was half truth.

A dozen things Father Roland spoke about that night before he alluded to
Tavish. David waited. He did not want to appear too deeply interested.
He desired to have the thing work itself out in a fortuitous sort of
way, governed, as he was, by a strong feeling that he could not explain
his position, or his strange and growing interest in the Girl, if the
Missioner should by any chance discover the part he had played in the
haunting though incidental encounter with the woman on the train.

"Fear--a great fear--his life is haunted by it," said Father Roland,
when at last he began talking about Tavish. He was seated on a pile of
balsams, his legs stretched out flat on the floor, his back to the wall,
and he smoked thoughtfully as he looked at David. "A coward? I don't
know. I have seen him jump at the snap of a twig. I have seen him
tremble at nothing at all. I have seen him shrink at darkness, and then,
again, he came through a terrible darkness to reach my cabin that night.
Mad? Perhaps. It is hard to believe he is a coward. Would a coward live
alone, as he does? That seems impossible, too. And yet he is afraid.
That fear is always close at his heels, especially at night. It follows
him like a hungry dog. There are times when I would swear it is not fear
of a living thing. That is what makes it--disturbing. It is
weird--distressing. It makes one shiver."

The Missioner was silent for some moments, as if lost in a reverie. Then
he said, reflectively:

"I have seen strange things. I have had many penitents. My ears have
heard much that you would not believe. It has all come in my long day's
work in the wilderness. But never, never have I seen a fight like this
that is being made by Tavish--a fight against that mysterious fear, of
which he will not speak. I would give a year of my life--yes, even
more--to help him. There is something about him that is lovable, that
makes you want to cling to him, be near him. But he will have none of
that. He wants to be alone with his fear. Is it not strange? I have
pieced little things together, and that night--when terror drove him to
my cabin--he betrayed himself, and I learned one thing. He is afraid of
a _woman_!"

"A woman!" gasped David.

"Yes, a woman--a woman who lives--or lived--up in the Stikine River
country you mentioned to-day."

David's heart stirred strangely.

"The Stikine River, or--or--Firepan Creek?" he asked.

It seemed a long time to him bef