brigade, that she had got somewhere on Winnipeg, and we put you in their waiting canoe.  She was dragged in among the thwarts,—­while I—­slipped back among the shadows, circled the camp, and was at my death-watch inside the big tepee when peering eyes looked in.  I saw no more of the dashing Nor’wester, save a flash of long gold curls at a headman’s belt.  What fate was meted out to him was swift and therefore merciful.  Peace be to him!

“No more I know, my friend, save that, when I returned to De Seviere, I found you ill with some fever of the brain.”

“But, Ridgar, for love of Heaven, what of Maren?”

“She had brought you here, and Rette says the women hung off from her and laughed in corners, whispering and talking, and that her face was worn and greatly changed, as if with some deep sorrow.”

McElroy turned his head upon the pillow and weak tears smarted under his lids.

“Me!  It was I she saved when it was I who slew her lover!  God forgive me, for I cannot forgive myself!”

“Nay, boy, hush!  It is all as God wills.  We are but shuttles in the web of this tangled life.”

“But—­tell me,—­what does she now?  How looks her dear face?”

Ridgar was silent a moment, and McElroy repeated his question, with his face still turned away: 

“Does she pass among them,—­the vipers?  Does she seem to care for life at all now?”

“Lad,” said Ridgar gently, “I know not, for she is gone.”

“Gone!”

The pale man on the pillow sprang upright, staring at the other with open mouth.

“Aye, softly, boy; softly!  She has been gone these many weeks; even while summer was here she gathered her people, outfitted by our men, all of whom were so glad for your deliverance that they gave readily to their debt, and took up again her long trail to the Athabasca.  Rette, I believe, has a letter which she left for you....  Would you read it now?”

McElroy nodded dumbly, and Ridgar went out in the night to Rette’s cabin for this last link between the factor and the woman he loved.

When he returned, and McElroy had taken it in his shaking hands, he sat down and turned his face to the fire.

There was silence while the flames crackled and the chimney roared, and presently the factor said heavily: 

“I cannot!  Read...”

So Ridgar, bending in the light, read aloud Maren’s letter.

At its end the man on the bed turned his face to the wall and spoke no more.

From that time forth the tide of returning life in him stopped sluggishly, as if the locks were set in some ocean-tapping channel.

The bleakness of the cold north winter was in his heart and life was barren as the eastern meadows.

So passed the days and the weeks, with quip and jest from Ridgar, whose eyes wore a puzzled expression; with such coddling and coaxing from Rette as would have spoiled a well man, and, with not the least to be counted, daily visits to the factory of the little Francette, who defied the populace and came openly.