is--it is--that's it!" cried Bickersteth. "That's it--love o' God,
that's it! Sir John Franklin--Sir John Franklin, and all the brave
lads that died up there! You remember the ship--the Arctic Sea--the
ice-fields, and Franklin--you remember him? Dear old man, say you
remember Franklin?"

The thing had seized him. Conviction was upon him, and he watched the
other's anguished face with anguish and excitement in his own. But--but
it might be, it might be her father--the eyes, the forehead are like
hers; the hands, the long hands, the pointed fingers. "Come, tell me,
did you have a wife and child, and were they both called Alice--do you
remember? Franklin--Alice! Do you remember?"

The other got slowly to his feet, his arms outstretched, the look in his
face changing, understanding struggling for its place, memory fighting
for its own, the soul contending for its mastery.

"Franklin--Alice--the snow," he said confusedly, and sank down.

"God have mercy!" cried Bickersteth, as he caught the swaying body, and
laid it upon the ground. "He was there--almost."

He settled the old man against the great pine stump and chafed his
hands. "Man, dear man, if you belong to her--if you do, can't you see
what it will mean to me? She can't say no to me then. But if it's true,
you'll belong to England and to all the world, too, and you'll have fame
everlasting. I'll have gold for her and for you, and for your Alice,
too, poor old boy. Wake up now and remember if you are Luke Allingham
who went with Franklin to the silent seas of the Pole. If it's you,
really you, what wonder you lost your memory! You saw them all die,
Franklin and all, die there in the snow, with all the white world round
them. If you were there, what a travel you have had, what strange things
you have seen! Where the world is loneliest, God lives most. If you get
close to the heart of things, it's no marvel you forgot what you were,
or where you came from; because it didn't matter; you knew that you were
only one of thousands of millions who have come and gone, that make up
the soul of things, that make the pulses of the universe beat. That's
it, dear old man. The universe would die, if it weren't for the
souls that leave this world and fill it with life. Wake up! Wake up,
Allingham, and tell us where you've been and what you've seen."

He did not labour in vain. Slowly consciousness came back, and the grey
eyes opened wide, the lips smiled faintly under the bushy b