g, barely
understood, that Rainy had mumbled.

"Break your pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway," he had said.

This enigmatic remark should be explained. For years, the factor
at Fort Severn had kept in his hallway an enormous pipe-rack. Here,
in appropriate rings were souvenir pipes from every white man that
had ever visited the post. Most prized of all was one that had
belonged to the great governor of the Company, Sir George Simpson,
who yearly traveled thousands of miles in regal state, with red
banners floating from his canoes, and a matchless crew of Iroquois
paddlers whose traditional feats are unbroken even to this day.

There were pipes of all the governors and all the factors of the
post from its earliest foundation. Many of the men whose souvenirs
were there had long since been forgotten, yet their names and pipes
still remained.

In the fifth row, seventh from the left, hung a splendid briar
that Donald had contributed, and it was to this that Peter Rainy
had referred, since there was a rule that a man might borrow his
pipe if he needed it, but must be sure to have it returned to its
proper place.

Why should he break his pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway?
That in his pocket was sweet and rich and mellow, the one in the
hall an unsmoked instrument, which would keep his tongue blistered
for many a day. But how to get it, even should he want it? That
was a question he could not solve.

After a while, the prisoner, worn out with his long tramp, lay down
on his cot, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he was awakened
by the old Indian, who came to bring him his breakfast. With the
latter came a message utterly disconcerting.

"Captain McTavish," said the man, "there will be someone here to
visit you later this morning."

"Who?"

"Miss Laura Fitzpatrick."

Donald gasped.

"What have I done to deserve this punishment?" he asked himself.
And then, aloud: "Why is she coming to see me?"

"I don't know," was the answer; "she merely told me to tell you."

When the expedition departed to Sturgeon Lake, but two white women
had been left--Mrs. Gates, the missionary's wife, and Laura
Fitzpatrick. The latter, a maiden upward of thirty-five, had decided
to remain in solitary glory as mistress of the factor's house,
feeling amply protected by the few white men left at the post.

The captive had reasons for not desiring this visit, outside of
the possible impropriety. The summer before, duri