idnight sun. Somewhere in the willows a robin was
chirping, and from the wide bosom of the river, like the thin howl of a
wolf, came the mocking cry of a loon still pursuing its finny prey. And
in his little canvas tent, sitting just inside, so as to catch the
smoke of the fire that afforded protection from the mosquitoes, Hubert
Stane still watched and waited for the coming of his promised visitor.
He was smoking, and from the look upon his face it was clear that he
was absorbed in thoughts that were far from pleasant. His pipe went
out, and still he sat there, thinking, thinking. Half an hour passed
and the robin making the discovery that it was really bed-time, ceased
its chirping; the loon no longer mocked the wolf, but still the man sat
behind his smoke-smudge, tireless, unsleeping, waiting. Another
half-hour crept by with leaden feet, then a new sound broke the
stillness of the wild, the tinkling of a piano, sadly out of tune,
followed by a chorus of voices lifted up in the homeland song.

"Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And days o' lang syne?"

As the simple melody progressed, a look of bitterness came on Stane's
face, for the song brought to him memories of other times and scenes
which he had done his best to forget. He started to his feet and
stepping outside the tent began to walk restlessly to and fro. The
music ended and he stood still to listen. Now no sound except the
ripple of the river broke the quiet, and after a moment he nodded to
himself. "Now, he will come."

The thin pungent song of a mosquito impinged upon the stillness,
something settled on his neck and there followed a swift sting like the
puncture of a hypodermic needle. Instantly he slapped the place with
his hand, and retreated behind his smoke-smudge. There he threw himself
once more on the pack that served him for seat and waited, as it seemed
interminably.

His fire died down, the smoke ceased to hide the view, and through the
adjacent willows came the sudden sough of moving air. A robin broke
into song, and once more the wail of the loon sounded from the wide
river. Away to the north the sky flushed with crimson glory, then the
sun shot up red and golden. A new day had broken; and Stane had watched
through the brief night of the Northland summer for a man who had not
appeared and he was now assured, would not come.

He laughed bitterly, and rising kic