ores of his trade. He leant against it, and his steady eyes
regarded the handsome, dusky woman, who had come to him at the moment of
his life's disaster, and had been his strong comfort and support ever
since.

"Yes." He nodded, in the decided fashion that was always his. "We can't
wait."

"You go--before Marcel come?"

There was no surprise in the woman's reply.

"The outfit's ready. The dogs are hardened to the bone. Every day, I
guess, is a day lost. The snow's thick on the ground and the waters are
frozen up. Well? We can't guess the time it'll take us this trip. We
can't spare an hour. If we get through, it don't matter. If we fail we
need to make back here before the 'Sleepers' crawl out from under their
dope. If we wait for Marcel, and he don't get right along quick, it
means losing time we can't ever make good. You get all that?"

The woman turned up the oil lamp. The day was dark for all the lolling
sun in the horizon. She passed across to the stove, roaring comfortingly
under its open draft. She closed the damper and stood over it with hands
outstretched to the warmth. It was a favourite attitude of hers.

"An-ina know," she said. "An' Marcel? What it keep him so much long? All
time he come before snow. Now? No. Why is it?"

A shadow of anxiety descended upon her placid face. A pucker drew her
brows together. Her heart was troubled.

Steve shook his head. He showed no sign of sharing her concern.

"He'll be along," he said confidently. "I'm not worried a thing. I'd
trust Marcel to beat the game more than I would myself. You needn't to
be scared. No. It's not that."

"What it--then?"

An-ina's eyes were full of a concern she had no desire to conceal. She
had nothing to conceal from this man who was the god of her woman's
life.

"I just can't say," Steve said. "But--I'm not worried. The thing is we'd
fixed it that I didn't quit till Marcel got to home."

"Why?"

Steve shrugged, but his eyes were smiling.

"Oh, I guess we don't fancy leaving you without men folk around. It
isn't that things are likely to worry any. But you see--you're all we've
got. You're a sort of anchor that holds us fast to things. You see, I
guess Marcel reckons you his mother, and I, why--it don't need me to say
how I feel."

The look in the woman's dark eyes deepened. She knew the feelings
prompting Steve. Oh, yes. She knew. And she thanked the God she had
learned to believe in, and to worship, for the happiness which