r factor!" whimpered a
withered old woman, wife of a trapper, making the sign of the cross;
"nor hold back His mercy from the other!"

Night seemed to fall early on Fort de Seviere, waiting sadly for its
healing touch on fevered hearts.

Throughout the long day a waiting hush had lain upon the post, an
expectancy of ill.

Over the dark forest the stars came out on a velvet sky, and a little
wind came out of the south, nightbirds called from the depths, and peace
spread over the Northland like a blanket.

While the twilight lasted with its gorgeous phantasmagoria there were
none of the accustomed sounds of pleasure in the post,--no fiddle
squeaked by the stockade wall, no happy laughter wafted from the cabins.
Even the sleepy children seemed to feel the strangeness and hushed their
peevish crying.

Night and darkness and loneliness held sway, and in one heart the
shadows of the world were gathered.

What was the meaning of this Life whose gift was Pain, where was the
glory of existence?

By the window to the east Maren Le Moyne stood in the darkness, with her
hands upon her breast and her face set after the manner of the dreamer
who follows his visions in simpleness of soul.

Once again a great call was sounding from the wilderness, as that which
lured her to the Whispering Hills had sounded since she could remember,
once more the Long Trail beckoned, and once more she answered, simply
and without fear.

She waited for the depth of night.

Long she stood at the little window, facing the east like some
worshipper, even until the wheeling stars spelled the mid hour.

To Marie she gave one thought,--child-like Marie with her dependence and
her loving heart. But Marie, to whom she had been all things, was safe
in the care of Henri. There remained only the dream of the Whispering
Hills and the illusive figure of a man,--an old man, sturdy of form and
with blue eyes set in swarthy darkness.

Poignant was the pain that assailed her at that memory. Would she ever
reach that shadowy country, ever fulfil the quest that was hers from the
beginning? Did she not wrong that ghostly figure which seemed to gaze
with reproach across the years? Her own blood called, and she turned
aside to follow the way of a stranger, an alien whose kiss had brought
her all sorrow.

And yet she was helpless as the water flowing to the sea. The primal
quest must wait. Her being turned to this younger man as the needle to
the pole, even t