he well knew would be true in his own case. There would be some who would recognise him as the outcast clergyman, and who would consider it their unctuous duty to tell all they knew. Of course he and Nance could go to some place far off, away from the scene of his disgrace. But even there he would not feel secure. The world was small in these days of easy travel, and he might find it hard to escape unknown. The gold would supply all their needs. His only worry was as to how he could take so much outside. It would be very difficult to carry it without arousing suspicion.

While Martin was thus musing, Nance had cleared off the table, washed the dishes, and put them carefully away. When all had been completed, she drew the big chair up close to the fire. Then, going to where Martin was sitting, she laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.

"Come, daddy," she said, "your chair is all ready. It's more comfortable there."

Martin obeyed her without a word. Nance at once took up her position on a little stool at his feet, and rested her left arm upon his knee. For some time she gazed steadily into the fire without speaking. Martin, too, was silent as he sat there smoking away at his pipe.

"Daddy," Nance after a time began, "you are not my real father, are you?"

"No, little one, I am not," was the quiet reply. "You knew that, didn't you? But I've been a father to you, have I not?"

"Yes, and a mother, too. But I do long to know about my real father and mother. When I was little you told me that you would take me to them some day. I believed that then, but as I grew older I felt there was some reason why you did not do so. I have often longed for you to tell me the whole truth, but I was afraid to ask you."

"What were you afraid of, Nance? That I wouldn't tell you, eh?"

"No, not that. You see, I looked forward so long to meeting them that I used to dream about it by night, and think about it by day. Then it came slowly to me that they were dead. At first I put away the thought, but it grew stronger and stronger the older I became. And then I was afraid to know the truth, because the old hope of meeting them some day had taken such a hold upon me. Now I want to know all."

"I did it for the best, Nance," Martin replied. "When you were little I knew that it would give you much sorrow if I told you all. Then as you grew older I found it difficult to tell you, and as you did not speak to me about them I thought that perhaps you had forgotten. I did it for the best. Now I know that I should have told you."

"I know you did; I am sure of it," and Nance turned her eyes up to Martin's. "You always do everything for the best. You are so good."

At these words a slight mistiness rose before Martin's eyes. If she only knew, he said to himself, how differently she would think. But to Nance he only said:

"Yes, I shall tell you all now, for you are a woman, and can understand such things."

Then Martin unfolded to Nance the sad scene which had taken place on the great Mackenzie River years before. He told her about the accident which had deprived her of father and mother, and left her to the mercy of the Indians. He related simply the part that he himself had performed in caring for her, and carrying her off into the wilderness.

To all this Nance listened with fast-beating heart Her cheeks were flushed, caused not by the heat of the fire, but from the vehemence of her emotion. When Martin spoke about her mother lying so white and still in the Indian lodge her eyes grew moist. But when he mentioned the grave upon the hill-top tears streamed down her cheeks, and her form trembled violently.

"There, there, little one," Martin soothed, laying his hand affectionately upon her head, "I didn't mean to make you feel so badly."

"I know you didn't, daddy," Nance sobbed. "But I cannot help it. My poor father and mother! And only think what would have become of me if you had not been there! I might have lived the rest of my life among the Indians just like one of them. It makes me shudder when I think about it. How much I owe to you."

"You have done more for me, Nance, than I have ever done for you."

"For you!" Nance exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, what have I done for you?"

"You gave me new life, that is what you have done. Before I found you no one loved me, and I had no one to care for. I was a lonely man, without any definite purpose in life. But since you came I have had you to live for. You are all I have now, Nance."

"I have often wondered," Nance replied, "why you ever brought me here. I never liked to ask you, but I have thought about it very much. You know so many things about the world outside, and all that it means, that it must have been hard to bury yourself away in such a wilderness place as this."

As Martin made no immediate reply Nance at first thought that she had offended him. Seeing the expression of pain which passed over his face, she rose quickly to her feet, and threw her arms about his neck.

"Forgive me, daddy," she pleaded. "I'm so sorry that I asked that question. I had no right to do so. You did it for the best, I am sure."

"Sit down, Nance," and Martin motioned her to the stool. "You certainly have the right to ask why I brought you here and kept you shut up in such a place as this for so many years. But how can I answer you? Something caused me to come here, but just what it was I cannot explain. I made a failure in life years ago, and so fled into the wilderness to be far off from people who knew what I had done. To them I am a bad man. But, oh, Nance, I would give anything to be what I once was! How happy I should be to be able to go out into the world and not shrink back from the looks of men and women. But there, I did not mean to tell you this. You will wonder what it all means."

