he gorge. He
pointed out at the moose head. "Look at the old feller," he cried. "He's
winking his old eyes and flapping the comic ears he hasn't got. I swear
if you could only hear it he's busting his sides laffing at the joke of
you reckoning to cut yourself out of my life that way. No, sir! I'm
coming right along here at the first break of spring, and if I don't
find you around, or a sign from you, I'm beating up this river to look
for you, if I have to chase it sheer up to its source. Say, you can't
hide yourself in a corner of this darnation territory I won't find you
in. And I guess I'm just as obstinate as a she-wolf chasing a feed of
human meat. It can't be done, Keeko. Not now. I tell you it can't be
done."

The man's force was no less for all his smiling eyes. And Keeko made no
pretence.

"But why?" she cried, with a gesture of her hands that made him desire
to imprison them. "Why should you worry? You've helped me to the things
that'll leave me free of--everything. I haven't a right. I haven't any
sort of right to take you from your folks, and from those things it's
your work to do for them. Besides, who said I figgered to cut myself out
of your life?" She smiled up into his eyes with an almost child-like
confidence. "I don't want to. I--I hadn't a thought that way. Say, if I
thought I'd never see you again I'd feel like nothing in the world ever
could matter. The thing I'm guessing to make plain is when we quit here
you don't need to worry a thing. I'll get through, and next spring I'll
come right along up and tell you how I'm fixed."

Marcel sat up, and, reaching out, caught and imprisoned the hands he
desired.

"You'll do that?" he cried, while he drew her round so that she faced
him. "Sure? Sure you mean that? You'll come right along up here with the
break of winter, and we'll----"

"I certainly will."

Keeko's youth was no less than Marcel's. Her eyes were without any
shyness. She looked into his fearlessly, and read without shame all that
they expressed. She was glad. Her heart was full of a delight of which
even parting could not rob her. The memory of that which she beheld now
would be hers during the long, drear months of winter, a sheet anchor of
hope, of joy, something to tell her always that, whatever might chance,
life still held for her a priceless treasure of which it could never
wholly rob her.

Marcel released her hands lingeringly.

"Here," he cried holding up the pieces of tamarac