sin' wid ivery mile,--hark to th' men
singin'! 'Tis bad business whin men do not sing at th' day's work. 'Tis
glad I am f'r safe deliverance from that counthry av nightmares wid its
outlandish name,--Athabasca,--where Terence must moon from post to post
av th' Hudson's Bay--"

"Athabasca!"

Maren's head was up and she was looking at the little woman with an
eager wistfulness.

"The Land of the Whispering Hills!"

"Thrue,--'tis th' Injun word,--but a woild, woild land f'r all that."

"But beautiful, Madame,--oh! it is beautiful, is it not?"

"Fair,--wid high hills an' a great blue lake an' woildness!--Ah!"

But the tall leader was calling and camp was breaking for another
stretch.

And under the travelling stars of that night there awoke in the heart
of the maid of the trail something of the old love, the old longing for
that goal of her life's ambition.

She had turned aside from it, only to be taught a lesson whose scars
would stay deep in her soul so long as life lasted.

At last came an hour when the party under O'Halloran must turn to the
east, where the bottle-neck of Winnipeg split in two, going down that
well-worn way which led to Lake of the Woods, Rainy River, and at last
to the wide lakes, whose sparkling waves would waft them on to the great
outside world.

There was a scene at parting, when the warmhearted Irishwoman clung to
Maren and wept against her bosom, calling her all the hundred words for
"darling" in the Celtic and vowing to remember her always.

The fair woman, wife of a Scotchman who acted as some sort of secretary
to O'Halloran, sat apart in cold silence.

"M'sieu," said Maren, at the last, "I have no words to thank you for
this that you have done. I but cast it into the balance of God, which
must hang heavy with your goodness."

She had given her hand to the leader, and that impulsive son of the ould
sod kissed it gallantly.

"'Tis little we did, lass, for you and your poor lad yonder, and 'twas
in our hearts to do more. But here's luck to you both,--an early weddin'
an' sturdy sons!"

And, as the morning sun glittered on the ripples of the departing boats,
Maren stood long looking after them, a mist in her eyes and her full
lips quivering.

She looked until the gathering dimness hid the waving kerchief of the
only woman friend who had ever truly reached her heart.

Then she sat down and took up a paddle.

"Last lap, Messieurs," she said, above the mutter of McElroy at h