s you think best."

The great trading-room, lined with its shelves and circled with
counters, was empty, save for a clerk, Gifford, who cast accounts in the
big book on the factor's desk, and Maren's footsteps rang heavy to her
ears as she passed through it to the little room behind, where she could
see Rette passing back and forth at her tasks of mercy.

She stopped at the open door and looked within that little room. Here
were the things of McElroy's life,--the plain chairs, the table, the
shelf with its books, the chest against the western wall, and on the
bed, pulled out to get the breeze, lay the man himself prone in his
splendid strength.

The light from the setting sun was on his head with its fair hair and
flushed face, rolling restlessly from side to side. There was no reason
in the earnest blue eyes, and Maren felt a mighty anguish swell and grip
her throat as she stood looking on the pathetic scene.

"Come in, Ma'amselle," whispered Rette from her motherly heart, drawn
by sight of her haggard face, but Maren's eyes had fallen on a little
figure huddled on the far side of the bed with its face buried against
McElroy's left hand.

She knew the small head running over with black curls.

"Nay, Rette," she said quietly, "I would speak a moment with you."

The woman came out and closed the door.

"Poor little fool!" she whispered, "she is worn to a shadow with these
weeks of weeping, and, now that he is back, will not give over hanging
to his hand like one drowning."

"Heed not. Is it in your heart, Rette, to do a deed of kindness for me,
to keep a word of faith?"

"With all my heart, Ma'amselle!"

"Then," whispered Maren, apart from the clerk's listening ears, "take
you this letter. Keep it until M'sieu the factor is in his right mind,
then give it him with your own hands. If he--if he should--burn it,
Rette, unopened."

And she gave into the woman's keeping the only letter she had ever
written to a man.

It was in French, and the script was fine and finished.

This was what she had said, alone in the little room with its eastern
window at the end of the Baptiste cabin:

"MONSIEUR MCELROY, Factor of Fort de Seviere, ave atque vale." (The
tender word of Father Tenau when he blessed her that last time in Grand
Portage)

"The time has come when I must take my people out of your post, must
break their contract and their word. Forgive them, M'sieu, and lay
not the fault to them, for I, and I only,