ter of fox was immense, but selection was discriminate. Only
the silver or black were troubled about, and these were collected with a
care and skill that ensured the perfection of the pelts. Marcel was
better than his word. He lived on the trail, and the Indians were given
no rest. Keeko, borne on the uplift of success, knew no weariness when
the effort promised treasure. They were working against time. Each of
them knew it. And Marcel had the whole season mapped out almost to the
hour.

So the days drew out into weeks, and the sun dropped lower and lower
towards the horizon. Steadily the nights grew longer, and the working
hours less. With each passing day the store of perfect pelts mounted.
They were pegged out and dried, and set ready for storing at the moment
the frost should bite through the air and hold them imperishable against
their journey down to Keeko's home.

Life was almost uneventful in the monotony of success. Rains came, and
gales blew down off the distant hills to the north-east. There were
times when the great lake justified Marcel's description of it. It raged
like a storm-swept sea, and white capped waves broke upon its bosom. But
with the passing of the storm and the flattening influence of the rain,
or under the breaking forth of the chilly Northern sunshine, peace was
restored, and the calm looked never to have been broken.

But for all the vagaries of climate, for all the unvarying nature of
their labours, there was no monotony in the hearts of Marcel and Keeko.
With every passing hour they came nearer and nearer to each other. The
youth in them was driving them to that splendid ultimate, which is the
horizon of all things between man and woman. There were no doubts. And
their only fear was the nearing of that dreaded day when parting must
come, and each would be forced to pursue the journey alone.

The parting was in the back of their minds almost from the moment of
their arrival at the valley of the lake. Each day that passed was marked
off in Keeko's mind. It was always one step nearer to the time when she
would be forced to bid farewell to the glad light of Marcel's happy
eyes, and the sound of his deep-toned, cheerful voice.

She knew. She had known it from those first happy days of their
preparations for this northward adventure. And she admitted it without
shame. She had learned to love the boy with a depth and strength she had
never thought to yield to any man.

Love? It had seemed