Kasba sat on her narrow bed in a thoughtful and melancholy posture. Her pretty oval chin rested in the palm of her hand, and she leaned forward so that her elbow rested on her knee and upheld the forearm. She was gazing at her reflection in a small hand-mirror, but without interest. In fact her gaze was one of disparagement rather than of admiration, and with a heavy sigh she let the glass fall into her lap and sat lost in thought. The master was not in love with her and she knew, as if by direct intuition, that he had no intention of becoming so. There was not the least chance for her any longer, and she threw the glass behind her, somewhat petulantly it must be admitted, and dropped her face into her hands; for of what use was beauty if it did not win her the man she loved? She had known him a long time, many years it seemed to her, and had grown to love him. Love him! oh, how she loved him! Yet in all that time he had not spoken one word of love to her. And now that she had showed him her heart perhaps he despised her, or pitied her, which was worse. At that she sprang to her feet. She was no longer the calm, gentle-natured Kasba, but Kasba the Indian in whose veins ran the blood of a great race. She was a strange mixture of humility and pride, this Indian maid. As she stood there, her head raised proudly, her nostrils quivering, her eyes flashing, her form rounded yet slight, her varying color, her tender youth and singular grace of attitude would have inspired an artist with the ideal of Indian beauty. Then her eyes filled and she gulped down a sob. She was feeling very bitter and rebellious. She felt that she had a grudge against Fate.

To every pure and innocent young girl, we are told, love is a condition of mind, not a strain on the senses. But Kasba knew nothing of this. She had not the conventional and sensitive delicacy of white girls. She was well aware of life’s evil truths, and knew that Broom would have gone to any lengths to have possessed her. Roy was not that kind of a man; though in her secret heart she wished that he had been. Poor Kasba! She was such a child. Physically she was quite grown up, but her mind was a child’s mind. So confiding, so unprotected even by her own sense of right, she would have gone to him and not been aware of the fall. Was he not the Master? And was she not his, body and soul? Which goes to prove that Kasba’s notions of love were very simple, rudimentary, and, certes, in no way coy. How should they be?

If the good lady at Churchill could have known the girl’s state of mind at that moment she would have been greatly startled and appalled and had serious doubts as to whether her instruction, instead of the service she had intended, had not unsettled the girl and done her a deadly injury. It cannot be denied that it was shocking, but all that the girl felt was very natural. How should it be otherwise? Her people had never been married, that is to say in the white man’s way, until after the missionary had come amongst them; still they had been happy, while she had seen properly married white people who had not lived happily together. She, who had seen but few white people, had seen that, so what did it matter, married or unmarried, as long as they were together? So argued the girl, but deep down in her heart there was the Churchill lady’s teaching, which was confused, dim, uncertain, but clamoring to be heard, and a guilty blush rushed to her cheek as she sat and covered her eyes with her hands in very shame; for she was conscious of the wickedness of what she felt and longed for, though she could not understand it.

Suddenly she dropped her hands from her eyes and sat bolt upright, staring at the wall opposite, and gave a little shuddering sigh. For all at once she understood that Roy had turned away because he was honorable, because he wished to be true to another, a girl of his own race, whom he loved. The girl’s name was Lena. She knew that, for she had once heard someone chaffing him about a girl of that name and he had grown very red and confused. That was very long ago, but it all came back to her now, and she hated the girl Lena with her whole heart and soul. Why did he love that other girl? In striving to solve this riddle she was struck by a new idea. “He cannot care for me,” she thought, “because my skin is not white and I do not dress like the women of his people,”—like the women did in the drawings she had seen in some papers Roy had given her some time or other. Doubtless this other girl’s—this Lena’s—dresses covered her whole body, as the women’s did in the pictures. She looked down at her own scanty garment, which was nevertheless very serviceable and becoming, though in sooth it might have displayed the curves of her form to better perfection, which left a considerable expanse of blue stroud legging exposed; the blood mounted in a wave to her face and throat and she kicked out her legs vexatiously, viewing them with offence; then drew them up beneath her as if to hide them forever from sight. You could not see the women’s legs in the drawings because their dresses covered them to the ankles. Also they wore pretty hats instead of shawls, and boots instead of ugly moccasins. Still they looked very uncomfortable. Then she remembered how heartily she and the boy David had laughed over the pictures and wondered how white women could run before dogs, or paddle a canoe, or even make bannocks in such tight-fitting garments. As for herself, she would be suffocated, she was sure she would. And David had declared that he wouldn’t have one of them for his partner on a trip for anything, not even if she promised him a new gun, which was saying much, and together they had poked fun and laughed uproariously at the idea.