"Don't, don't talk that way, daddy," and Nance placed her hand in his as she spoke. "You are not a bad man. I don't care what people say or think. They do not know you as I do. If they knew what you have done for me all of these years they would think differently. Anyway, no matter what people say, it won't make any difference in my love to you. Though you are not my real father, I love you just the same."

"I know it, Nance; I know it," Martin huskily replied, while his hand closed tight upon hers.

"And, daddy," Nance returned, "if you don't want to go away from here, I shall not mind. So don't let us worry any more about it."

"No, Nance; that must not be. It will be for the best if we go away. I have been thinking it all over very carefully of late. We shall go out to the trading post next summer, in time to go south on the first steamer as it returns from its northern trip. I can get a number of Indians to pack the gold over the mountain. As to the future, we can talk about that again. Come now, let us have some music together, and banish all sad thoughts."

Thus in the cosy cabin before the bright fire Martin and Nance played upon their beloved instruments. The storm continued to rage outside, but they heeded it not. Forgotten for a while were their worries, and what the future might have in store did not trouble them. The music cheered them, and united their hearts with the strong bands of enduring affection.

THE LAP OF TO-MORROW

The storms of winter were over, and the days were rapidly lengthening. The sun rode higher in the heavens, and the breath of spring was pervading the great northland. Nance was much excited at the thought of leaving the Quaska valley and passing beyond the mountains to the marvellous world outside. She dwelt upon it by day and dreamed of it by night. Her few scanty belongings she had carefully gathered together. These she would take with her. But when out in the big cities she would buy many wonderful things for which her heart longed.

Martin noted her animation, and listened quietly as she talked about the journey they were to make, and what nice times they would have seeing the strange sights. Although he was pleased to see Nance so happy, his heart, nevertheless, was heavy. To him the idea of mingling once again with the throbbing world of humanity brought no joy. The little cabin in the wilderness was very dear to him. Here he had spent the past twelve years, hidden from people of his own race and immune from the bitter tongues of men and women. The lake, river, forest, and mountains were friends true and tried. He loved them, and their varying moods drew him very close to them. He had watched and studied them so often, both in calm and storm, that he wondered how he could get along without them. The Indians, too, though rough and uncouth, had been kind neighbors. He disliked their manner of living and their improvident ways. Yet they had always been good to him and to Nance, and he should greatly miss them. Thus he would sit at night, long after Nance had gone to bed, smoking and thinking about the changes which were soon to take place in his life.

He was seated one evening before the fire with Nance by his side, when the door of the cabin was gently pushed open, and Taku glided into the room. He was given a hearty welcome, and Martin passed over his tobacco as soon as the native had squatted himself upon the floor. When Taku had filled his pipe, and clouds of smoke were circling above his head, an expression of satisfaction overspread his honest, dusky face.

"Snow all go soon," he at length remarked. "Geese, duck all come back. Plenty grub den."

"How long before the ice goes out this year?" Martin asked.

"Beeg moon, leetle moon, moon all go. Ice go also," was the reply.

"In about one month, eh?"

"Ah, ah."

"Good fishing this year?" Martin inquired.

"Good feesh? Ah, ah, mebbe so. Taku no feesh," and the Indian shook his head.

"What, not going to do any fishing?"

"No. Taku go down ribber. Taku see white man. Taku get moche."

"Oh, I see. But are you sure that the white men are there? Maybe they all went away last fall."

Again Taku shook his head, and gazed thoughtfully into the fire.

"White man no go," he at last explained. "Taku see two wan sleep ago."

"What? You saw two white men?" Martin exclaimed, now much aroused.

"Ah, ah."

"Where?"

"Down ribber."

"What, the Heena?"

The Indian nodded.

"And what were the white men doing on the river?"

"Trabblin', dat's all, pack on back. Taku see 'um. Dey in hurry. Dey tell Taku come down to beeg ribber."

"Didn't they tell you where they had come from or what they were doing in here?" Martin questioned.

"No, dey tell nottin'. Dey in beeg hurry; dat's all."

"Did they tell you what they wanted you for, Taku?"

"No."

"And you will go?"

"Ah, ah."

"When?"

"Wan sleep. Tak' dog also. Go queeck."

Martin sat up later than usual this night, as his mind was much disturbed. Nance saw that something was troubling him, so she did not ask for the customary evening music. She kissed him as she had done for years, and went to her own little room.

