“Verily, Marie, it is good to be here,” sighed Micene Bordoux, sitting on her sill with her capable arms folded on her knees, and her eyes, cool and sane and tolerant, roving over the settlement lolling so quietly in the sun.  “After the trail the rest is good, and yet I will be eager long before the year has passed to follow Maren,—­may Mary give her grace!—­into that wilderness which so draws at her heartstrings.”

“Oh, Micene!” cried Marie, a trifle vexed, “if only she might forget her dreams!  What is it like, the heart of a maid, that turns from thought of love to that of these wild lands, to the mystery of the Whispering Hills that lie, the good God knows where, in that dim and untracked West!  I would that Maren might love!  Then would we have peace and stop forever at this pleasant place.”

Good Micene, with her brave heart and her whole-souled sense, smiled at Marie.

“Love,” she said,—­“and think you that could turn that exalted spirit from its quest?  Still the stir of conquest within her bosom, hush the call of that glorious country which we know from rumor, and. plain hearsay lies at the heart of the Athabasca?

“Little do you know Maren, Marie, though the same mother gave you birth.  There is naught that could turn the maid, and I love her for it.  It is that undaunted faith, that steadfast purpose, that white fire in her face which holds at her heels the whole of us, that turns to her the faces of our men, as those legions of France turned to the Holy Maid.  Love?  She would turn not for it if she could not take it with her.”

Micene looked off across the cabins, and there was a warm light in her eyes.

“Nay, Marie,” she said, “make ready for the trail the coming spring, for we will surely go.”

It was this day, golden and sweet with little winds that wafted from the blossom-laden woods, that Maren Le Moyne, drawn by the dusky depths, passed, out the stockade gate, traversed slowly the length of the Indian camp, stopping here and there to hold out a hand to a frightened pappoose peeking from behind its mother’s fringed leggings, to watch a moment at the cooking fires, to smile at a slim young boy brave in a checkered shirt, and entered the forest.

From the door of the factory McElroy saw her go and the call of the spring suddenly became unbearable.

With a word to Ridgar he stepped off the long log step and deliberately followed.

The Irish blood within him lifted his head and sent his heart a-bounding, while the half-holy mysticism that came from the Scottish hills drew his glance upward to the blue sky arching above.

A tumult surged in his breast and every pulse in his body leaped at thought of speech with her, and yet again a diffidence fell upon him that set him trembling.

As the conqueror he went, pushing toward victory, yet humble in his ambition.

He felt a mist in his eyes as he entered the high arched aisles, cool beneath their canopy of young green, and he looked eagerly here and there for sight of a tall form, upright, easy, plain in its dark garb.