beside the stove, whose warmth was welcome enough even on a summer
night. She was sipping a cup of steaming coffee which he had also
prepared. But there was nothing of the smiling delight in her eyes which
the memory of her evening's entertainment should have left there.

The man himself was standing. He was propped against the square table
under the window. He was smoking, and watching the girl wife he idolized
as she silently munched the slice of layer cake which he had passed her.
He was wondering if the long-expected, and long-feared moment of crisis
in their brief married life had arrived. He had watched its approach for
weeks. And he knew that sooner or later it must be faced. He was even
inclined to force it now, for such was his way. Trouble was in her eyes,
and he felt certain of its nature. Nita was not made of the stuff that
could withstand the grind of the dour life of the Northland which he
loved.

They had been married about three years and Nita had as yet spoken no
actual word of complaint. But the complaint was there at the back of her
pretty eyes. It had been there for months now. Steve had watched it
grow. And its growth had been rapid enough with the passing of the first
months of the delirious happiness which had been theirs, and which had
culminated in the precious arrival of their little daughter Coqueline.

"Guess you must have had a real good time," Steve said, by way of
breaking the prolonged silence.

For reply the girl only nodded.

The contrast between them was strongly marked. Nita was
pretty--extremely pretty, and looked as out of place in this land she
was native to as Steve looked surely a part of it. But her charm was of
that purely physical type which gains nothing from within. Her eyes
were wide, child-like, and of a deep violet. Her hair was fair and
softly wavy. Her colouring had all the delicacy which suggested the
laying on by an artist's brush, and which no storm or sun seemed to have
power to destroy. Her slight figure possessed all those perfect contours
which are completely irresistible in early youth. Furthermore these
things were supported to the utmost by the party frock she was wearing,
and over which she had spent weeks of precious thought and labour.

Steve was of the trail. Face and body were beaten hard with the endless
struggle of it all. His rough clothing, which had no relation to the
smart Inspector's uniform he was entitled to wear, bore witness to the
life