Early next morning Martin announced that he was going up stream, and might be gone all day. He left Nance standing in the doorway, looking enquiringly after him.

"I will tell you all about it, Nance, when I come back," he called to her as she waved him good-bye.

It was supper time ere Martin returned, and over the meal he explained the object of his visit up the river.

"It's just what I thought, Nance," he began. "When Taku told us about those two white men I had my suspicion, and I was right. They were prospectors, and have discovered the gold up the Quaska."

"Oh!" It was all that Nance said as she looked inquiringly across the table.

"Yes," Martin continued, "I suspected something, and made up my mind to visit my old diggings. There were faded foot-prints all around, and I found where the men had shovelled away the snow and examined the hole I had made. Of course, as you know, the earth I left is full of gold, so they must have found enough in the frozen ground to more than satisfy them. I saw the little brush lean-to where they had evidently camped, showing that they must have been there several days. I tracked them down-stream, and learned that they had been close to our house. Why they did not call, I cannot tell. Perhaps they were unaware that white people lived here. They turned off sharply to the left, and either crossed the lake or went around the other side, and came out upon the river farther down."

"Do you think that they will come back?" Nance inquired.

"Come back! Indeed they will, and bring a regular crazy mob with them. It isn't every day that men make such a strike as that. As soon as those men record what they have found there will be the greatest stampede the world has ever seen."

"Will they wait until the river is open, do you think?" Nance asked. "We may be away soon afterwards, and so they will not trouble us."

"No, they won't wait, Nance. They will come at once, and many of them, no doubt, will die upon the way. There is no trail, and the ice in the river is getting weak. I've heard about such stampedes. Men seem to go about crazy. They start off with little food, some get hurt, others sick, and numbers just play out. It is wonderful to me what men will endure for the sake of gold."

Almost three weeks later what Martin had foretold came to pass. The vanguard of the prospectors and miners arrived. It was early morning when men were observed making their way slowly along the shore of the lake. They bore packs upon their backs, and leaned much forward. Each carried a stick, which he used as a cane. They all passed close to the cabin, so Martin and Nance could see them quite plainly. They did not turn aside to rest, but moved steadily onward. They seemed to be very weary, and their clothes were ripped and torn. They passed, and, later, others came. Several were limping painfully, which told of swollen and blistered feet. They, too, passed without stopping. Then far down the shore of the lake a struggling line appeared, and as they drew near and staggered by, the watchers from the cabin were moved to deep pity.

"Look at that old man with the white beard!" Nance exclaimed. "Why, he can hardly walk, and that young man by his side is supporting him and helping him along. They must be father and son."

She had barely finished speaking when the old man fell heavily forward. With a cry that could be heard within the cabin, the young man knelt by his side, and endeavoured to lift him to his feet. No one stopped to help him, but all brushed by and hurried on. The gold was ahead, and they must not delay. They had witnessed numerous cases such as this since leaving the great river, one hundred and forty miles away, and their hearts had become hardened to such sights.

With the watchers in the cabin, however, it was different. No sooner had the man fallen than Martin bounded across the room, flung open the door, and hurried out into the open. The young man was astonished to see aid in the form of a white man emerge from a building, which he had supposed contained only natives. "Come," Martin ordered, "give me a hand, and we'll carry him up to the house."

Lifting the helpless man in their arms, they bore him swiftly and gently up the slope. Nance was standing holding open the door as they drew near, and when the sufferer had been laid upon Martin's cot she came close and stood by his side. She noted how worn and haggard was the man's face, while his eyes shone with an unnatural light. His hair was white and long, and his beard fell in profusion upon his breast. He was a powerfully-built man, and the cot upon which he was lying was too short for him. He kept tossing his arms wildly about, and made several attempts to rise, but always fell back panting heavily after each exertion.

"I must get there!" he cried. "Don't stop me! The rest will be ahead of me. Fer God's sake, let me go!"

At these words the young man bent over him, and placed his right hand upon his arm.

"Hush, hush, Tom," he commanded. "Everything will be all right. Be quiet and rest a while."

The vacant expression in the old man's eyes suddenly cleared, and he looked eagerly up.

"Is it much farther, pard?" he asked. "Are we almost there?"

The young man turned inquiringly to Martin standing near.

"Can you answer him?" he asked.

"It's not far," Martin replied. "But it's too far for this man in his present condition."

"Is there anything there?" the young man asked. "Is the ground rich?"

