e sick man's lips, and bathed his forehead, and roused
him once to take a quieting powder. Then he sat down and wrote to
Rose Lepage. But he tore the letter up again and said to the dog: "No,
Bouche, I can't; the factor must do it. She needn't know yet that it was
I who saved him. It doesn't make any burden of gratitude, if my name is
kept out of it. The factor mustn't mention me, Bouche--not yet. When he
is well we will go to London with It, Bouche, and we needn't meet her.
It will be all right, Bouche, all right!"

The dog seemed to understand; for he went over to the box that held
It; and looked at his master. Then Jaspar Hume rose, broke the seal,
unlocked the box and opened it; but he heard the sick man moan, and he
closed it again and went over to the bed. The feeble voice said: "I must
speak--I cannot die so--not so." Hume moistened the lips once, put a
cold cloth on the fevered head, and then sat down by the fire again.

Lepage slept at last. The restless hands grew quiet, the breath became
more regular, the tortured mind found a short peace. With the old
debating look in his eyes, Hume sat there watching until the factor
relieved him.

VIII

February and March and April were past, and May was come. Lepage had
had a hard struggle for life, but he had survived. For weeks every night
there was a repetition of that first night after the return: delirious
self-condemnation, entreaty, appeal to his wife, and Hume's name
mentioned in shuddering remorse. With the help of the Indian who had
shared the sick man's sufferings in the Barren Grounds, the factor and
Hume nursed him back to life. After the first night no word had passed
between the two watchers regarding the substance of Lepage's delirium.
But one evening the factor was watching alone, and the repentant man
from his feverish sleep cried out: "Hush, hush! don't let them know--I
stole them both, and Rose did not know. Rose did not know!"

The factor rose and walked away. The dog was watching him. He said to
Bouche: "You have a good master, Bouche."

IX

In an arm-chair made of hickory and birch-bark by Cloud-in-the-Sky,
Lepage sat reading a letter from his wife. She was at Winnipeg, and was
coming west as far as Regina to meet him on his way down. He looked a
wreck; but a handsome wreck. His refined features, his soft black beard
and blue eyes, his graceful hand and gentle manners, seemed not to
belong to an evil-hearted man. He sat in the su