exhaustive diary. It was a living document containing a fascinating
story of the chemist's hopes and fears for the great objects which had
led to his abandonment of the civilized world for the bitter heights of
Unaga. And in every line of it Steve realized it could only have been
written by a man of strong, deep conviction and enthusiasm, a man whose
purpose soared far above the mere desire for gain. He felt, in the
reading, he was listening to the words of a man who was all and more,
far more, than his wife had claimed for him.

At last the fire in the stove shook down and he became aware of the work
of busy shovels going on just outside. He pulled out his watch, and the
yellow light of the oil lamp told him that he had been reading for
nearly three hours. Setting a marker in the book he closed it
reluctantly, and prepared to return the litter of documents to the
drawers which stood open beside him.

At that moment the door opened, and the tall figure of the squaw An-ina
stood in the framing.

"Him supper all fixed," she announced, in her quietly assured fashion.

Steve looked up, and his eyes gazed squarely into the woman's handsome
face. He was thinking rapidly.

"Say An-ina," he began at last. "I've been reading a whole heap. It's
what the man, Brand, wrote. He seems to have been a pretty great
feller."

The woman nodded as he paused.

"Heap good man," she commented.

Her eyes lit with an emotion there could be no misunderstanding. For all
the savage stock from which she sprang the dead white man had claimed a
great loyalty and devotion.

"You see, An-ina," Steve went on, "I came along up here to chase up the
murder of two men. My work's to locate all the facts, arrest the
murderers, take them back to where I come from, and make my report."

"Sure. That how An-ina mak it so."

The woman's eyes were questioning. She was wondering at the meaning of
all this preliminary. And she was not without disquiet. She had come to
realize that, with the death of her mistress, only this man and his
scouts stood between her and disaster. She could not rid herself of the
dread which pursued her now. Little Marcel was a white child. This man
was white. She--she was just a squaw. She was of the colour of these
"Sleeper" Indians. Would they take the child of her mother heart from
her, and leave her to her fate amongst these folk who slept the whole
winter through?

"Yes," Steve was gazing thoughtfully at the light which