"Rich! There's gold everywhere. The ground is full of it."

The old man heard these words, and attempted to rise.

"Help me up," he cried. "I must go! D'ye hear what he says? The ground is full of gold. Give me yer hand, pard, an' help me out of this."

"No, no, Tom; you can't; you're not able," the young man insisted, pushing him gently back.

"I can't! Why can't I? Why should I stay here an' let the others get all the gold? I've been rustlin' fer gold all me life, an' d'ye think I'll be baulked when it's so near? Let me up, I say."

"But you know, Tom, it's impossible," the young man urged. "You're all in. You should never have come on this trip at all."

"I shouldn't! Why shouldn't I? I'm not a baby."

"But think how sick you were at Rapid City. Why, man, you got out of bed to come, and would listen to no advice. It's a wonder to me that you're not dead. What kept you up for days on that trail is more than I can understand."

"It was the gold that did it, ha, ha," and the old man's eyes glowed with the intense light of the enthusiast. "Yes, the gold'll cure all sickness in my body. It always has. Didn't dozens of chaps play right out, while I came through? Yes, an' by God, I'll go on, too, an' won't be stuck here. I'll stake my claim with the rest. I've never been beaten, an' won't now!"

"Now, look here, Tom. Don't you worry about that claim you hope to stake. I'll stake it for you, so it will be all right."

"But you can't stake two, pard."

"No, and I don't intend to try. I didn't come here to stake a claim. But as you are not able to do it, there's nothing else for me to do but take your place, see?"

"But——"

"There, that will do, Tom," and the young man's voice was firm; "I won't listen to anything more. You can't go, that's certain, and I won't help you. I'm going in your place. You stay here, keep quiet, and don't worry. I will come back as soon as I can, and report."

The young man turned away from the cot, and as he did so he caught sight of Nance near the fire-place. He had not noticed her before so much taken up had he been with his stricken companion. But now he stood looking with wonder at the woman before him. The table was set ready for breakfast. The cloth was spotless, and the dishes were all neatly arranged. Nance had just stooped to lift the tea-pot, where it was warming before the coals, as the young man turned and saw her. The light of the fire brought into clear relief her graceful figure, adding at the same time a charm to her face and well-poised head such as he had never seen before. He stood spellbound for a few seconds, wondering where she could have dropped from. He had never expected to find such a beautiful being in this wilderness region. He even passed his hand across his eyes to make sure that it was not a vision which would immediately vanish. Then he glanced around the room, and was still further surprised at the books so neatly arranged against the wall. He longed to cross over and examine them, as he was hungry for reading matter of any kind.

As he stood thus Martin approached.

"Come, young man," he remarked; "you must have something to eat before you start up river. Breakfast is all ready, so if you care to put up with our humble fare, you are more than welcome."

The man addressed turned a pair of grateful brown eyes upon Martin's face.

"Humble, do you say!" he replied with a laugh. "Do you call that humble, sir? Why, I have not seen anything half so good as that steak for months. And as for bread, I don't know when I have tasted a scrap. Hard-tack, and mighty little of that, has been the nearest I have had to bread since last year. And as to sitting down to a table with a white cloth upon it, and such dishes as you have here, is most unusual in this country. Why, this is a palace. It is certainly good of you to invite me to such a feast as this, for I am very hungry. But with your permission I shall feed Tom first, for he is about starved."

Martin liked the appearance and the voice of the stranger. He had such an honest face, almost boyish in appearance. His eyes were expressive of sympathy and fun. His tall, erect figure was clad in a rough buckskin suit, a belt encircled his waist, while his feet were encased in the rough miner's boots laced halfway to the knees. Over his right shoulder extended a strap, supporting at his side a black leather case.

"Pardon me," Martin remarked, suddenly realising his position as host; "this is my—my daughter, Nance, Nance Rutland. I fear I have been neglecting my duty."

The young man at once stepped forward, and held out his hand.

"This is certainly more than I expected, Miss Rutland," he replied. "I had no idea that there was such a house as this out here. It is a great treat to meet a white woman, especially," he continued with a smile, "when one is starving. I have been doing my own cooking for months, and am thoroughly tired of it."

"You had better wait until you know what my cooking is like," Nance replied, as she took her place at the head of the table.

She tried to be calm, but her heart kept beating very fast, and she knew that her cheeks were flushed more than they should be. She instinctively felt that this stranger was a gentleman, and she wished to do what was proper in his presence, and not seem confused. But her hand trembled as she poured the tea, and she could not trust herself to speak lest she should make some foolish blunder. She tried to imagine how Beryl would act on such an occasion, and what she would say.

