ible that we'll hear anything of him this winter."

Agatha was conscious that Mrs. Hastings' eyes were upon her, and she sat
very still, though her heart was beating faster than usual. Hastings
went on again:

"The _Colonist_ has a line or two about a barque from Alaska which put
into Victoria short of stores. She was sent up to an A. C. C. factory,
and had to clear out before she was ready. The ice, it seems, was
closing in unusually early. A steam whaler at Portland reports the same
thing, and from the news brought by a steamer from Japan all
communication with Northeastern Asia is already cut off."

No one spoke for a moment or two, and Agatha, leaning back in her chair,
glanced around the room. There was not much furniture in it, but, though
this was unusual on the prairie, door and double casements were guarded
by heavy hangings. The big brass lamp overhead shed a cheerful light,
and birch wood in the stove snapped and cracked noisily, and the
stove-pipe, which was far too hot to touch, diffused a drowsy heat. One
could lounge beside the fire contentedly, knowing that the stinging
frost was drying the snow to dusty powder outside. The cozy room
heightened the contrast that all recognized in thinking of Wyllard.
Agatha pictured the little schooner bound fast in the Northern ice, and
then two or three travel-worn men crouching in a tiny tent that was
buffeted by an Arctic gale. She could see the poles bend, and the
tricings strain.

After that, with a sudden transition, her thoughts went back to the
early morning when Wyllard had driven away, and every detail of the
scene rose up clearly in her mind. She saw him and the stolid Dampier
sitting in the wagon, with nothing in their manner to suggest that they
were setting out upon a perilous venture, and she felt his hand close
tight upon her fingers, as it had done just before the vehicle jolted
away from the homestead. She could once more see the wagon growing
smaller and smaller on the white prairie, until it dipped behind the
crest of a low hill, and the sinking beat of hoofs died away. Then, at
least, she had realized that he had started on the first stage of a
journey which might lead him through the ice-bound gates of the North to
the rest that awaits the souls of sailors. She could not, however,
imagine him shrinking from any ordeal. Gripping helm, or hauling in the
sled traces, he would gaze with quiet eyes steadfastly ahead, even if he
saw only the passage