se.

The completion of the picture, however, lay in the personalities for
which the rest was only a setting. Steve, in his buckskin shirt and
moleskin trousers, which divested him of the last sign of his
relationship to the force which administered the white man's law. His
young face so set and weather-tanned, so full of decision and strength,
and his eyes, far gazing, like those of the men of the deep seas. And
the boy upon his knee, his little hands clasping each other in his lap.
With his curling, fair hair, and his wide, questioning eyes gazing up
into the man's face. With his small body clad from head to foot in the
beaded buckskin, which it was his nurse's joy to fashion for him. There
was a wonderfully intimate touch in it all. It was a touch that
powerfully illustrated the lives of those who are far removed from the
luxury of civilization, and who depend for every comfort, even for their
very existence, upon those personal physical efforts, the failure of
which, at any moment, must mean final and complete disaster.

"Tell boy of bears, an' wolves, an' Injuns, an' debble-men, wot An-ina
hers scairt of."

The demand was prompt and decided.

"An-ina scared of devil-men?" Steve smilingly shook his head. "It's only
stupid 'Sleeper' men scared of devil-men. Anyway there's no devil-men.
Just wolves, and bears, that boy'll hunt and kill when he grows up."

"But hers says ther's debble-men," the boy protested, his eyes wide with
awe.

Steve shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "Uncle Steve knows. He knows better than Indians.
Better than An-ina. Boy always remember that."

"Oh, 'ess, boy 'members."

The child impulsively thrust an arm about the man's neck and Steve's arm
tightened unconsciously about the little body.

"Tell us 'tory," the child urged.

Steve's contemplative eyes were upon the glowing stove.

"What'll it be about?" he said at last. Then, as though suddenly
inspired, "Why, I know, sure. It's about a little boy. A real bright
little boy. Oh, I guess he was all sorts of a boy--like--like Marcel."

"Wot's 'all sorts'?" the child demanded.

"Why, just a sample of all the good things a boy can be. Same as you."

The explanation seemed sufficient, and Marcel's eyes were turned
dreamily upon the red patch on the side of the stove.

"'Ess," he agreed.

"Well, Uncle Steve travelled a great, long way. It was dreadful hard.
There were bears, and wolves, I guess, and queer Indian folk, and
rive