cold in the evening. She
knew that in a few days the snow would have disappeared
as if by magic, and that a thousand green living things
would be rushing up from the brown, steaming earth, and
broidering with the promise of a still fuller beauty the
quickening boughs.

But what was delaying her father and the others? Surely,
if the fence and slip-rails were across the trail where
they said they were, the rush of the horses must have
been checked, and they would be on their way back now.
But she could neither see nor hear anything of their
approach. It was stupid to be sitting up there on the
roof of a house with nothing save a bear--fortunately at
a respectable distance--for company, but perhaps under
the circumstances she ought to be very thankful for having
been able to reach such a haven at all. Besides, the day
was remarkably pleasant--almost summer-like--although
there was slush under-foot. Everywhere she could hear
the snow falling in great patches from the trees and the
rocks. The bare patches of earth were beginning to steam,
and lawn-like vapours were lazily sagging upwards among
the pines as the sun kissed the cold cheek of the snow
queen.

Dorothy's head rested on her hands, and she began to feel
drowsy. The twittering of the snow-birds sounded like
the faint tinkling silver sleigh-bells far away; the bear
loomed up before her, assuming gigantic proportions, his
features at the same time taking a human semblance that
somehow reminded her of the face of Pepin Quesnelle, then
changing to that of some one whose identity she could
not exactly recall. Stranger still, the weird face was
making horrible grimaces and calling to her; her eyes
closed, her head dropped, and she lurched forward suddenly;
she had been indulging in a day dream and had nearly
fallen asleep. But surely there was some one calling,
for a voice was still ringing in her ears.

She pulled herself together and tried to collect her
senses. The bear assumed his natural proportions, and
Dorothy realised that she was still seated on the roof
of the log hut And then a harsh voice--the voice of her
dream--broke in with unpleasant distinctness upon her
drowsily-tranquil state of mind.

"Hi, you zere?" it said. "What for you not hear? Come
down quick, I zay."

Dorothy turned, and, glancing down on the other side of
the hut, saw the two objectionable rebels whom her father
had released nearly a couple of hours before. There was
an ugly grin