Poor Kasba! Had she known how little Roy really troubled his head about her dress she might have saved herself all this vexation of spirit. In saying this I do not for one moment wish to make our hero appear superior to other men. He was a man, with all a man’s appreciation of what was beautiful in women; but if truth forbids me to depict Roy Thursby as a highly virtuous young man, justice forces me to declare that the sight of this young girl’s legs had never caused him an untoward thought, though they were certainly not objects of offence.

But Kasba did not know what was in Roy’s mind, and just then she would have risked suffocation or any such horrible calamity to be able to display herself before Roy for a few moments clothed after the fashion of the women of his race. She snapped her pretty white teeth like a little savage animal at the thought of the white girl, whom she envied the possession of civilized garments. She sat for a long time cogitating over the shocking immodesty of her costume. She could not have explained her thoughts in these words, it is true; but this is really what vexed her mind. Then her mood changed. A creature of many moods was this Indian girl. Why should she be ashamed of wearing her clothing according to the custom of her tribe? Then she was ashamed for ever having felt ashamed. Suddenly she stopped this train of thought, also, and her face clouded. Broom’s name had crossed her mind. Then she remembered Sahanderry and her promise to him, and thoughts crowded in upon her till her brain reeled. She was a wicked girl, a very wicked girl. How shocked her dear father would be if he knew. And the man she loved who had turned away that she might be an honest girl, what would he think? Yes, she was very, very wicked. Filled with disgust and loathing of herself she turned on her face and lay violently sobbing.

Presently she got up and lit a lamp. The fight was over; she had conquered the evil thoughts that had so cruelly beset her, which was due to her own nature, in which there was much good and hardly any evil. She had determined to face the situation bravely, and do what was right, according to her ideas of right, without any regard for her own feelings and inclination.

Probably Kasba had never heard of Satan’s proclivity to provide employment for idle hands, but she was seldom found idle, and chiding herself now for the time she had wasted, in what she somewhat vaguely called “her folly,” she began to make “cakes” (bannocks) against her father’s return, for she was expecting him home hourly.

So engrossed was she in her work that she did not hear the door open, nor was she aware that David, an orphan Indian boy whom Delgezie had adopted, was in the house till a pair of cold arms caught her round the neck, and a still colder face was pressed against her own. Kasba drew the boy towards her and stroked his cold face with her warm hands.

“Well, dear,” she said with a welcoming smile, “you gave me quite a start!”

“What were you thinking about, Kasba?” he asked. Then, “Oh, I’ve shot three deer!” he cried with boyish enthusiasm, without waiting for a reply. Kasba was glad of the boy’s abstraction and bent a tell-tale face over the half-cooked cakes.

“But you must be hungry,” she said, handing the boy one newly-baked which he took and began to devour ravenously. He threw himself on the empty sugar case and the cake disappeared in big mouthfuls, while his large dark eyes flashed about the room.

He was a healthy-looking boy, with a bright, happy face. The blood in his cheeks shone through the dark skin, giving him a ruddy color pleasant to look upon.

In a remarkably short space of time David finished his meal and his wandering eyes came back to the girl by the stove. She was brewing a kettle of tea.

“We will go for the deer to-morrow,” she said. “Why, you are getting quite a hunter! Is it far?”

“Just this side of the ‘big hill.’” Then he paused and his brow grew suddenly dark. “You’ve been crying!” he exclaimed, fiercely, springing to his feet. Then catching Kasba by the arm, he gazed searchingly into her face. “What is it?” he cried sharply. Dropping the girl’s arm he stood with angry eyes and clenched fists. “Was it Ball-eye?” (white-man, in this case meaning Broom) he asked.

The girl hesitated and dropped her eyes.

“It was Ball-eye,” he cried with conviction. “I can see by your face it was.” Then waving his clenched hands in the air he danced about the room in fiery anger. “Curse him!” he shouted. “If ever I catch him sneaking round after you, I’ll—I’ll put a bullet in him, that’s what I’ll do.”

“David! David! Please don’t!” cried Kasba in great dismay, seizing him round the neck. “You must not talk like that. You will get into trouble.” With this she sank on the seat he had vacated and drew him down beside her.

