nvestigate. It was a matter he would not
even have to mention to Virginia. He stood a moment in the drifts, torn
by an inner struggle.

Bill was an extremely sensitive man and his senses were trained even to
the half-psychic, mysterious vibrations of the forest life, and he had a
distant premonition of disaster. All of his fondest hopes, his dreams,
all of the inner guardians of his own happiness told him to keep to his
search, to journey on his way and forget he had seen the tracks. Every
desire of Self spoke in warning to him. But Bill Bronson had a higher
law than self. Long ago, in front of the ramshackle hotel in
Bradleyburg, he had given a promise; and he had reaffirmed it in the
gleam of the Northern Lights not many nights before. There was no one
to hold him to his pledged word. There were none that need know; no one
to whom he must answer but his own soul. Yet even while he stood,
seemingly hesitating between the two courses, he already knew what he
must do.

It was impossible for Bill to be false to himself. He could not disobey
the laws of his own being. He would be steadfast. He turned and went
over to investigate the tracks.

He was not in the least surprised at their nature. Those that had
ordained his destiny had never written that he should know the good
fortune of finding them merely the tracks of animals. The trail was
distinctly that of snowshoes, and it led away toward the Yuga River.

Bill glanced once, then turned back toward his cabin. He mushed the
distance quickly. Virginia met him with a look of surprise.

"I'm planning a longer dash than I had in mind at first," he told her.
"It's important----" he hesitated, and a lie came to his lips. But it
was not such a falsehood as would be marked, in ineffaceable letters,
against him on the Book of Judgement. He spoke to save the girl any
false hopes. "It's about my mine," he said, "and I'll not likely be
back before to-morrow night. It might take even longer than that.
Would you be afraid to stay alone?"

"There's nothing to be afraid of here," the girl replied. "But it will
be awfully lonesome without you. But if you think you've got a real
clew, I wouldn't ask you to stay."

"It's a real clew." The man spoke softly, rather painfully. She
wondered why he did not show more jubilation or excitement. "You've got
your pistol and you can bolt the door. I've got plenty of wood cut.
There's kindling too--and you can light a