There was little need for words, however, on her part. Martin and the stranger talked, so she was content to listen. The young man told about his own experience and that of the others on their wild stampede into the Quaska valley. He drew a pathetic picture of the hardships and sufferings which were endured, and how many became discouraged and turned back. He told of the humorous side as well, and related several stories of an amusing nature.

"If I were only an artist," he concluded, "or if I had a camera along, I should have been able to obtain some excellent pictures."

"I thought that black case contained a camera," Martin replied. "I am quite relieved, for I was afraid lest you should snap our cabin and force Nance and me to undergo the same ordeal."

"Nothing would please me better," the visitor laughed, glancing toward Nance. "But it's not as serious as that. It's only a simple medical case I always carry with me. I've had to use it quite often since leaving Rapid City."

"You're a medical man, then—a doctor," Martin returned.

"I suppose I am, and back at old McGill I'm recorded as an M.D., and the men will persist in calling me 'Doc.' But I like to be called just 'Dick,' without any handle. Dick Russell is my name, by the way. 'Mr.' and 'Doctor' make one feel so old, but just Dick sounds fine to my ears. But, say," he added in a lower voice, "you won't mind looking after Tom, will you? He's all gold, but knocked out just now. He's a character all by himself, true as steel, and full of fun. He's been the life of the camp down river all winter. I must be off now, but would you let me sleep here on the floor to-night if I should come back?"

"Sure," Martin replied. "You're welcome to the best we have, and you'll need it, too, I'm thinking."

Telling Tom to keep up courage, and with a good-by and a wave of the hand to Martin and Nance standing at the door, the young man swung away from the cabin toward the trail, leading along the Quaska River.

THE SUPPLANTER

Nance stood for a while in the doorway, and watched the retreating form of Dick Russell as it disappeared among the trees. She then turned back into the room, while Martin went off to cut some wood for the fire. The house seemed very lonely now to Nance and strangely silent. It had never appeared so before, and Nance could not understand the reason. She went about her work of washing the dishes and looking after the room, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Her mind dwelt continually upon the stranger who had come so suddenly into her life. She wondered who he was, and what he was doing in the country. He did not come to stake a claim for himself, so she had heard him say. What, then, was his purpose in making the journey over such a terrible trail at this season of the year? She longed to talk the matter over with Martin when he came in with the wood, but for the first time in her young life she found it most difficult to confide in the man who had done so much for her. Several times during the morning she was on the point of speaking, but on each occasion her lips refused to fashion the words, and she became so confused that she was certain Martin would notice her flushed cheeks.

And Martin did notice, although he said nothing. He observed Nance's quiet and preoccupied manner, which was so different from her bright and buoyant disposition. He partly surmised the cause, and it pressed heavily like a great weight upon his heart. He understood how natural it was that Nance, who had never met white men before, should consider this stranger in the light of a hero. He knew how impulsive was her nature, and how ready was her heart to respond to the call of love. Had she been brought up to the ways of the busy world, and had met people of her own age and race, she would, like other maidens of her years, not have been so stirred by the presence of this stranger. But no one had ever told her about the subtle ways of the heart. She was a child of the wilderness, brought up to live and commune with nature. Martin had taught her book knowledge and much about the things of the civilised world. But of the deep passions of the heart he had been silent, and Nance, though now a woman in years, was in many ways but a mere child.

Martin thought of these things now as he had never done before. Nance was all that he had in the world, and he had fondly cherished the idea that she would always be with him to care for him and to love him. But now he realised that he was to be supplanted, and by a stranger at that, a mere stripling, whom Nance had seen for only one hour. It was but natural that a spirit of resentment should rise in his heart as he thought of these things.

All through the morning, and for most of the afternoon, Tom, the white-haired and long-bearded old man, slept upon the cot. It was a sound, natural sleep, and at times Nance went over and stood by his side. His face strongly appealed to her. Lines of care furrowed his brow, and his cheeks were very wan. Occasionally as she watched him a smile would play about the corners of his mouth as if his dreams were pleasant. Nance wondered if he had any one who thought of him in love, and whom he loved in return.

Toward evening the old man opened his eyes, and saw Nance standing by his side. He started up in surprise.

"Nell, Nell, is that you?" he demanded.

Then seeing the look of astonishment upon Nance's face, he sank back upon the pillow, while a deep sigh escaped his lips.

