s Latin nature was on top; Saxon loyalty and
conscience overthrown. He was an egoist to his finger-tips that night. He
did not sleep a wink, did not even try, but lay on his back across the
bed, hands locked over his hair while "visions of sugar plums danced
through his head." In the morning he went down and made his arrangements
for Sheila, a little less complete, perhaps, than he had intended, for he
met a worthy citizen of Rusty starting up the country with a sled to
visit his traps and to him he gave the letter and confided his
perplexities. It was a hasty interview, for the stage was about to start.

"My wife will sure take your girl and welcome; don't even have to ask
her," the kind-eyed old fellow assured Hilliard. "We'll be glad to have
her for a couple of months. She'll like the kids. It'll be home for her.
Yes, sir"--he patted the excited traveler on the shoulder--"you pile
into the stage and don't you worry any. I'll be up at your place before
night and bring the lady down on my sled. Yes, sir. Pile in and don't
you worry any."

Cosme wrung his hand, avoided his clear eye, and climbed up beside the
driver on the stage. He did not look after the trapper. He stared
ahead beyond the horses to the high white hill against a low and heavy
sky of clouds.

"There's a big snowstorm a comin' down," growled the driver. "Lucky if we
make The Hill to-day. A reg'lar oldtimer it's agoin' to be. And
cold--ugh!"

Cosme hardly heard this speech. The gray world was a golden ball for him
to spin at his will. Midas had touched the snow. The sleigh started with
a jerk and a jingle. In a moment it was running lightly with a crisp,
cutting noise. Cosme's thoughts outran it, leaping toward their gaudy
goal ... a journey out to life and a journey back to love--no wonder his
golden eyes shone and his cheeks flushed.

"You look almighty glad to be going out of here," the driver made
comment.

Hilliard laughed an explosive and excited laugh. "No almighty gladder
than I shall be to be coming back again," he prophesied.

But to prophesy is a mistake. One should leave the future humbly on the
knees of the gods. That night, when Hilliard was lying wakeful in his
berth listening to the click of rails, the old trapper lay under the
driving snow. But he was not wakeful. He slept with no visions of gold or
love, a frozen and untroubled sleep. He had caught his foot in a trap,
and the blizzard had found him there and had taken mercy on hi