David’s anger died suddenly. He was now struggling manfully to keep back the big tears which threatened to overwhelm him.

“Three deer! Why, David, you are getting quite a man!” said Kasba, with a proud smile, changing the subject.

“Yes, and I have something very funny to tell you,” he said quickly, forgetting his previous agitation in his excitement.

Kasba gave him a smile of encouragement, while he curled himself up comfortably at her feet, gazing up into her face with bright, eager eyes.

“And what is this very funny thing you have to tell me?” she asked, with lively interest, playfully pinching his ear.

“Well,” he began seriously, “I was near the ‘big lake,’ you know.”

The girl nodded.

“I was watching a large buck deer. He was windward of me and came right up close, quite unconscious of my presence.” He paused and the girl nodded again comprehendingly. “Go on,” she said.

“Well,” continued the boy, “I raised my rifle and was about to fire when I heard a slight noise at my back. I looked, and there on the edge of the lake I saw three large wolves.”

The girl started and drew in her breath sharply. “Three?” she asked, bending over and placing her hand on his.

“Yes, three,” repeated the boy. “They were watching the deer, too, and acting so strangely that I lowered my rifle and waited to see what they would do. Presently two of them crouched down while the other made off. Keeping out of sight it slunk along till it got behind the deer, then the buck ‘winded’ it and sprang away straight to where the two other wolves were crouching.” The boy paused for breath.

“Yes, yes,” cried the girl, “go on, go on!” In her heated imagination she saw it all: the majestic buck deer, the three fierce, gaunt wolves, and the fearless boy.

David smiled again, pleased at the girl’s excitement. “Just as the buck came up with the wolf at his heels they sprang from their ambush and pulled him down.”

“And then—” prompted the girl, looking at him with her big, dark eyes.

“Well, then I fired two bullets at them. I think I wounded one. They stood and snarled.”

The girl shuddered and pressed his hand tighter.

“Then I fired again. This time I killed a big grey fellow, the one which had run after the deer, and the others made off.”

The girl drew a long, sharp breath, then, hugging him tightly around the neck, kissed him.

David laughed and fought for breath. “Don’t you think the wolves were very cunning?” he asked. “Have you ever heard anything like that before?”

“They were very, very cunning,” declared the girl. “It was wonderful, I have never heard the like.” Then, stroking his hair caressingly, she added very seriously: “It was very brave of you to tackle three large wolves, David, but it was dangerous, and I wish you would not go so far from the Fort alone.”

The boy smiled derisively at these girlish fears.

“But I have my rifle!” he said bravely. Then with a swagger he added: “But I must ‘ice’ my sled ready for the morning,” and filling a tin mug with lukewarm water, and taking a piece of bearskin from off a shelf, he went out.

With a sigh Kasba took down a pair of birchwood snowshoe frames from the rack overhead and sat down to net them. The frames were her own handiwork and well made; the wood had been cleverly pared down, the cross-pieces and toes and heels beautifully fitted and turned—all done, too, with only a small knife, called a “crooked knife,” and an awl.

But lest any of my readers should fall into the error committed by the person who asked “whether snowshoes were warmer than shoes of ordinary wear,” I will here more fully describe how these indispensable aids to winter perambulations are made.

First four pieces of birch or juniper, as the case may be, are carefully selected and cut into lengths varying from three to five feet or longer, according to the size of the snowshoes desired. These pieces are then whittled down to an inch in thickness, and each two fastened together at either end, bent to the shape of an oblong oval, some ten inches across its widest part, and turned up at the toe. Then the slender frames thus made are strengthened at the forepart by two crossbars, and at the heel by one bar. This completes them and they are hung up to dry. Later on they are netted in criss-cross fashion, somewhat after the manner of a tennis racket, with babiche, that is to say, narrow strips of undressed deerskin, which are well wetted before using. The foot netting, or in other words the netting on which the foot rests, is much coarser than that used for the heel and toe of the snowshoe. Of course I am describing a Chipewyan snowshoe. Snowshoes differ a little in shape among other tribes of Indians, but the principle is the same.

Roy Thursby stood watching a small black speck which was moving slowly over the white surface of the river and coming in the direction of the Fort. Overhead was a magnificent Aurora Borealis extending high in bands of flickering color; a luminous phenomenon of all the colors of the rainbow, oscillating in electric waves. The gentle sighing of the wind, and an occasional dull, muffled sound from among the ice hummocks broke the silence. Near the trader were the dark figures of Kasba and David, in fact it was they who had given the alarm, and presently there was a slight crunching sound and Broom came striding up.

