ne, in a world
where he had never realized loneliness before. And there, far out down
on the broad bosom of the river, were the canoes carrying with them his
every hope, his every desire.

The bitterness, the depression robbed him of all the buoyant manhood
that was his. Keeko had gone. Keeko. Keeko with her wonderful eyes, and
the grace and symmetry of a youthful goddess. Yes, she had gone, and
between them now lay that long winter night with all its manifold
chances of disaster. With the break of spring he might look for her
coming again. Yes, he might look for it. But would she come? He
wondered. And again and again he cursed himself that he had listened to
other than the promptings of his desire.

The canoes reached the bend of the river driven by paddles in hands that
were wonderfully skilled. They were about to pass out of view behind the
grey wall of stone which lined the waterway. The figure of the girl in
the prow of the hindmost boat was blurred and indistinct. Marcel had
eyes for nothing else. He raised his fur cap and waved it slowly to and
fro. And as he waved he thought he detected a similar movement in the
boat. He could not be sure at the distance. But he believed. He hoped it
was so. He wanted it to be.

He turned away. The boats had passed the grey barrier. There was nothing
left but to set out to rejoin his outfit, and return----

His wandering gaze had fallen on the tree-trunk which held such happy
memories for him. He was gazing upon the lichen covering their cache.
The lichen was sadly, recklessly disturbed. He knew he had not left it
in that condition. He was far too experienced, too old in the craft of
the trail to leave a cache in such a state. He stepped over to it
hurriedly, and raised the covering Nature had set. He peered down into
the deep pocket beneath it.

The next moment a sharp exclamation broke from him. He plunged a hand
into the pocket and drew out the token he had handed to Keeko
over-night.

He stared at it. It was her demand for his help. She had placed it
there--when? It must have been during the night. Why? What did she mean?
Did she desire him to follow--now?

He turned it about in his big fingers, and in a moment discovered fresh
characters cut roughly into the wood. It was a word prefixing the name
which he had set there: "MY MARCEL."

"My Marcel!"

He was not dreaming. No--no! The little added word was there cut in by a
hopelessly unskilled hand. But it was ther