ce the probability of a final settlement in
these backwoods, but she saw with alarm that her nephew was planting his
hopes deep and accepting the inevitable.

"It's all such a horrible sacrifice of his young life," she confided to
Constance.

"His young life!" the girl had returned with a straight, clear look.
"Why, I begin to think the only life he has, Auntie, is what St. Ange
offers--he must take that or nothing. Oh! if only that little beast down
there in New York had had the courage of a mouse, and the imagination of
a mole, she might have made Ralph's life--this life--a thing to go
thundering down into history! It's splendid up here! It's the sort of
thing that makes your soul feel like something tangible. My!" And with
that, on a certain mid-winter day, the young woman strode forth.

A long fur-lined coat protected her from the deceiving cold. The dryness
of the air was misleading to a coast-bred girl. A dark red hood covered
the ruddy, curly hair, and skin gloves gave warm shelter to the slim,
white hands.

Down the snow-covered road Constance walked. She was tingling with the
joy of her life--her life and the dear, new life given to her brother.

The pines pointed darkly to a sky so faultlessly blue that it seemed a
June heirloom to a white winter.

The snow was crisp and smooth; a durable snow that must last until
spring. It knew its business and what was expected of it, so it was not
to be impressed by mere footsteps, or the touch of prowling beast.

Constance slid and tripped along. She sang snatches of old, remembered
songs, and talked aloud for very fulness of heart and the sense of her
Mission rising strong within her.

Since coming to St. Ange she had not, until now, had time to think of
her Mission--her last Mission;--for Constance Drew was a connoisseur in
Missions. But now she must waste no more time.

She patted her long pocket on the right-hand side--yes, the book and an
assorted lot of pencils were there. She preferred pencils to fountain
pens. The points were nicer to bite on, and she wasn't sure, in this
climate, but that ink might freeze just when a soul-flight was about to
land genius on a mountain-top.

There was a beautiful log halfway between the bungalow and Gaston's
shack. It was a sheltered log, with a delectable hump on it where one
could rest the base of one's spinal column when victory, in the form of
inspiration, was about to perch.

Constance sought this log when long, a