e into the wilds, they looked down upon the
goal of one at least--of the younger man who had triumphed in his quest up
in these wilds abandoned centuries ago.

With the joyous thought in his heart that he had discovered anew one of
the greatest gold-fields of the world, that a journey unparalleled had
been accomplished, he turned toward his ancient companion, and a feeling
of pity and human love enlarged within him. He, John Bickersteth, was
going into a world again where--as he believed--a happy fate awaited him;
but what of this old man? He had brought him out of the wilds, out of the
unknown--was he only taking him into the unknown again? Were there
friends, any friends anywhere in the world, waiting for him? He called
himself by no name, he said he had no name. Whence came he? Of whom?
Whither was he wending now? Bickersteth had thought of the problem often,
and he had no answer for it save that he must be taken care of, if not by
others, then by himself; for the old man had saved him from drowning; had
also saved him from an awful death on a March day when he fell into a
great hole and was knocked insensible in the drifting snow; had saved him
from brooding on himself--the beginning of madness--by compelling him to
think for another. And sometimes, as he looked at the old man, his
imagination had caught the spirit of the legend of the Indians, and he had
cried out, "O soul, come back and give him memory--give him back his
memory, Manitou the mighty!"

[Illustration: THE OLD MAN SHOOK HIS HEAD. THOUGH NOT WITH UNDERSTANDING]

Looking on the old man now, an impulse seized him. "Dear old man," he
said, speaking as one speaks to a child that cannot understand, "you shall
never want while I have a penny, or have head or hands to work. But is
there no one that you care for or that cares for you, that you remember,
or that remembers you?"

The old man shook his head, though not with understanding, and he laid a
hand on the young man's shoulder, and whispered:

"Once it was always snow, but now it is green, the land. I have seen it--I
have seen it once." His shaggy eyebrows gathered over, his eyes searched,
searched the face of John Bickersteth. "Once, so long ago--I cannot
think," he added, helplessly.

"Dear old man," Bickersteth said, gently, knowing he would not wholly
comprehend, "I am going to ask her--Alice--to marry me, and if she does,
she will help look after you, too. Neither of us would have been here
wit