late the night before. I
was wide awake instantly. I sprang out of bed, broke the thin crust of
ice on my basin, and plunged hands and face into the bitter cold water.
A brisk rubbing with a towel put me all aglow, and I felt what a good
thing it was to be alive. The past, with its perils and hardships, was
behind me like a dim dream, and the future was rose-colored in spite of
the grim spectre of war that it held over us in those days.

This was to be an eventful morning, in a way, for I had a happy piece of
news to impart to Flora; I thought of it constantly as I dressed--an
operation to which of late I devoted much care and attention. From
regions downstairs--I was in the factor's house--came the rattle of
dishes and a murmur of voices. Out of doors the frosty air was filled
with the hum of busy human life.

But I forget that I owe the reader an explanation. The day of which I
write was the 9th of January, 1847, and just one week after we entered
Fort Garry and exchanged the harsh monotony of travel for the comforts
of this nourishing post in the western wilderness.

I need dwell but briefly on the interval. The journey from Fort Charter
had been severe and trying, protracted by furious storms that held us in
camp for days at a time. But we were not attacked on the way--indeed, we
saw no signs of Indians--and every one of our little band had come
safely down from the North, through the heart of the Great Lone Land. It
had been a disappointment to spend Christmas in the wilderness, but our
trials were forgotten when we reached the fort.

But of these matters enough for the present. I must return to where I
left off, and continue the narrative. When I had finished dressing that
morning I went downstairs to the factor's living room, meeting no one on
the way except Christopher Burley, who was too absorbed in thought to
return my greeting.

I opened the door softly, and beheld an attractive picture. The sunlight
shone on rugs and easy-chairs, on walls hung with tastefully chosen
prints, on a table spread for two, with snowy linen and white china. To
my relief, the room had but one occupant, and that was Flora. She was
standing by the window, and as I entered she turned round quickly. She
looked radiantly beautiful in a frock of some pink material with her
rich hair coiled in a new and becoming fashion.

"Denzil, how late you are!" she cried, with a roguish pout. "They have
all finished breakfast long ago. But I wa