rgus
slept. It was a rough enough place, with its mud-chinked log walls and
its floor of whipsawed lumber. But directly opposite the door was a
log-piled hearth that radiated comfort and cheerfulness. Buffalo robes
served as rugs and upon the walls had been hung furs of silver fox,
timber wolves, mink, and beaver. On a shelf was a small library of not
more than twenty-five books, but they were ones that only a lover of
good reading would have chosen. Shakespeare and Burns held honored
places there. Scott's poems and three or four of his novels were in
the collection. In worn leather bindings were "Tristram Shandy,"
and Smollett's "Complete History of England." Bunyan's "Pilgrim's
Progress" shouldered Butler's "Hudibras" and Baxter's "The Saint's
Everlasting Rest." Into this choice company one frivolous modern novel
had stolen its way. "Nicholas Nickleby" had been brought from Winnipeg
by Jessie when she returned from school. The girl had read them all
from cover to cover, most of them many times. Angus too knew them all,
with the exception of the upstart "storybook" written by a London
newspaper man of whom he had never before heard.

"I'm alone," Jessie explained. "Father and Fergus have gone out to the
traps. They'll not be back till to-morrow. Mother's with Mrs. Whaley."

Tom knew that the trader's wife was not well. She was expecting to be
confined in a few weeks.

He was embarrassed at being alone with the girl inside the walls of
a house. His relations with Angus McRae reached civility, but not
cordiality. The stern old Scotchman had never invited him to drop in
and call. He resented the fact that through the instrumentality of
Morse he had been forced to horsewhip the lass he loved, and the
trader knew he was not forgiven his share in the episode and probably
never would be. Now Tom had come only because a matter of business had
to be settled one way or the other at once.

"Blandoine is leavin' for Whoop-Up in the mornin'. I came to see your
father about those robes. If we buy, it'll have to be now. I can send
'em down with Blandoine," he explained.

She nodded, briskly. "Father said you could have them at your price if
you'll pay what he asked for those not split. They're good hides--cows
and young bulls."[5]

[Footnote 5: A split robe was one cut down the middle and sewn
together with sinews. The ones skinned from the animal in a single
piece were much more valuable, but the native women usually prepared