It was yet early when, as had become her custom, the Louchoux girl dressed hurriedly and made her way to the kitchen to help Lena in the preparation of breakfast.  To her surprise she found that the fire had not been lighted nor was Big Lena in the little room which had been built for her adjoining the kitchen.

The quick eyes of the girl noted that the bed had not been disturbed, and with a sudden fear in her heart she dashed to the door of Chloe’s room, where, receiving no answer to her frantic knocking, she pushed open the door and entered.  Chloe’s bed had not been slept in, and her parka was missing from its peg upon the wall.

As the Indian girl turned from the room, Harriet Penny’s door opened, and she caught a glimpse of a night-capped head as the little spinster glanced timidly out to inquire into the unusual disturbance.

“Where have they gone?” cried the girl.

“Gone?  Gone?” asked Miss Penny.  “What do you mean?  Who has gone?”

“She’s gone—­Miss Elliston—­and Big Lena, too.  They have not slept in their beds.”

It took a half-minute for this bit of information to percolate Miss Penny’s understanding, and when it did she uttered a shrill scream, banged her door, turned the key, and shot the bolt upon the inside.

Alone in the living-room, the last words Chloe had spoken to her flashed through the Indian girl’s mind:  “I can trust you to place this in MacNair’s hands.”

Without a second thought for Miss Penny, she rushed into her room, recovered the letter from its hiding-place beneath the pillow, thrust it into the bosom of her gown, and hastily prepared for the trail.

In the kitchen she made up a light pack of provisions, and, with no other thought than to find MacNair, opened the door and stepped out into the keen, frosty air.  The girl knew only that Snare Lake lay somewhere up the river, but this gave her little concern, as no snow had fallen since MacNair had departed with his Indians a week before, and she knew his trail would be plain.

From her window Harriet Penny watched the departure of the girl, and before she was half-way across the clearing the little woman appeared in the doorway, commanding, begging, pleading in shrill falsetto, not to be left alone.  Hearing the cries, the girl quickened her pace, and without so much as a backward glance passed swiftly down the steep slope to the river.

Born to the snow-trail, the Louchoux girl made good time.  During the month she had spent at Chloe’s school she had for the first time in her life been sufficiently clothed and fed, and now with the young muscles of her body well nourished and in the pink of condition she fairly flew over the trail.

Hour after hour she kept up the pace without halting.  She passed the mouth of the small tributary upon which she had first seen Chloe.  The place conjured vivid memories of the white woman and all she had done for her and meant to her—­memories that served as a continual spur to her flying feet.  It was well toward noon when, upon rounding a sharp bend, she came suddenly face to face with the Indians and the dog-teams that MacNair had despatched for provisions.