Dogs appeared as if by magic, and stood erect with ears pricked up expectantly, or darted forward with noses sniffing the air.

The black speck grew rapidly larger and larger, until presently it suddenly resolved itself into two portions, one of which, the smaller of the two, quickly mended its pace and was soon distinguishable as a man. The other travelled much slower, in a serpentine movement, swaying from side to side as it dodged the huge masses of shattered ice. This was a dog-train and driver returning from a trip to an Eskimo encampment.

Before long the man in front was clambering over a prodigious snowdrift which obstructed the approach to the trading-post. He was one Minnihak, an Eskimo whom Thursby employed to run before the dogs when he sent out a trading venture.

The native lumbered forward with a broad grin. He was a droll figure from the hood of his tko-li-tok (coat) down to his ka-miks (shoes) covered with hoar-frost, and his “hairy” clothing gave him a shaggy appearance greatly resembling a white bear walking on its hind legs.

Thursby went forward to meet him.

“Timo,” grunted the Eskimo; breathless from his late exertions.

“Timo,” responded the other. He was too interested in the dog-train to take further notice of the native just then.

Minnihak took his welcome for granted. He turned to look for his partner, who was now close at hand.

The advancing train of dogs barked with sheer delight at being so near home. Nothing could stop them now; even the biggest laggard of a dog was in a perfect frenzy to proceed. The dogs at hand heard the song of those approaching and joined in the melody.

Ignoring the track left by the guide and despising every obstacle the arriving train came helter-skelter over the bristling hummocks. The heavily laden com-it-uk (sled), swaying dangerously, crashed through the ice at an alarming speed. Up one side of the snowdrift and down the other it flew, threatening destruction to anything in its path, but a pull here and a push there guided it safely past every obstruction.

Then the home dogs vied with the newcomers in making so great an uproar that no human voice could possibly have made itself heard above the pandemonium. A free fight ensued, but a few sharp, stinging cuts from the well-directed lash of a whip drew the dogs’ attention to other things. Then the pain of their wounds broke in upon them and they slunk off with whines and yells.

By the aid of Minnihak and Sahanderry the dogs were unharnessed and the heavily loaded sled taken away. Roy then turned to speak to Broom, but that individual had suddenly disappeared; and Kasba, possessing herself of her father’s bag containing a deerskin robe and a change of footwear, also went silently away, while some distance ahead of her was David, staggering under a load of venison that Delgezie had given him to carry home.

As the girl moved away from the fort a dim figure appeared in the deep shadow at a corner of one of the buildings and stood looking after her. When she had disappeared among the rocks the watcher chuckled and followed after.

The slight crunch, crunch, of some one walking stealthily over the crisp snow soon attracted Kasba’s attention. Twice she stopped to listen, throwing a scared glance behind. The third time a voice close at hand startled her, and she stopped dead and turned right round. A dozen feet away, in the shadow of a large boulder she discovered an indistinct figure standing. The girl stood inert, staring as if fascinated.

“Kasba, wait a minute, I want you,” said the voice in carefully modulated tones.

“What—do—you—want—with—me?” faltered the maiden, now thoroughly frightened.

“I want to speak to you,” said the voice. Kasba shivered. She swayed and almost fell, for it was the voice of the man she so greatly feared.

“What do you want—I don’t understand,” she faltered, trying to move away, but now her legs refused her bidding.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” said the man, stepping out of the shadow.

“You’re not so scared of Bekothrie, I notice,” he added with meaning.

“He is the master!” faltered the girl, her face flushing painfully, wondering whether the fellow had guessed her secret.

“Oh, of course,” laughed Broom unpleasantly, and slyly edging nearer. “The master, and therefore a little tin god. But say,” he added, taking a step or two boldly, “does he not kiss those pretty lips occasionally, and embrace that tight little waist, eh?”

“Why should he?” asked the girl stupidly, scarcely knowing what to say.

