Churchill aboard the London ship a little over a month previously.  He remembered that the date on the letter from the girl was six weeks old.  At the time it was written, Colonel Becker and his wife were either in London or Liverpool, or crossing the Atlantic.  No matter how similar the two letters appeared to him, he realized that, under the circumstances, the same person could not have written them both.  For many minutes he sat back in his chair, with his eyes half-closed, absorbing the comforting heat of the fire.  Again the old vision returned to him.  In a subconscious sort of way he found himself fighting against it, as he had struggled a score of times to throw off its presence, since the girl’s letter had come to him.  And this time, as before, his effort was futile.  He saw her again—­and always as on that night of the Hawkins’ ball, eyes and lips smiling at him, the light shining gloriously in the deep red gold of her hair.

With an effort Steele aroused himself and looked at his watch.  It was a quarter of five.  He stooped to close the stove door, and stopped suddenly, his hand reaching out, head and shoulders hunched over.  Across his knee, shining in the firelight, like a thread of spun gold, lay a single filament of a woman’s hair.

He rose slowly, holding the hair between him and the light.  His fingers trembled, his breath came quickly.  The hair had fallen upon his knee from the letter—­or the envelope, and it was wonderfully like her hair!

From the direction of the factor’s quarters came the deep bellowing of Breed’s moose-horn, calling him to supper.  Before he responded to it, Steele wound the silken thread of gold about his ringer, then placed it carefully among the papers and cards which he carried in his leather wallet.  His face was flushed when he joined the factor.  Not since the night at the Hawkins’ ball, when he had felt the touch of a beautiful woman’s hands, the warmth of her breath, the soft sweep of her hair against his lips as he had leaned over her in his half-surrender, had thought of woman stirred him as he felt himself stirred now.  He was glad that Breed was too much absorbed in his own troubles to observe any possible change in himself or to ask questions about the letter.

“I tell you, it may mean the short birch for me, Steele,” said the factor gloomily.  “Lac Bain is just now the emptiest, most fallen-to-pieces, unbusiness-like post between the Athabasca and the Bay.  We’ve had two bad seasons running, and everything has gone wrong.  Colonel Becker is a big one with the company.  Ain’t no doubt about that, and ten to one he’ll think it’s a new man that’s wanted here.”

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Steele.  A sudden flash shot into his face as he looked hard at Breed.  “See here, how would you like to have me go out to meet them?” he asked.  “Sort of a welcoming committee of one, you know.  Before they got here I could casually give ’em to understand what Lac Bain has been up against during the last two seasons.”