but went to one of his two
leather bags. He unlocked the one in which he had placed the photograph
of the girl. Out of it he took a small plush box. It was so small that
it lay in the palm of his hand as he held it out to Father Roland.

Deeper lines had gathered about his mouth.

"Give this to Marie--for me."

Father Roland took the box. He did not look at it. Steadily he gazed
into David's eyes.

"What is it?" he asked.

"A locket," replied David. "It belonged to _her_. In it is a
picture--her picture--the only one I have. Will you--please--destroy the
picture before you give the locket to Marie?"

Father Roland saw the quick, sudden throb in David's throat. He gripped
the little box in his hand until it seemed as though he would crush it,
and his heart was beating with the triumph of a drum. He spoke but one
word, his eyes meeting David's eyes, but that one word was a whisper
from straight out of his soul, and the word was:

"_Victory!_"

CHAPTER VII

Father Roland slipped the little plush box into his pocket as he and
David went out to join Thoreau. They left the cabin together, Marie
lifting her eyes from her work in a furtive glance to see if the
stranger was wearing her cap.

A wild outcry from the dogs greeted the three men as they appeared
outside the door, and for the first time David saw with his eyes what he
had only heard last night. Among the balsams and spruce close to the
cabin there were fully a score of the wildest and most savage-looking
dogs he had ever beheld. As he stood for a moment, gazing about him,
three things impressed themselves upon him in a flash: it was a glorious
day, it was so cold that he felt a curious sting in the air, and not one
of those long-haired, white-fanged beasts straining at their leashes
possessed a kennel, or even a brush shelter. It was this last fact that
struck him most forcefully. Inherently he was a lover of animals, and he
believed these four-footed creatures of Thoreau's must have suffered
terribly during the night. He noticed that at the foot of each tree to
which a dog was attached there was a round, smooth depression in the
snow, where the animal had slept. The next few minutes added to his
conviction that the Frenchman and the Missioner were heartless masters,
though open-handed hosts. Mukoki and another Indian had come up with two
gunny sacks, and from one of these a bushel of fish was emptied out
upon the snow. They were frozen stiff, so