he devotion of the wife. For the other it was
the devotion of the mother.

She made no comparison between them. How could she? Each in his way was
perfect in her eyes. Young Marcel's superb manhood had no greater claim
upon her woman's admiration than had the sturdy set of Steve's broad
shoulders. The boy's sunny smile, and often humorous eyes, were no
greater source of delight to her than the steady, honest purpose which
was in every line of the older man's strong face. Age and temperament
were far enough apart, but, to An-ina, they were children of a great
mother heart.

At the lean-to store-house, built against the stockade wall, designed by
the dead chemist to hold the bulk of Adresol he had hoped some day to
discover and which had never yet been called upon to fulfil its original
purpose, Steve came to a halt. The melting snow lay heavy upon the
sloping thatch of the roof, which was battened secure by heavy logs. It
was banked against the door. It was laden upon the sills of the one long
window. Steve kicked it clear of the door and took down the fastenings
which secured it. He passed within, with Marcel close upon his heels.

"We're going to need it, boy--after all," Steve said, with a note in his
voice and a light in his eyes that rarely found place in either. He
laughed shortly. "Yes. I think so."

"You think so?"

There was a quick glance of responsive eagerness in Marcel's eyes. Well
enough he knew the store had been built for one purpose only. He had
long since dubbed it "The Poison House." Steve's words meant----

It had a long low interior, with a heavily raftered roof, and an earthen
floor. It was a shadowed, empty tunnel that was only half lit, and
gloomily seemed to merit the name Marcel had chosen for it. At the far
end stood a small unused baling machine, and beside it a set of iron
scales. And on the bench, set up under the windows, stood a few oddments
of appliances of a scientific nature. For the rest it was pathetically
empty. It was altogether a tragic expression of the failure of the
living as well as the dead.

Steve laughed again. It was the same short laugh.

"Maybe I'm crazy," he said. "If I'm not, and there's two cents of luck
waiting around on us, why, we'll need this old store-house after all.
Yes, and I guess we'll need those poison masks your father made and
figgered to need sometime. The whole thing leaves me guessing and
wondering at the sort of fool man I am not to see what's