ld that glazed the surface of the world with ice.

January dragged slowly by, with dances for the young couples in the
cabins at nights, and little Francette, for the first time in her life,
refused to share in the merry-making of which she had always been the
heart and soul.

Instead, she lay awake in the attic of the Moline cabin and cried in her
hands, listening to the whirl of the nights without.

Alone in those long vigils instinct was telling her that she had failed.
Failed utterly!

The young factor cared no more for her than on that night in spring when
he had kissed her and told her to "play in the sunshine and think no
more of him."

She had played for a man and failed.

Moreover, she had not played fairly, and for her wickedness he lay now
as he had lain so long, drifting slowly but surely toward that land of
shadows whence there is no return.

She clinched her small hands in the darkness and wept, and they were
woman's tears.

Back to her led all the threads of tragedy, of death and danger and
heartbreak, that had so hopelessly tangled themselves in Fort de
Seviere.

But for that one hour at the factory steps what time she lay in
McElroy's arms and saw Maren Le Moyne pause at the corner, all would be
well.

Young Marc, Dupre would be singing his gay French songs with his red cap
tilted on his curls, that handsome Nor'wester of the Saskatchewan would
be going his merry way, loving here and there,--instead of bleaching
their bones in some distant forest, as the whispers said; and, last
of all, this man she loved with all the intensity of her soul would be
brown and strong with life, not the weary wreck of a man who gazed into
the fire and would not get well.

So the long nights took toll of the little Francette and a purpose grew
in her chastened heart, a purpose far too big for it.

At last the purpose blossomed into full maturity, hastened by the dark
shadows that were beginning to spread beneath McElroy's hopeless eyes,
as if the spirit, so little in the body, were already leaving it to its
earthly end, and one day at dusk, trembling and afraid, she went to the
factory for the last time.

"Rette," she said plaintively, "will you leave me alone with M'sieu the
factor for an hour? Think what you will," she added fiercely, as she saw
the woman's look; "tell all the populace! I care not! Only give me one
hour! Mon Dieu! A little space to pay the debt of life! Leave me, Rette,
as you hope for H