ing around her, curiously. Then he hurried towards
her, calling out a word of warning to Maigan, who seemed to realize
that this was no enemy. And as he came the woman, deathly pale, seemed
to look upon him as if he had been some terrifying ghost. She put out
her hands, just a little, as if seeking to protect herself from him.

"Are--are you Hugo Ennis?" she faltered.

"That's my name," he said. "Every one knows me around here. What--what
can I do for you?"

"My--my name is Madge Nelson," she Stammered. "I--I'm Madge Nelson
from--from New York."

"How do you do, Miss Nelson?" he said, quietly, touching his fur cap.
"You--I'm afraid you've had a mighty cold ride. What's happened to
Stefan to make him go back? Lost something on the road, has he?"

"I--I'm afraid I'm the only lost thing around here," she said, seeking
to hold back the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes.
"Oh! I think--I think I'm becoming mad!" she suddenly cried out,
bitterly. "Is--is that your--your house, the--the residence you spoke
of?"

"The--the residence!" he repeated. "And I spoke of it, did I? Well, I
suppose that anything with a roof on it is a residence, if you come to
that. Yes, that's it, the little shack among the birches, and you'd
better come in till Stefan gets back, for it's mighty cold here
and--and if you're from New York you're not used to this sort of
thing. It's the best I can offer you, but I really never thought it
worth talking about. It's the slight improvement on a dog-kennel that
we folks have to be contented with, in these parts. Come right in; you
look half frozen."

"And--and that is the sort of place you've brought me to?" she cried,
her eyes now flashing at him in anger.

"Well, it seems to me that it's Stefan that brought you," he replied,
rather abashed.

"That--that's only a mean quibble," she retorted, hotly. "And--and
where's the town--or the village--and the other people, the friends
who were to greet me?"

The young man was beginning to feel rather provoked at her questions.

"The nearest settlers are a short mile away,--the Papineaus, very
decent French Canadians. Tom Carew's shack you must have passed on
your way here. The only village, of course, is Carcajou, and that's
twelve long miles away. But Mrs. Papineau is a real good old soul, if
that's where you expect to stop. A dozen kids about the place but
they're jolly little beggars. Her husband's trapping now, I believe,
but of course