“A—­a woman’s grave?” faltered the girl.

“My mother’s.”

“Did she live here, on Snare Lake?” Chloe asked in surprise, as her glance swept the barren cliffs of its shore.

MacNair answered with the same softness of tone that somehow dispelled all thought of his uncouthness.  “No.  She lived at Fort Norman, over on the Mackenzie—­that is, she died there.  Her home, I think, was in the Southland.  My father used to tell me how she feared the North—–­its snows and bitter cold, its roaring, foaming rivers, its wild, fierce storms, and its wind-lashed lakes.  She hated its rugged cliffs and hills, its treeless barrens and its mean, scrubby timber.  She loved the warm, long summers, and the cities and people, and—­” he paused, knitting his brows—­“and whatever there is to love in your land of civilization.  But she loved my father more than these—­more than she feared the North.  My father was the factor at Fort Norman, so she stayed in the North—­and the North killed her.  To live in the North, one must love the North.  She died calling for the green grass of her Southland.”

He ceased speaking and unconsciously stooped and plucked a few spears of grass which he held in his palm and examined intently.

“Why should one die calling for the sight of grass?” he asked abruptly, gazing into Chloe’s eyes with a puzzled look.

The girl gazed directly, searchingly into MacNair’s eyes.  The naive frankness of him—­his utter simplicity—­astounded her.

“Oh!” she cried, impulsively stepping forward.  “It wasn’t the grass—­it was—­oh! can’t you see?” The man regarded her wonderingly and shook his head.

“No,” he answered gravely.  “I can not see.”

“It was—­everything!  Life—­friends—­home!  The grass was only the symbol—­the tangible emblem that stood for life!” MacNair nodded, but, by the look in his eye, Chloe knew that he did not understand and that pride and a certain natural reserve sealed his lips from further questioning.

“It is far to the Mackenzie,” ventured the girl.

“Aye, far.  After my father died I brought her here.”

“You!  Brought her here!” she exclaimed, staring in surprise into the strong emotionless face.

The man nodded slowly.  “In the winter it was—­and I came alone—­dragging her body upon a sled——­”

“But why——­”

“Because I think she would have wished it so.  If one hated the wild, rugged cliffs and the rock-tossed rapids, would one wish to lie upon a cliff with the rapids roaring, for ever and ever?  I do not think that, so I brought her here—­away from the grey hills and the ceaseless roar of the rapids.”

“But the grass?”

“I brought that from the Southland.  I failed many times before I found a kind that would grow.  It is little I can do for her, and she does not know, but, somehow, it has made me feel—­easier—­I cannot tell you exactly.  I come here often.”