“Why should he?” repeated Broom, chuckling. “Why indeed! Why, because he is human, my dear, and can no more resist the fascination of your pretty face and figure than I can.” Kasba remembered how easily Roy had resisted her that very day and, despite the terror she was feeling, smiled bitterly. While the fellow had been speaking he had craftily reduced the space between them, and now, encouraged by the girl’s silence, he tried to clasp her about the waist. But the action worked upon the girl like magic. There was too much of the fighting blood of her warrior ancestors in her to allow her to be terrified for long, and though her expression of strong aversion never changed, she stopped trembling and with perfect calmness skilfully eluded his grasp. His arm encircled the empty air and he swore under his breath. “Oh, you needn’t try to be so confoundedly coy,” he cried, baffled for the moment. “Come, sweetheart,” he added, waxing passionate and insinuating and again edging toward her, “I’m in love with you and shall sleep all the better for a kiss from those red lips.”

“Back, Ball-eye,” cried the girl, her eyes flashing and her lips curled in scorn. “I do not like you. Why do you persist in troubling me when I dislike you and try to keep aloof?”

Somewhat staggered, the fellow gnawed savagely at his moustache. “Bah!” he exclaimed at last.

“I do not like you,” continued the girl staunchly. “There is something here,” she added, touching her breast, “that tells me that you are a very wicked man and will bring trouble upon us all.”

“And I, my pretty divinator, have something here,” retorted the man, tapping his breast in imitation of her, “that tells me that you are a canting little hypocrite, and, by God, I will have that kiss!” With that he took a step toward her, then stopped and stared hard at the girl, who stood silent and immobile as a statue, facing her tormentor with no apparent fear. She did not even start on hearing the threat, but on the contrary faced him boldly, her foot planted firmly, looking him steadily in the eye. Then deliberately she drew a long knife from her bosom and, grasping it tightly, held it ready for use. She eyed him grimly, and softly chuckled. Her terror was gone.

The fellow fell back, sullen, foiled. Kasba’s fearless attitude utterly disconcerted him, and he blasphemed till the girl shuddered and turned her back and moved away. But her face was no sooner turned than a very strange expression came on Broom’s, and rushing after her, he cried in a loud, angry voice: “Not so fast, you little wildcat. You shall pay me for those false smiles.”

Suddenly a boy’s clear voice rang out on the still night air.

“Kas-ba-a, yu-cuz-zie, yu-cuz-zie Kas-ba-a!”

With a smothered imprecation the man stopped dead in his tracks. Then at the sound of someone approaching he dropped hurriedly back into the shadow. Suddenly an idea crossed his mind. He stood a moment chewing his moustache thoughtfully, and nodding his head once or twice. “I’ll do it,” he muttered.

When Roy entered the house, after giving Delgezie a few supplies from the store, he was astonished to find Broom had not come in; apparently he must be outside talking to Sahanderry or Minnihak. Dismissing the matter from his mind, he turned to Delgezie, who had followed to make his report.

Throwing back his hood, Delgezie displayed a pleasant, wrinkled face. But there was the sad, wistful expression in his eyes of one who has experienced some overwhelming sorrow, and yet was conscientiously striving to live out his life bravely despite it. He seated himself at a nod from his master, who plied him with questions relative to the trip. It had been a very successful one. They had brought back a good haul of furs.

“And Acpa?” questioned Roy presently, referring to one of his Eskimo traders.

“His boy’s sick,” said Delgezie.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Oh, he met with an accident. His father shot him in the leg; the gun went off accidentally.”

“Hurt him much?”

“Yes, completely shattered the bone below the knee.”

“What are they doing to it?”

“They’ve tied a piece of shaganappi tightly around the leg, above the wound.”

“What in the world for?” asked Thursby, in blank surprise.

“Oh, the line will cut through the flesh,” said Delgezie, unmoved, “and the lower part will rot off, clean off.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the other. “Is that possible?”

“Yes. The greater part of the flesh below the shaganappi is off already.”

“How ghastly!” said the trader, with a slight shudder. “But the boy?”

“Oh, he’s lively enough.”

“Well, well! we live and learn,” said Thursby. “What would a doctor say of such primitive surgery?” he wondered. “But there, I won’t keep you any longer,” he added.

The old man got to his feet instantly. With a cheerful “Good-night, sir,” he left the room. Outside he was joined by Minnihak, and the two proceeded to Delgezie’s hut together. On the way they met an Eskimo woman, whom they passed with a slight greeting.

With characteristic curiosity she turned and watched them. She was a “runner.” A band of Eskimo had found it impossible to reach the post that day and had sent her on in advance to get the usual gratuity of tee-pli-tow (tobacco) and carry it back to them.

