soft whispers of those bridal-weeks between
May and Summer, a month ahead of their time. But Jolly Roger, for the
first time in his life, failed to respond to the wonder and beauty of
the earth's rejoicing. The first flowers did not fill him with the old
joy. He no longer stood up straight, with expanding chest, to drink in
the rare sweetness of air weighted with the tonic of balsams and cedar
spruce. Vainly he tried to lift up his soul with the song and bustle of
mating things. There was no longer music for him in the flood-time
rushing of spring waters. An utter loneliness filled the cry of the
loon. And all about him was a vast emptiness from which the spirit of
life had fled for him.

Thus he came at last to a stream in the Burntwood country which ran
into Pashkokogon Lake; and it was this day, in the mellow sunlight of
late afternoon, that they heard coming to them from out of the dense
forest the chopping of an axe.

Toward this they made their way, with caution and no sound, until in a
little clearing in a bend of the stream they saw a cabin. It was a
newly built cabin, and smoke was rising from the chimney.

But the chopping was nearer them, in the heart of a thick cover of
evergreen and birch. Into this Jolly Roger and Peter made their way and
came within a dozen steps of the man who was wielding the axe. It was
then that Jolly Roger rose up with a cry on his lips, for the man was
Father John the Missioner.

In spite of the tragedy through which he had passed the little gray man
seemed younger than in that month long ago when Jolly Roger had fled to
the north. He dropped his axe now and stood as if only half believing,
a look of joy shining in his face as he realized the truth of what had
happened. "McKay," he cried, reaching out his hands. "McKay, my boy!"

A look of pity mellowed the gladness in his eyes as he noted the change
in Jolly Roger's face, and the despair that had set its mark upon it.

They stood for a moment with clasped hands, questioning and answering
with the silence of their eyes. And then the Missioner said:

"You have heard? Someone has told you?"

"No," said Jolly Roger, his head dropping a little. "No one has told
me," and he was thinking of Nada, and her death.

Father John's fingers tightened.

"It is strange how the ways of God bring themselves about," he spoke in
a low voice. "Roger, you did not kill Jed Hawkins!"

Dumbly, his lips dried of words, Jolly Roger stared at him