a
moment with suspended breath. Gradually, under the spell of the music,
he became aware of the beauty of the world about him. The after-sunset
sky was a vast expanse of tender rose and blue deepening into violet on
the long encircling horizon line. Below lay the wine-dark sea fringing
with pale foam the sands of Kon Klayu. The noise of breakers on
distant reefs was like the wind in the eucalyptus trees of his
California home. . . . A flood of homesickness dissolved the
resentment in his heart. . . . Gradually the old fears and haunting
troubles faded from his lean young face. The low, vibrant tones of
Jean's violin brought him comfort. The soft, rippling notes breathed
him confidence, and the silvery chords lured him into the promises of
the future. He felt equal to noble and heroic deeds--to fighting and
conquering. From a sense of being outcast and alone, he felt a sudden
warming kinship with all the world. With his heart expanding he came
to his feet, the better to catch the harmony.

The time and air had changed into something vaguely familiar. . . .
With a glow of pleasure he recognized it,--the lament of the funeral
canoes at Katleean, but with something else added, something that made
him feel the mystery and the weirdness and the elemental call of the
North. It was almost as if she played to him comforting him with
promises of this clean, new land of beginnings.

Abruptly, he remembered, the music had broken off. There was a
moment's silence. And then there had drifted up to him Jean's
invariable good-night to the deepening twilight. Sweet and clear from
a long-drawn singing bow it came--a commingling of love and peace and
beauty he had once heard a great contralto sing:

"In the West
Sable night lulls the day on her breast.
Sweet, good-night! . . ."

He had longed to throw back his head and sing these words to Jean's
music, but he had shaken himself. No. That was a song for a lover. . .

"Son, are you plumb dead to the world?" Kayak Bill's words roused
Harlan from his dreaming. He sprang up and began stacking provisions
inside the tent. He realized as he worked, that today no tempting
thought had come to him of secretly distilling hootch from stores he
might take from this camp. The enormity of such an action struck him
for the first time. This food meant life on Kon Klayu--and there was
little of it. . . .

A few hours later headed down the long stretch of beach toward th