to his city--there to find his father's murderer. His
eyes were glittering and terrible to see at the potentialities of that
finding. Yet in an instant he knew that death had likely already
claimed the elder Rutheford. Otherwise he himself would have come
back, long since, to recover the mine. He would be financing the
expedition, rather than his brother Kenly.

But by that stern old law, the law that goes down to the roots of the
earth and whose justice lies in mystic balances beyond the sight of men,
has it not been written that the sins of the father shall be visited
upon the son? It wasn't too late yet to command some measure of
payment. In Virginia's own city lived the Lounsburys,--a proud and
wealthy family, moving in the most haughty circles, patronizing the
humble, flattered and honored and exalted. But oh, he could break them
down! He could stamp their name with shame. He could not pay eye for
eye and tooth for tooth, because Rutheford was likely already dead. He
could not pay for his father's murder by striking down his murderer.
But he could make Harold pay for his own wrongs. He could make him
atone for the bitter moments of his youth and manhood, that irremediable
loss of his boyhood. If Rutheford had left a widow he could make her
pay for his own mother's sufferings.

As he stood in that bleak and lonely cabin, lost in the desolate wastes
of snow, he was simply the clansman--the feudist--the primitive
avenger. Virginia too should know the crime, and the haunting sight of
those pitiful bones in the dark cavern would rise before her eyes
whenever she sought Harold's arms. He would show her the picture; she
could see the murderer's face in her own lover's. She could never yield
to him then----

Virginia! Soft above the wail and complaint of the wind, he spoke her
name. His star, his universe, the gracious, beautiful girl whose
happiness had been his one aim! And could he change that aim now?

The wind wept, the snow was swept before it in great, unearthly clouds
of white, the fire crackled and leaped at the opening in the cabin door.
The northern winter night closed down, ever deeper, ever darker, ever
more fraught with those mighty passions of the human soul. But he
responded no more to the wild music of the wind. The wilderness
passions no longer found an echo in his own heart. He had suddenly
remembered Virginia.

His face was like clay in the dancing light. His eyes were sunken