“But I did write you,” declared Holcomb earnestly.

“Yes, so ye did, for I hadn’t more’n said it ’fore down comes Dave Brown and says:  ’Eke says thar’s a letter come for ye in to-night’s mail,’ ‘Why, haow you talk!’ says I, and I reached for my tippet and drawed on my boots and started for Munsey’s.  ‘For the land’s sakes!’ my old woman yelled arter me.  ‘Whar are ye a-goin’ a night like this, Hite Holt?’ ‘Don’t stop me,’ says I, ’the old cuss has writ—­the old cuss has writ—­jest as I knowed he would.  Most likely,’ says I, ’he’s broke his leg or couldn’t git out to the settlement ’count the snow, or he’d writ ‘fore this.  Don’t stop me,’ says I, and aout I went and tramped through four feet of snow to the store and there lay yer welcome wad as neat as a piney in a little box over the caounter, and the lamp throwin’ a pinky glow over its side, and that scratchy old handwritin’ o’ yourn I’d knowed three rod off.  Thar it lay kinder laughin’ at me and slanted so’s I could jest read it.  Gosh! but I was tickled!”

The trapper drew a sliver of wood from the stove, shielded its yellow flame in the hollow of his hand and re-lit his pipe.

Back in the shadow of the bunk lay Thayor drinking in every word of the strange talk so full of human kindness and so simple and genuine.  For some moments his gray eyes rested on the gentle face of the old trapper, the wavering firelight lighting up the weather-beaten wrinkles.

Soon he straightened up, threw the white ash of his cigar toward the stove and slid gingerly to the dirt floor, his muscles lame from the morning’s tramp, and calling to Billy to follow him, went out into the cool air.

The banker made his way carefully through the tangle until he reached the edge of the ledge overhanging the boiling torrent below, white as milk in the moonlight.  He selected a dry log and for some minutes sat smoking and gazing in silence at the torrent, whose hoarse roar was the only sound coming up from the sleeping forest.  So absorbed was he with his own thoughts that he seemed unconscious that Holcomb was beside him.  His gaze wandered from the brook to the forest of hemlocks bristling from the opposite bank, their shaggy tops touched with silver.  Beyond lay the wilderness—­a rolling sea of soft hazy timber hemmed in by the big mountains, flanked by wet granite slides that shone like quicksilver.

“Billy,” he began at length.

Holcomb started; it was the first time the banker had called him “Billy.”

Suddenly Thayor looked up, and Holcomb saw that the gray eyes were dim with tears.

“You’re not sick, are you, Mr. Thayor?” asked Holcomb, starting toward him.

“No, my boy,” replied Thayor huskily; “I’ve been happy for a whole day, that is all.  Happy for a whole day.  Think of it!”

“I’m glad—­and you haven’t found it too rough; and the things were comfortable, too?” ventured Holcomb.

“Too rough!  Why, man, this is Paradise!  Think of it, Billy—­your friends have been actually interested in me—­in my comfort—­me, remember!”