"He died two hundred miles back," replied Philip quietly. "But
that is unpleasant to speak of. Look ahead. Isn't that ridge of
the forest glorious in the sunlight?"

She did not take her eyes from his face.

"Do you know, I think there is something wonderful about you," she
said, so gently and frankly that the blood rushed to his cheeks.
"Some day I want to learn those words that helped to keep you
alive up there. I want to know all of the story, because I think I
can understand. There was more to it--something after the foxes
yelped back at you?"

"This," he said, and ahead of them Jean Croisset rested on his
paddle to listen to Philip's voice:

"My seams gape wide, and I'm tossed aside
To rot on a lonely shore,
While the leaves and mould like a shroud enfold,
For the last of my trails are o'er;
But I float in dreams on Northland streams
That never again I'll see,
As I lie on the marge of the old Portage,
With grief for company."

"A canoe!" breathed the girl, looking back over the sunlit lake.

"Yes, a canoe, cast aside, forgotten, as sometimes men and women
are forgotten when down and out."