he greatness
of the thing which his knowledge and skill had made. _That_ she had
burned. Understanding how love had made this blunder, Pete said no word.
He only knew that Bolt had paid him seven hundred dollars in cash and
kind, which must be returned. In silence he turned away, and once more
faced the terrible hill which led to the Hundred Mile House.

* * * * *

The spring was in my blood, and I could not sleep. Can any creature
sleep when the spring's sweet restless air calls to all nature? The
bears were about again after their winter sleep, busy with last year's
berries. The deer were feasting on new grass down in the lowlands, the
wolverines and cougar were sneaking homeward after the night's hunting.
Even the little birds were coming back to the north, for now and again
as I strolled along the road I would hear a sleepy twitter. "Isn't it
dawn yet?" "Not yet, have another nap." So I came to the brow of the
great hill whence I should see the dawn.

Down in the lower country, on every pool the water-fowl lay abed, each,
from the biggest goose to the littlest teal, with its head tucked under
cover of a wing, and one quaint eye cocked up to catch the glint of
dawn. A wan light was spreading in the northeastern sky, and presently
the snowy brow of the hill revealed its wrinkled front, its frozen
runnels. The sentinels of the wild fowl saw that first gleam of coming
day, called the reveille along from pool to pool, roused thunder of
innumerable wings, marshaled their echelons in soaring hosts, and broke
away in the northward flight of spring. Far in the east a lone moose
trumpeted.

I was turning back refreshed toward my duty, when I heard something
moan. The sound came from underneath a pine tree, the one at the very
top of the long climb which Pete had blazed with his inscription, "Got
thar." With my heart in my mouth I went to find out what was the matter,
and so discovered the old cargador crouched down against the trunk.

"Pete," I asked in a very shaky voice, "what on earth's the matter?"

"Dying, mum."

"But it's too damp here. Why, you'll catch your death of cold."

"That would never do. Say, mum, how's Bolt?"

"Oh, ever so much better."

"Can't do it," said Pete, "if I died first he'd have the joke on me."

"Wouldn't you like a hot rum?"

Pete staggered to his feet. "I'd go for that," he sighed, "just like one
man."

So he took my arm, and I helped him along the