"Fergive me, Miss," he said. "I had sich a beautiful dream, an' when I opened my eyes an' saw you a-standin' there I was sure it was my Nell."

"Would you like to see her?" Nance asked. "Would you like for her to be standing by your side now? How you must miss her."

"I do, I do," was the emphatic reply. "God alone knows how I long fer her!"

"Can't you go to her, then? Or why doesn't she come to you?"

"That can't be, Miss. It's been twenty years since she left me, an' I've been wanderin' ever since. I laid her in the little churchyard way back East, an' I haven't seen the spot since. But I see her in a way, an' that's all I can expect on this earth now. She's ever with me day an' night. Out in the hills she's by my side, an' I often talk to her jist like I used to do years ago, an' it's very comfortin'."

"W-was she your daughter?" Nance queried.

"No, Miss. She was my wife."

"Oh!"

"Yes," the old man continued after a pause, "she was my wife, an' we'd been married scarce one year when she left me."

"Poor man!" Nance soothed. "How hard it must have been for you. You have no home, then, and no one to love you?"

"Well, I can't altogether say that, Miss. My home is wherever night overtakes me, but it's seldom in sich a comfortable place as this. I've friends a plenty, but no one to care fer me jist like Nell used to do. I can't expect it. People have about as much as they can do to look after themselves without botherin' about an old man who has one foot in the grave."

"But you must get very sad and lonely at times," Nance remarked.

"I do, Miss; I certainly do."

"How do you keep so cheerful, then?"

"How d'ye know that I keep cheerful?" and Tom looked his surprise.

"Oh, that man who came with you told us that you were the life of the camp at Rapid City last winter."

"Did Dick really say that, Miss? An' did he tell ye anything about himself?"

"No."

"Well, that's jist like 'im. But I'll tell ye some day. It's gittin' on toward night now, isn't it, Miss? I think I'll git up and sit by yon bright fire fer a while, an' have a smoke. Dick should be back soon."

"Do you feel better?" Nance asked.

"Feel fine. That deep was jist what I needed."

"I am so glad," and Nance's eyes beamed with happiness. "I shall get you something to eat at once, for you must be very hungry. Daddy will be home soon, and he will want his supper, too."

"I am hungry, Miss, fer I haven't had a good square meal since I left the river."

Ensconced in Martin's big chair to the right of the fire, the old man leaned back and puffed away at his blackened pipe, at the same time keeping his eyes upon Nance as she moved quietly about the room.

"Ye do remind me of my Nell," he at length remarked, taking the pipe from his mouth and blowing a great volume of smoke into the air. "She was about your size, an' fixed up her hair in the same way. I remember how I used to sit by the fire, jist as I am now, when the day's work was done, an' watch her gittin' supper. This certainly does remind me of old times."

"How happy you must have been," Nance replied. "Have you been in this northern country ever since?"

"Ah, no. I've travelled over many parts, but I like this the best."

"I suppose it's the gold which keeps you here. I should think that it would be nicer outside where you would meet more people, and life would not be so hard."

"So it would be, Miss. I would like to be near the place where my Nell is lyin'. But one needs the gold to live there, an' as soon as I git it I'm a-goin' to hike back. But there, I don't know as if the gold'll make me any happier. It's the searchin' fer it, an' the findin' it, that gives the pleasure."

"It must be nice outside," Nance remarked. "I have heard so much about the many things there that I should like to see them."

"Have ye never been outside, Miss?" Tom asked in surprise.

"No, I've lived all my life in the wilderness."

"What! Ye don't say so! Well, I declare! If that don't beat all!"

Just then the door opened, and Martin entered.

"I'm glad to see you sitting up," he began, coming close to Tom. "How are you feeling now?"

"Great. Never felt better in me life. An' why shouldn't I with sich comforts as a good fire, my pipe, an' yer sweet daughter to talk to me an' wait upon me? We've been havin' a fine time together."

"That's good," Martin returned. "But I think that supper will make you feel better still. We can have a pipe together afterwards. It's been a long time since I've had any one to smoke with except the Indians."

They were partly through with the meal when Dick returned. He looked very tired, although his voice was cheery as he greeted his companion of the trail.

"It's good to see you sitting there, Tom," he said, as he took the seat Nance had placed for him.

"It's the lassie who has done the trick, pard," and Tom jerked his head toward Nance. "She's the cause of my sudden return to health."