The old Chipewyan’s face brightened when he approached his humble home, where a pale light welcomed him from the window. He lifted the catch softly, while a look of pleased anticipation stole over his face, for was he not to see his only child whom he loved better than anything on all God’s earth? He had been away from her many days—long, weary days, haunted by the fearful dread that he might return to find her gone, as her mother had gone years before. For there was a tragedy in the old man’s life. Leaving his wife in the best of health, he had gone on a trip to an Indian encampment, and had returned to find her dead and buried. She had died of some contagious disease. This was a terrible blow to him, for he loved her fondly. He had shortly before embraced the Christian faith, and this great affliction—this taking away of all he loved best on earth—tried the simple-hearted man sorely. It seemed monstrously unjust. He probably could not have put his feelings into words, but that was what he felt. It was hard for him to believe in a God who could do this thing—a God whom the missionary invariably presented as a “God of love.” What had he done to deserve such misery? All that was just and righteous in the gentle-minded man rose up in revolt. And was this to be wondered at? How many of us so-called highly-civilized people have not at some time or other questioned the wisdom of God with infinitely less cause? Well, then, may we sympathize with this poor, uneducated, half-pagan Indian. The bereaved man’s grief was terrible to witness. For days he sat disconsolate and desolate, moaning to himself, and neither eating nor sleeping. When the missionary called to comfort him, he rose slowly to his feet and in a voice that cut the preacher to the heart cried: “My wife, where is she?” Then with a sweep of the arm to take in the whole of his tribe, he asked: “Was there no other woman your God could take?” The missionary, greatly distressed, felt that the kindest thing he could do was to go away. Time passed on and the poor fellow again took up his accustomed duties. But he was never afterwards the same man. He never forgot his dead wife and secretly and sincerely mourned her all the rest of his days. He never took another, but showered all the love of his bruised heart upon his orphaned child, and never left the Fort without an overwhelming fear that something might happen to his treasure while he was away. But he was home again now and all was well. The com-it-uk had claimed most of his attention when he had driven up to the Fort, but his eyes nevertheless sought eagerly for Kasba, whom he discovered standing meekly in the background after her wont, ready to carry his “bag” to the house. They had not yet spoken, for Kasba never intruded herself when Bekothrie was nigh. She knew her father’s work came first. But she was inside the house, he well knew, to welcome him; and never did a lover’s heart flutter and throb as did the heart of this poor old home-coming Indian father.

True to his expectations, his daughter was waiting for him within. She was standing by the stove. Instantly the girl’s face glowed with pleasure, and with a little cry of delight she flew to him and, encircling his neck with her arms, drew his face down on a level with her own, and gazed searchingly into it for a moment, as if to see whether he had taken any harm during his long absence. The old man gave a short, contented laugh, then his feelings welled up within him and tears of joy gleamed in his eyes. Reluctantly putting her from him, he took off his out-door garments while Kasba greeted the Eskimo and flew back to the stove, on which a pot was boiling merrily. A savory smell filled the room but the old man remarked it not. His eyes were following his daughter’s movements with the wistful gaze of loving solicitude. He paused in the act of drying his hands on a coarse towel to smile whenever his eyes caught hers in her flittings. His ablutions completed, Kasba helped him into his jacket. Then, taking him by the shoulder she playfully forced him to a seat. The Eskimo seated himself at the table at a gesture from Kasba, and soon food was set before the men. Hardly a word was exchanged between them, and in a marvellously short space of time they had finished supper and were feeling for their pipes. Fumbling in one pocket after another, Delgezie pulled out pipe, knife and a plug of nigger-head from profound depths. Then he proceeded to cut up enough of the tobacco to fill his pipe. Minnihak produced his pu-lu-yet-ti (pipe) from his fire-bag and with scrupulous carefulness filled its little black bowl with a mixture of tobacco and a particular kind of weed which grows among the rocks in the vicinity.

This pu-lu-yet-ti had been fashioned from soft stone and ornamented with little brass bands in a manner and after a pattern peculiar to the Eskimo. The stem was of wood and frequently renewed. But the old stems were never thrown away; they were hoarded up against a tobacco famine when they would be cut up very fine and smoked.

The two men smoked in silence. Minnihak drew lovingly at his pipe long after the little bowl was empty. Then with a deep sigh of regret he reluctantly put it away, and drawing his kaip-puk (deerskin robe) over him, he stretched himself on the floor to sleep.

