ove the great expanse of whiteness,
only recognizable because a trapper knows every inch of his path as a
priest does his breviary. True, as the surface snow was only two days
old, many marks could not be expected upon it. All the same, it struck
Malcolm as odd that not a single fox-footing had he sighted since
leaving home. "Something must have been cleaning 'em up," he reasoned.
"There were two broods on Whale Island and one at least on t' Isle of
Hope. That's some twenty all told--and ne'er a wolf or lynx track out
to t' landward t' year." Musing to himself, he knelt down by the trap
to examine it more closely. Lifting it up, he blew off the loose snow
and inspected the stump carefully. No, nothing to indicate that it had
been moved. If it had been, it must have been replaced with consummate
care; for the rain had fallen once since Malcolm had tailed it, and
the trap lay exactly in the icy trough, its handle and chain lying in
the same groove. But the very fact suggested an idea. Possibly, if he
cleared the snow there might be a frozen footmark in the hard surface
beneath. Carefully, handful by handful, he removed over a foot of snow
from around the bottom of the old tree, till he felt with his fingers
the frozen crust. It took him over an hour's cold, tedious work, for
he feared to use a mitten to protect his hand lest he should destroy
the very traces of which he was in search. Though it froze his fingers
and meant a long delay, it was well worth while, for he had undeniable
evidence of a man's footmark, without any racquet, made since the rain
previous to the last snowfall. It was probably at least a week old.

Again he examined the trap carefully. Not a hair, not a blood mark,
not a sign to show that any fox had been in it. If it had been robbed,
an expert had done it. There was another chance, however. Using his
racquet as a spade, Malcolm was soon at work clearing the snow away
right around the roots. The chain was a long one, and driven into one
of the leaders was a steel fastener. It was as he expected. Not only
had the chain been obviously gnawed, but there was considerable
chafing of the bark as well. "He's been in it, sure enough, but the
question is, Who's got t' skin?" Dark was coming on. There was no use
going back; so, cutting down a few boughs and making a small lean-to
under a big spruce, Malcolm kindled a blazing fire, "cooked the
kettle," and turned in for the night.

Nancy had seen her husband as