Nance's face flushed, not so much because of Tom's words as from the eyes of the young man, which were turned upon her with gratitude.

"Oh, I haven't done anything," she replied, as she poured out a cup of steaming tea for Dick. "It was the sleep that did it."

"Only partly, Miss; only partly," Tom rejoined. "Sleep an' food don't do everything toward makin' one feel that life is worth livin'. Ah, no. An old man like me knows a thing or two. But say," and he turned suddenly toward the young man across the table, "how did ye make out up stream, pard?"

An anxious expression came into Dick Russell's eyes. This passed almost instantly, however, although it did not escape Tom's searching look.

"I got along fairly well, and staked a claim at the very edge of some old diggings I found there. How the rest happened to overlook the place I cannot understand. But they are about crazy and hardly know what they are doing."

"Are they camping up there to-night?" Martin asked.

"I can't say that they are camping. They are there for the night, that's sure. But they've been rushing about like mad ever since they reached the place. They will spend the night on the ground just as they have been doing since leaving Rapid City. But their grub is about all gone. If they don't get some from the Indians they'll be in a bad fix."

"Dear me!" Tom murmured.

"The Indians can't help them much," Martin explained. "They are living from hand to mouth themselves now. They generally are at this time of the year."

"We could give them something to eat, couldn't we, daddy?" and Nance looked over at her father.

"Yes, I suppose we could give them something," was the reluctant reply. "But we haven't enough for a crowd of hungry men."

"Oh, they'll make out all right," Dick hastened to explain. "They don't know to-night what they are eating. Hard-tack and roast turkey would be about the same thing to them. When I left they were sitting about a great blazing fire, munching the scraps of food they had left. They are clean daft over the discovery of that gold. I have been chuckling to myself ever since I left them over what they were saying. They are already planning what they are to do with the gold when they get it. One intends to buy a ranch, and keep, I don't know how many, horses and cattle. Another will tour the world. Some have decided to go back to the big cities to live in fine houses they expect to build. But Dobson, generally known as 'Whiskey Jack,' is going on a big spree just as soon as he gets outside."

"Yes, yes, they'll all follow Jack's example, I'm afraid," Tom sadly replied. "I know their kind only too well. They always plan big things, but as a rule they lose it all in whiskey, gambling, and——But there," he suddenly broke off, "it has always been so, an' what's the use of us worryin' about it?"

"But some one must worry, Tom," was Dick's emphatic reply. "Too many say the same thing. But I know better. I never saw a finer lot of men in my life. They are rough at times, I know. There are a few who gave us trouble last winter, but most of them were good fellows at Rapid City, and you know it."

"Sure thing, pard, sure thing. I'm not denyin' that. But I guess it was you who kept them straight, an' made them show up their best side."

"What about yourself, Tom? You had a big hand in the whole affair, if I am not much mistaken."

Supper ended, Nance began to clear away the dishes. Martin and Tom brought forth their pipes and sat down before the fire for a comfortable chat.

"You men smoke away to your hearts' content," Dick laughed. "I'm going to help with the dishes, that is, if I may," and he turned to Nance.

"No, no, please," the latter hurriedly replied. "I can do them quickly, so don't you bother about them."

"It's no bother, I assure you. But, say, what shall I call you?"

"Nance, just Nance," was the reply.

"But I must not call you that. It wouldn't be right for a stranger to call you that. Wouldn't 'Miss Rutland' sound better?"

"No. Please call me Nance. I like it better, and I have never been called anything else."

"Very well, then, Nance," Dick laughed, as he began to clear away the dishes. "I am not going to see you doing all the work while three men sit lazily before the fire. It wouldn't be fair."

"But I would rather——"

"Let him alone, Miss," Tom interrupted. "He's a good hand at sich things, an' he'll enjoy the job. He can't be still fer two minutes at a time."

Thus while Martin and Tom smoked and talked the two young people looked after the dishes. Dick did most of the talking. He told Nance about his experiences at Rapid City during the past winter. At some of his stories Nance laughed heartily, especially when he told of the dogs stealing his supper one night.

"It wasn't very funny then, I assure you," Dick explained. "But perhaps the poor dogs needed the food more than I did."

By the time the dishes were washed, wiped, and put away, Dick and Nance were firm friends, and somewhat reluctantly they joined the others before the fire.

"May I have a look at your books, sir?" Dick asked, turning to Martin. "I've had my eyes upon them all the evening."

"Not upon the books alone, eh, pard?" Tom chuckled.

