shed to the
edge of the open water, but there was no hope of their escape. They had
delayed too long. They were adrift on the ice floe, which was steadily
taking them seaward.

CHAPTER XXIII

IT WAS GOD'S WILL

Skipper Ed was appalled and stunned. A sense of great weakness came upon
him, and he swayed, and with an effort prevented his knees from doubling
under him. His vision became clouded, like the vision of one in a dream.
His brain became paralyzed, inert, and he was hardly able to comprehend
the terrible tragedy that he believed inevitable.

Had there been any means at his command whereby he could at least have
attempted a rescue, it would have served as a safety valve. But he was
utterly and absolutely helpless to so much as lift a finger to relieve
the two boys whom he loved so well and who had become so much a part of
his life.

And there was Abel Zachariah and Mrs. Abel. Vaguely he remembered them
and the great sorrow that this thing would bring upon them. He knew well
that they would place none of the responsibility upon himself, but,
nevertheless, he could but feel that had he remained with the boys they
would now have been safe.

Home? His cabin would never be home to him again, without his partner.
He could never go over to Abel Zachariah's again of evenings, with no
Bobby there. Only two days ago he had thanked God for sparing the lives
of the boys, and how proud he had been of their heroic action, and their
pluck, too, after he had got them safe into the _igloo_!

He could see them now--barely see them through the snow. He watched
their faint outlines, and then the swirling snow hid them, and the ice
floe and only black waters remained.

Then it was that Skipper Ed fell to his knees, and, kneeling there in
the driving Arctic storm and bitter cold, prayed God, as he had never
prayed before, to work a miracle, and spare his loved ones to him.
Nothing, he remembered, was beyond God's power, and God was good.

When, presently, he arose from his knees, Skipper Ed felt strangely
relieved. A part, at least, of the load was lifted from his heart. He
could not account for the sensation, but, nevertheless, he felt
stronger, and a degree of his old courage had returned.

He stood for a little longer gazing seaward, but nothing was to be seen
but black, turbulent, surly waters and swirling snow, and at length he
turned reluctantly back to his sledge.

The dogs were lying down, and already nearly