he other hand, had never
gone south. It had been but a trick of the imagination, after all. And
Bill did not doubt that he was the man for whom the girl sought.

The little lines seemed to draw and deepen about the man's eyes. "Six
years--but six years is too long, for Clearwater," he murmured. "Men
either come out by then, or it gets 'em. I'm afraid she'll never find
her lover."

* * * * *

He went to make arrangements with Fargo, the merchant, about supplies.
At midnight he sat alone in the little lobby of the inn; all the other
townsmen had gone. The fire was nearly out; a single lamp threw a
doubtful glow on the woodsman's face. His thoughts had been tireless
to-night. He couldn't have told why. Evidently some little event of
the evening, some word that he had not consciously noticed had been the
impulse for a flood of memories. They haunted him and held him, and he
couldn't escape from them.

His thought moved in great circles, always returning to the same
starting point,--the tragedy and mystery of his own boyhood. He knew
perfectly that there was neither pleasure nor profit in dwelling upon
this subject. In the years that he had had his full manhood he had
tried to force the matter from his thoughts, and mostly he had
succeeded. Self-mastery was his first law, the code by which he lived;
and mostly the blue devils had lifted their curse from him. But they
were shrieking from the gloom at him to-night. In the late years some
of the great tranquility of the forest had reposed in him and the bitter
hours of brooding came ever at longer intervals. But to-night they held
him in bondage.

It was twenty-five years past and he had been only a child when the
thing had happened. He had been but seven years old,--more of a baby
than a child. He smiled grimly as the thought went home to him that
childhood, in its true sense, was one stage of life that he had missed.
He had been cheated of it by a remorseless destiny; he had been a baby,
and then he had been a man. There were no joyous gradations between.
The sober little boy had sensed at once that the responsibilities of
manhood had been thrust upon him, and he must make good. After all,
that was the code of his life,--to take what destiny gave and stand up
under it.

If the event had occurred anywhere but in the North, the outcome might
have been wholly different. Life was easy and gentle in the river
bottoms of the United States. Women could