soul in a picture too deep to be eradicated. If the wilderness was
interesting to him before it was doubly so now because that face was a
part of it, because the secret of its life, of the misery that it had
half confessed to him, was hidden somewhere out in the black mystery of
the spruce and balsam forests.

He went to bed, but it was a long time before he fell asleep. It seemed
to him that he had scarcely closed his eyes when a pounding on the door
aroused him and he awoke to find the early light of dawn creeping
through the narrow window of his room. A few minutes later he joined
Gregson, who was ready for breakfast.

"The sledge and dogs are waiting," he greeted. As they seated themselves
at the table he added, "I've changed my mind since last night, Howland.
I'm not going back with you. It's absolutely unnecessary, for Thorne
can put you on to everything at the camp, and I'd rather lose six
months' salary than take that sledge ride again. You won't mind,
will you?"

Howland hunched his shoulders.

"To be honest, Gregson, I don't believe you'd be particularly cheerful
company. What sort of fellow is the driver?"

"We call him Jackpine--a Cree Indian--and he's the one faithful slave of
Thorne and myself at Wekusko. Hunts for us, cooks for us, and watches
after things generally. You'll like him all right."

Howland did. When they went out to the sledge after their breakfast he
gave Jackpine a hearty grip of the hand and the Cree's dark face lighted