itude and selfishness. Uncle Steve had not yet returned. He could
not return for weeks yet. If he, Marcel, yielded to his desires An-ina
must be left alone. His impatience was useless. He knew that. The
Sleepers would awaken soon, and demand their trade. He could not fling
the burden of it all on the willing shoulders of An-ina. He must wait.
He could do no less.

He turned away. It was an act of renunciation. The signs on the river
had told him nothing, because he had asked no question. He knew it all
without asking. He had known before he had sought his excuse. So he
floundered through the snow back to the fort.

The silence was profound. The world at the moment was a desert, a frigid
desert. There was no life anywhere. There were not even the voices of
warring dogs to greet him, and yield him excuse to vent the impatience
of his mood.

He passed the gateway of the stockade where he had so often stood
searching the distance in the long years. And so he approached the
doorway of his home. A weight of depression clouded his handsome eyes.
He was weighted with a trouble which seemed to him the greatest in the
world.

The door of the store opened before he reached it. Keen, watching,
understanding eyes had been observing his approach. They were eyes that
read him with an ease such as was denied them on the contemplation of
the pages of an open book. An-ina had made up her mind, and she stood
framed in the doorway to carry out her purpose.

The man's eyes lighted at sight of her. His trouble was lifted as though
by some strong hand. This mother woman never failed in her comfort even
in the simple fact of her presence. With his thought still filled with
the white beauty of Keeko, the soft copper of An-ina's skin, the smiling
gentleness of her dark eyes were things at all times to soften the
roughness of Marcel's mood.

"Marcel come back? The ice all hold? Oh, yes. Bimeby the trail open and
Marcel mak' him. An-ina know. But--not yet."

Marcel made no attempt to conceal his feelings from this woman. He had
told her all. He had spread out before her all his hopes and fears, all
the impatience of his youthful heart. She had endured the burden of it
throughout the long winter not unwillingly, and her sympathy had been
yielded abundantly.

Marcel laughed. It was not out of any feeling of joy. It was the
self-consciousness of youth before the eyes of maturity.

He shook his head.

"Not yet," he said. "Uncle Steve isn'