s selfishness would be wanting, and
in its stead would appear a far more manly humility.

For the first time he had dimly realised that no human being can live
to himself alone--realised that, even if a man is responsible to no
earthly duties of kinship and labour, he is responsible to his Maker.
And such realisation could not fail to bear fruit in deeds.

But presently the insidious hand of the frost fell heavily upon them
again. Peter's long, savage step became shorter and less sure, and he
fell to crooning little snatches of some wild chant under his breath--a
brave's death-song, if Dick had known. The pony lagged more and more,
and Dick noticed nothing, felt nothing any longer. He was benumbed,
mind and body, with the cold. Peter's song blew past his ears on the
irregular gusts of wind, but he did not hear. He was back again in
those long ago days, and his mother was standing at the door of the
cabin, calling, "Stephanie, Stephanie!"

The name was on his blue lips as strength failed, and he fell full
length in the snow, while the whirling haze of white, the pony, and
Peter Many-Names, slid away to nothingness, and only that voice
remained--"Stephanie, Stephanie!"

Peter, partly roused from the lethargy which was creeping over him,
tried to lift Dick from the drifts, but was too weak. So he quietly
pulled off his own blanket, laid it over the English boy, and then
crouched down with his back to the worst of the wind, and waited
stoically--waited for death, which was all he looked for. He thought
of it quite calmly; but then through all his stormy life the gates of
the Happy Hunting-Grounds had never been far away. There was something
very pathetic in that little crouching brown figure waiting so gravely
and patiently for the end.

The wind blew the snow into little ridges on his long black hair, and
then blew it off again. The pony came close to him with drooping head,
as if for company; but by then the Indian was too far gone to heed
anything, though still he crooned little snatches of his desolate song,
as was right and fitting.

Presently he too fell softly sideways into the snow as a tired child
falls. His last distinct thought was of the great broad woods through
which they had passed, and of the warm summer sun upon the fair, green
world.

Just then the pony lifted its lean head, fringed over with the long
ragged mane, and pointing its nose to the blast, neighed shrilly,
piercingly, as only a