he man placed his hand on the boy's head in a helpless fashion.

"Are ye sick?" whispered Tim.

"It's nothing," he faltered weakly. "I--I was just feeling weak.
Come, it's time you were in bed. It is too stormy for you to go home."

And that night John McIntyre slept with a protecting arm placed around
the son of the man who had ruined his life.

CHAPTER XIV

THE HERALD OF SPRING

Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,
Still priestess of the patient middle day,
Betwixt wild March's humored petulance
And the warm wooing of green-kilted May.
--ARCHIBALD LAMPMAN.

All day the rain had poured, a real March rain, descending in chill,
driving torrents. Now and then bursts of wavering sunlight broke
through the storm, but the next moment the patch of blue sky was shut
out by rolling gray clouds, and followed by another downpour.

In one of the brief sunlit intervals, Miss Arabella threw a shawl over
her head and ran down to Long's store for a pound of tea. She was
still pale and wan, as she had always been since her illness last fall;
but there was a light in her eyes and an expression of quiet
determination about her mouth, telling that the little lilac lady's
spirit was still on guard over her secret.

It was the hour when Silas Long and his son were having their early
supper, and Ella Anne kept shop. As the sharp ring of the little bell
announced a customer, she came from behind the pigeon-holed partition
that served as a post-office. "Oh, I say, Arabella!" she cried,
turning back at the sight of the little wind-blown figure, "mind you,
there's a letter for you! Who'd ever 'a' thought o' you gettin' a
letter?"

Miss Arabella's sensitive face flushed. "I guess it's a boot
advertisement again," she ventured. "I got one year before last."

"No, it ain't." Miss Long reappeared with the missive, examining it
minutely. "Them advertising things are open, and this one's sealed.
It's got writing on the inside, too, 'stead o' print; I can make that
much out through the envelope, only I can't read a word of it. It's
from a place called Nugget Hill. Who do you know there?"

Miss Arabella took the letter, her reticent soul shrinking from the
frank inquisitiveness. "I don't know anybody," she said honestly. "I
never heard of the place."

"Miss Weir was in here, a minit ago, an' I showed it to her, an' she
said that was the name of a place in the Klondyke. Who on earth would
b