"Look at them to your heart's content," Martin replied. "My library is very small, and I am afraid you will find but little there to interest you."

Dick soon returned, bringing with him three small books.

"I've made a strike to-night," he exclaimed, "which is of more interest to me than the gold of the Quaska. Just think, here I have Hazlitt's 'Table Talk,' Emerson's 'Essays,' and Carlyle's 'Heroes and Hero Worship.' I didn't know that there were such books as these anywhere in this country," and he looked curiously toward Martin.

"You know them, then?" the latter queried, his interest now becoming much aroused in the young man.

"Know them! I should say I do. But it has been years since I read them, and of course I have forgotten much. It will all come back again, however, for one never really forgets. May I take Hazlitt with me to-morrow? It will be a great comfort, and I shall take good care of it."

"Ask Nance," Martin replied. "We are co-partners. You have my consent to take the book, but you must get hers as well."

"Have you read these?" Dick asked in surprise, turning toward the young woman sitting near by.

"Oh, yes," was the blushing reply. "I have read them all several times, and found them so nice."

"Now jist listen to that, pard," Tom spoke up. "There's something like a woman fer ye. I don't think ye'd find many young women outside readin' sich books. They'd want novels, an' sich like."

"I think I should like novels, too," Nance replied. "I have heard about them, and they must be nice."

"You are better off without many of the novels of to-day," Dick returned. "Such books as these have done me much good. I read as many as I could while at college, but of late years I have had little opportunity for reading."

"Did you read such books as these when you were at college?" Martin asked. "I was of the opinion that you studied only medical works."

"Oh, I read as widely as possible, especially at Kings, away back East, before I went to McGill."

As Dick uttered these words Martin gave a distinct start, and looked searchingly into the young man's face. The mention of the former college brought to his mind many thoughts. He himself had graduated from the same Institution years before, and he knew that it was principally a divinity college, where young men were trained for the Ministry.

"And what course did you take there?" he asked as calmly as possible, although his heart beat faster than usual.

"I took Arts and studied Divinity," Dick responded.

"Then you are a——?" Martin could not form the word. A strange feeling swept upon him. He suddenly recalled the warning of his old bishop, especially his closing words, "The Church and her teaching will follow you to the grave, no matter to what part of the world you go."

"He's a parson as well as a doctor, that's what he is," Tom explained, noticing his host's hesitation.

Martin rose suddenly to his feet, picked up his hat, and silently left the building. Once outside he stood as if uncertain what course to pursue. Then he paced rapidly up and down before the house. His brain throbbed and beat with wild emotions. "And has it come to this?" he asked himself. "I have taken in a minion of the Church; I have allowed him to enter my cabin and break bread with me. Had I known who he was he should never have crossed the threshold. And he has won Nance's heart and supplanted me in her affections. And to think that I have kept her hidden away here all of these years, and this is the end! But no, by God, it shall not be! I will not lose her! I have fled from the Church, and it has followed me into the wilderness, and is about to wrench from my grasp the one who is dearer to me than life. It shall not be. No longer shall that man remain beneath my roof. He came here under the guise of a doctor. Why didn't he say plainly and frankly what he was? He seems to be ashamed of his profession."

Seldom had Martin ever allowed himself to be so angry with any one. He had always prided himself upon his calmness. But it was the thought of this stranger, and a clergyman at that, coming to the place and winning Nance's heart which stirred his inmost depths. He stood for a few moments looking out across the lake. The perspiration appeared in great beads upon his forehead. Presently he heard Dick's hearty laugh, and this annoyed him all the more. He would soon stop that. He took a step toward the door, but stopped as the sound of violin music fell upon his ears. It was Nance playing. Then some one began to sing. It was a clear, strong tenor voice, which he recognised as that of the young stranger.

Martin listened for a few moments and then, pushing open the door, he entered. No one noticed him as he moved quietly towards the fire. He paused in the middle of the room, strangely affected. It was not the music which caused him to hesitate and place his hand to his forehead in a perplexed manner. It was the expression of supreme happiness depicted upon Nance's face which held him spellbound. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were flushed with pleasure as she drew the bow skilfully across the strings.

Martin's anger cooled as he looked upon this peaceful scene. It was a striking and a rebuking contrast to the hell in his own heart, and he knew it. He moved quietly forward, took his seat to the left of the fire, and remained silently there for the rest of the evening. But long after the others were wrapped in slumber Martin sat before the dying embers, fighting the hardest of all battles—the battle of the heart.