d clues that these mountains are the haunted house of the world.

Here, there are eyes that watch you all the time, but they are hidden;
and if you have a listening ear you may hear voices that call. The
gods come close in the hills. They go whispering about in the night
and calling your name.

Foolish folk there are who say that the world is old, and that all its
songs are sung. There is a new song that can never be told, else I
would tell it to you. Only it may be heard.

* * * * *

A man whose face is covered by the dark is spinning a yarn about an
engineer lad on this grade who truly loved an Indian girl. This is
what he says--

"She died a week ago, and the lad was with her. It is a beautiful
story, but I know another like hers. It is about a butterfly that had
specks of gold on its wings."

I did not see the gang climb down the crevasse and up the other side,
but I heard the low lorn echo from the train roll up along the crags
and die away in the snows. The train's agent said I could go to the
End of Steel if I insisted, but I was not to insist. This is why I am
travelling back to Edson. Only I am disappointed much, but he says I
may come again soon, when no one shall disallow me. It would have been
all right for me to go with the gang, and I could have taken care of
myself: any woman could who has been years and years "in society."

The agent and the Scotch boy have made a bed for me on a wide bench
with my blankets and cushions. If little private, the bed looks wholly
comfortable.

"You'll be after loosenin' your collar," says the young person from
Kilmarnock as he fluffs up another cushion, "an' ye 'ull be takin' off
baith your shoes an' your stockin's. I'll be keepin' the daftie loons
out o' the car till ye get a bit o' sleep."

For the benefit of the nervous readers I may add he does not say,
"ye'll be layin' off your bloose," but these are such nice lads I could
do so with absolute propriety.

And they turn the lamp low and shade it with paper while I am asking my
prayer. And I pray, "Spirits of the Mountains and Rivers, be not angry
with me for talking in the hills. Gods of the North, strong Gods who
watch over little children and us older ones, let me sleep in quietness
this night, and at last bring me home in safety where all the lights be
white ones."

And I press my lips to the palm of my heart-hand to say "Amen," and to
let the gods know I love the