Her duties completed, Kasba sat down beside her father.

“The boy’s asleep,” said Delgezie, with an indicative thrust of the chin in the direction of a recumbent figure in a corner of the room.

“Yes,” laughed the girl, with a glance in the same direction. “Poor David, he tried to keep awake, but he was so very tired. He was away on the ‘big hill’ hunting, all day. He shot three deer.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the old man with a nod and smile of approbation.

“We’re going for them to-morrow,” she explained, taking her father’s hand and smoothing it fondly.

Just then the door opened and Broom appeared. He hesitated on the threshold, glancing from one to the other as if asking permission to enter. Kasba half started up from her seat at sight of him. She experienced a feeling of resentful surprise, wondering what his visit might portend.

The old man bade him enter, though he seemed rather taken aback at the fellow’s presence. The welcome obviously lacked fervor.

Nothing daunted, Broom came forward with a peculiar smile on his lips.

Kasba rose hastily and placed a seat for him, then turned deliberately away, withdrawing to another part of the room, and for the time being appeared totally absorbed in some kind of needlework.

“Well, old man,” said Broom, breaking the strained silence, “what sort of a trip did you have?”

“Pretty fair, sir,” Delgezie made brief reply. Then he nervously moved his hands and his eyes went to the girl. Delgezie certainly looked upon Broom with much disfavor. Suddenly he straightened up a little and looked the sailor full in the face. “What do you want?” he demanded bluntly.

Broom appeared a trifle confused by this direct question. He glanced at the girl before answering, then: “Oh, nothing much?” he said.

Delgezie nodded doubtfully, his eyes fastened on the fellow’s face. Something in his manner had startled and displeased him.

Conversation lagged.

The intruder fidgeted uneasily under the old man’s solemn scrutiny. He changed his position several times. Then he suddenly produced a cigar and offered it to the old man, who refused it point blank.

“No thank you,” said the old fellow, with grim brevity, “I’m used to the pipe.”

Broom bit off the end of the rejected cigar savagely, and sticking it into his mouth applied a match. Again he glanced at the girl.

This time Delgezie caught the direction of his glance and instinctively his attention was alert. A shade of uneasiness came into his eyes; his mind was filled with vague alarms. With puckered brows he sat silently watchful and suspicious.

To Kasba the constraint became unbearable. She softly opened the door and went out. The closing of the door was the first warning Broom received of it.

He turned half round and sat for a few moments in a listening attitude. Then he turned back, and leaning forward toward Delgezie, “Look here, old man,” he said, laughing oddly, “what I’ve come to see you about is this: I want your girl—” He left the sentence unfinished; there was that in the old man’s face that caused him to stop.

For Delgezie had turned white, his lower jaw dropped, his eyes set in a fixed, horrified stare; he breathed heavily. So paralyzed was he at the news that he lost his faculties. Something like a groan escaped his lips.

“You—want—my—daughter!” he gasped, at length.

“Yes, I do,” replied Broom, mercilessly, with another odd laugh. “I’m in love with her. Course I can’t marry her properly here, we haven’t a parson; but I’m going south first open water and will take her along. We can get hitched up then, at Churchill. In the meantime an Indian marriage will have to do.”

The look in the old man’s honest eyes caused Broom’s to wander.

“Well,” said the old fellow shakily, “I can’t give you my girl. She’s all I’ve got.” His voice broke and a tear showed on his cheek. “Besides,” he added, pulling himself together, “you don’t love her; you say you do, but by and by—”

“I know what you mean. You mean I would grow tired of her and throw her off.”

“Yes,” said the brave old Indian, slowly, “that’s what I mean.”

Broom laughed harshly. “You’re candid, at any rate, old man; but you’re wrong. Besides, how do you know that the girl don’t want me?”

“You can ask her yourself, in front of me,” replied Delgezie with honest indignation. And rising slowly, he crossed the room and went out. Broom heard the old man’s voice in conversation outside for a few moments, then he returned, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Soon after, the girl came in. “Well!” she said quietly, yet with a touch of defiance in her voice, and facing Broom boldly. Her eyes were wide and flashing, her lips compressed. She looked at him in a manner which despite himself caused him to feel somewhat abashed and his face to crimson.

The fellow seemed too confused to speak for a moment. Then: “I’ve been asking your father for you, Kasba,” he said, somewhat brusquely, as if intending to carry off the matter with a high hand.