and the
open waters of the Gulf. The watery floor of Toba Inlet lay hushed
between, silvered by a moon-path, shimmering under the same pale rays
that struck bluish-white reflections from a glacier high on the northern
side. It was ghostly still at the mouth of the valley whence the Toba
River stole down to salt water, with somber forests lining the beach and
clinging darkly on the steep slopes. A lone light peeped from the window
of a cabin on shore. The silence was thick, uncanny. But it was a
comforting silence to Thompson. He felt no loneliness, he whom the
lonely places had once appalled. But that was a long time ago. Sitting
there thinking of that, he smiled.

No man lives by, for, or because of love alone. Nor does a woman,
although the poets and romancers have very nearly led us to believe a
woman does. Yet it is a vital factor upon some occasions, in many
natures. There had been times in Thompson's life when the passion Sophie
Carr kindled in him seemed a conflagration that must either transfigure
or destroy him. It was like a volcano that slept, and woke betimes.

The last two years had rather blotted out those periods of eruption. He
had given her up, and in giving up all hope of her, Sophie and
everything that linked her with him from Lone Moose to the last time he
saw her had grown dim, like a book read long ago and put by on the
shelf. In the fierce usages of aerial warfare distracted thought, any
relaxing from an eagle-like alertness upon the business in hand, meant
death swift and certain. And no man, even a man whose heart is sore,
wishes to die. The will-to-live is too strong in him. Pride spurs him.
To come off victorious over a concrete enemy, to uphold the traditions
of his race, to be of service--these things will carry any man over
desperate places without faltering, if he feels them.

And Wes Thompson had experienced that sort of vision rather keenly. It
had driven him, a man of peaceful tendency, to blood-drenched fields.
For two years he had been in another world, in a service that demanded
of a man all that was in him. He was just beginning to be conscious
that for so long he had been detached from life that flowed in natural,
normal channels.

He was conscious too, of a queer, impersonal manner of thinking about
things and people, now that he was back. He wondered about himself. What
particular motive, for instance, had driven him up here? To be sure
there was the very plausible one of ob