great lake were the places where he watched for the bears; and
up beside the River of Rocks ran his line of traps, swinging back
by secret ways to many a nameless pond and hidden
beaver-meadow; and all along the streams, when the ice went
out in the spring, the great trout would be leaping in rapid
and pool. Among the peaks and valleys of that forest-clad
kingdom he could find his way as easily as a merchant walks
from his house to his office. The secrets of bird and beast
were known to him; every season of the year brought him its
own tribute; the woods were his domain, vast, inexhaustible,
free.

Here was his home, his cabin that he had built with his
own hands. The roof was tight, the walls were well chinked
with moss. It was snug and warm. But small--how pitifully
small it looked to-day--and how lonely!

His hand-sledge stood beside the door, and against it
leaned the axe. He caught it up and began to split wood for
the stove. "No!" he cried, throwing down the axe, "I'm tired
of this. It has lasted long enough. I'm going out to make my
way in the world."

A couple of hours later, the sledge was packed with camp-gear
and bundles of skins. The door of the cabin was shut; a
ghostlike wreath of blue smoke curled from the chimney. Luke
stood, in his snowshoes, on the white surface of the River of the
Way Out. He turned to look back for a moment, and waved his
hand.