are no tracks upon the three broad roads except the paths of
the caribou, and the footprints of the marten and the mink and
the fox, and the narrow trails made by Luke Dubois on his way
to and from his cabin by the rivers.

He leaned in the door-way, looking out. Behind him in the
shadow, the fire was still snapping in the little stove where
he had cooked his breakfast. There was a comforting smell of
bacon and venison in the room; the tea-pot stood on the table
half-empty. Here in the corner were his rifle and some of his
traps. On the wall hung his snowshoes. Under the bunk was a
pile of skins. Half-open on the bench lay the book that he had
been reading the evening before, while the snow was falling. It
was a book of veritable fairy-tales, which told how men had made
their way in the world, and achieved great fortunes, and won
success, by toiling hard at first, and then by trading and
bargaining and getting ahead of other men.

"Well," said Luke, to himself, as he stood at the door, "I
could do that too. Without doubt I also am one of the men who
can do things. They did not work any harder than I do. But
they got better pay. I am twenty-five. For ten years I have
worked hard, and what have I got for it? This!"

He stepped out into the morning, alert and vigorous,
deep-chested and straight-hipped. The strength of the hills
had gone into him, and his eyes were bright with health. His
kingdom was spread before him. There along the River of
Meadows were the haunts of the moose and the caribou where he
hunted in the fall; and yonder on the burnt hills around the