moved. "Sure 'tis a cross," said he. When he came closer and saw that
it was really a silver he could not for a moment believe his good
fortune. It was too good to be true. When he had killed it and taken
it out of the trap he hurried to the tilt hugging it closely to his
breast as though afraid it would get away.

In the tilt he lighted a candle and examined it. It was a beauty! It
was worth a lot of money! He patted it and turned it over. Then--there
was no one to see him and question his manhood or jibe at his
weakness--he cried--cried for pure joy. "Tis th' savin' o' Emily an'
makin' she well--an' makin' she well!" He had prayed that he would get
a silver, but his faith had been weak and he had never really believed
he should. Now he had it and his cup of joy was full. "Sure th' Lard
be good," he repeated to himself.

It was starlight two evenings later when he neared his last tilt.
Clear and beautiful and intensely cold was the silent white wilderness
and Bob's heart was as clear and light as the frosty air. When the
black spot that marked the roof of the almost hidden shack met his
view he stopped. A thin curl of smoke was rising from the stovepipe.
Some one was in the tilt! He hesitated for only a moment, then hurried
forward and pushed the door open. There, smoking his pipe sat Micmac
John.




VIII

MICMAC JOHN'S REVENGE