n the whole, I think Boyle must go. These are a fine body of
men and must be looked after. A weaker man would make a mess of things.
Boyle is the man for the work. How did he seem? Cheerful?"

"No, I shouldn't call him so. But he is vastly better than when he came
to us. He was low in health, I think, and his face haunted me for weeks.
He strikes me as a man with a tragedy in his life."

The Superintendent said nothing. He had, in large degree, the rare
gift of silence. Even with his trusted lieutenants he would break no
confidence. But before he slept that night he wrote two letters, and
after he had sealed and stamped them he placed them, with a pile already
written, on the table and sat back in his chair indulging himself in a
few moments of reverie. He saw the orderly, well-kept kitchen in the Old
Stone Mill and, bending over his letter a woman, dark-faced and stern,
her wavy, black hair heavily streaked with white, for during the past
years the sword had pierced her heart. He saw the light break upon her
tragic Highland face as she read of her boy and his well doing. With
glad heart she had given him up, and now, with humble joy, she would
read that her offering had been accepted.

The other letter brought to him the Macdougalls' drawing-room with all
its beautiful appointments and the face of a young girl pleading for her
friend. He still could see the quivering lips and hear the words of her
invincible faith, "I know that if he got at his own work again it would
save him." He could still feel the grateful, timid pressure of her
fingers as he had pledged her his word that her desire should be
fulfilled. He had kept his word and her faith had not been put to shame.

XVI

THE CHALLENGE OF DEATH

"Be aisy now, ye little divils. Sure ye'd think it wuz the ould Nick
himself ye're dodgin'."

Thus Tommy Tate, teamster along the Tote road between the Maclennan
camps, admonished his half-broken bronchos.

"Stiddy now. The saints be good t'us! Will we iver git down this hill
alive? Hould back, will yez? There, now. The saints be praised! that's
over. How are ye now, Scotty? If ye're alive, kick me fut. Hivin be
praised! He's there yit," said Tommy to himself. "We're on the dump
now, Scotty, an' we won't be long, me bhoy, till we see the lights av
Swipey's saloon. Git along there, will ye!"

The bronchos after their fifteen-mile drive along the unspeakable bush
roads, finding the smooth surface of the railw