the glory of life, and as he went down the narrow trail to his canoe,
with Peter close behind him, his heart was crying out Nada's name and
Yellow Bird's promise that sometime--somewhere--they two would find
happiness together, as Giselle and Terence Cassidy had found it.

And Peter heard the chopping of the distant axe, and the song of birds,
and the chattering of squirrels--but thrilling his soul most of all was
the voice of his master, the old voice, the glad voice, the voice he had
first learned to love at Cragg's Ridge in the days of blue violets and
red strawberries, when Nada had filled his world.

CHAPTER XIII

McKay still had his mind on a certain stretch of timber that reached out
into the Barren Lands, hundreds of miles farther north. In this hiding
place, three years before, he had built himself a cabin, and had caught
foxes during half the long winter. Not only the cabin, but the foxes,
were drawing him. Necessity was close upon his heels. What little money
he possessed after leaving Cragg's Ridge was exhausted, his supplies
were gone, and his boots and clothes were patched with deer hide.

In the Snowbird Lake country, a week after he left Cassidy in his
paradise at Wollaston, he fell in with good fortune. Two trappers had
come in from Churchill. One of them was sick, and the other needed help
in the building of their winter cabin. McKay remained with them for ten
days, and when he continued his journey northward his pack was stuffed
with supplies, and he wore new boots and more comfortable clothes.

It was the middle of October when he found his old cabin, a thousand
miles from Cragg's Ridge. It was as he had left it three years ago. No
one had opened its door since then. The little box stove was waiting
for a fire. Behind it was a pile of wood. On the table were the old tin
dishes, and hanging from babiche cords fastened to the roof timbers,
out of reach of mice and ermine, were blankets and clothing and other
possessions he had left behind him in that winter break-up of what
seemed like ages ago to him. He raised a small section in the floor, and
there were his traps, thickly coated with caribou grease. For half an
hour before he built a fire he sought eagerly for the things he had
concealed here and there. He found oil, and a tin lamp, and candles,
and as darkness of the first night gathered outside a roaring fire sent
sparks up the chimney, and the little cabin's one window glowed with
lig