ce the death of Kobuk; it was his only playmate. Shane was
particularly zealous in his care of it, exercising the bird by means of a
long string, since Loll would permit no one to clip its wings. Even
Kayak Bill was always bringing it green stuff to supplement its diet of
rolled oats. Only Jean appeared indifferent to the bird--Jean, always
tender of dumb things. She had remarked, once, that it's smoke-grey
color reminded her unpleasantly of the eyes of the White Chief.

Sometimes, in a kind of fury, Ellen wondered if the pigeon bore a charmed
life--if it _could_ not die! Dead, her problem would be solved for
her. . . . Yet she dared not let it die. . . not while there was a
chance--! Standing before the cage day after day, Ellen would torment
herself with a thought. If she should leave the door unlatched, so that
it would jar open . . . if, of its own accord, the bird should fly away!
Then, when the White Chief came she could disclaim all knowledge of its
going. . . . But there was the lock of her hair, about which she had
lied to her husband. It was still in possession of the trader who,
secure in his power over everyone in his wilderness kingdom, was capable
of any melodramatic folly, of any false tale. And Shane, hot-headed,
protective--she shuddered. In her overwrought imagination she saw her
husband's hands stained with another man's blood. . . . No, the bird was
a kind of _thing_ fastened upon her which she could not, must not in all
conscience lose.

Torn by these conflicting emotions and sick with foreboding, she would
turn away from the cage. Tomorrow--she would wait until tomorrow.
Perhaps the Hoonah would come tomorrow. Perhaps it was even in sight
now! With hope and longing so intense that it bordered on despair she
would leave the cabin and climb to the Lookout to scan the empty sea.

One sunny afternoon she was standing there alone watching a dark streak
of steamer-smoke move slowly southward. Below her, stretching away to
the wide horizon lay the sea, its great, smooth swells heaving jade-green
in the sunlight. Autumn color lay over the tundra moss, the rice-grass,
the short alder bushes. Autumn, a soothing autumn was in the air,
promising the northern world of growing things a long, snow-enfolded
peace; but herself and her little family--what?

For some time she had half-consciously been aware of a strange encircling
hush. She looked about her and realized that nowhere was a seabir