windows, and a spacious verandah sweeping around the front and both
sides. Wherever it was possible, paint had been liberally applied, and
the white on the sashes, the green on the corner-boards, and the red on
the roof gave it a striking appearance. It might well have been the
home of some millionaire, who had thus sought seclusion in the
wilderness, adding to his domicile a few touches of the world of
civilization.

The grounds were well kept, showing that much attention had been
bestowed upon them. Flowers bloomed in profusion, and off to the left
a vegetable garden showed what the north could produce. A gravelly
walk led to the water, and here at a small wharf floated a motor-boat,
graceful in appearance, and capable of carrying passengers and freight.
Several Indian men were standing on the wharf, while others, including
women and children, were paddling in canoes but a short distance away.
It was a scene of peace and seclusion, a regular fairy-land nestling
there in the wilds. Even the storms of winter could not affect the
place, for besides the sheltering trees which surrounded it on all
sides, the frowning ridge of the Golden Crest formed a mighty barrier
to the rear.

But Glen noticed none of these things, for something else occupied her
mind this evening. She had remained silent since leaving the store,
but now that the house was in sight, she halted Midnight at the edge of
the woods and looked at her Indian companion.

"Is daddy home yet?" she asked, speaking in the rhythmical native
language with which she was so familiar.

"Not home," was the brief reply.