The Lord bless thee, and keep
thee. The Lord make his face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto
thee. The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee
peace.'"

Tom, embarrassed, made light of the affair. "Lucky I was
Johnnie-on-the-Spot."

The old Scot shook his head. "No luck sent ye back to hear the
skreigh o' the lass, but the whisper of the guid Father withoot whose
permission not even a sparrow falls to the ground. He chose you as the
instrument. I'll never be forgettin' what you did for my dawtie, Tom
Morse. Jess will have thankit you, but I add mine to hers."

In point of fact Jessie had not thanked him in set words. She had been
in too great an agitation of spirit to think of it. But Morse did not
say so.

"Oh, that's all right. Any one would have done it. Mighty glad I was
near enough. Hope she doesn't feel any worse for the shock."

"Not a bit. I'm here to ask ye to let bygones be bygones. I've nursed
a grudge, but, man, it's clean, washed oot o' my heart. Here's my
hand, if you'll tak it."

Tom did, gladly. He discovered at the same moment that the sun was
striking sparks of light from a thousand snow crystals. It was a good
world, if one only looked for the evidence of it.

"The latchstring is always oot for you at the hame of Angus McRae.
Will you no' drap in for a crack the nicht?" asked the trapper.

"Not to-night. Sometime. I'll see." Tom found himself in the position
of one who finds open to him a long-desired pleasure and is too shy to
avail himself of it immediately. "Have you seen Whaley yet to-day?" he
asked, to turn the subject.

The hunter's lip grew straight and grim. "I have not. He's no' at the
store. The clerk says a messenger called for him early this mornin'
and he left the clachan at once. Will he be hidin' oot, do you think?"

Tom shook his head. "Not Whaley. He'll bluff it through. The fellow's
not yellow. Probably he'll laugh it off and say he was only stealin' a
kiss an' that Miss Jessie was silly to make a fuss about it."

"We'll let it go at that--after I've told him publicly what I think o'
him."

Where Whaley had been nobody in Faraway knew. When he returned at
sunset, he went direct to the store and took off his snowshoes. He was
knocking the packed and frozen slush from them at the moment Angus
McRae confronted him.

The trader laughed, from the lips, just as Tom had prophesied he would
do. "I reckon I owe you an apology, McRae," he said. "That li'l'
w