cloud of mystery in which Josephine had buried him would, in time,
be voluntarily lifted by her. He had not been able to make himself
believe that any situation could exist where hopelessness was as
complete as she had described. Without arguing with himself he had
taken it for granted that she had been labouring under a
tremendous strain, and that no matter what her trouble was it had
come to look immeasurably darker to her than it really was. But
Jean's attitude, his low and unexcited voice, and the almost
omniscient decisiveness of his words had convinced him that
Josephine had not painted it as blackly as she might. She, at
least, had seemed to see a ray of hope. Jean saw none, and Philip
realized that the half-breed's calm and unheated judgment was more
to be reckoned with than hers. At the same time, he did not feel
dismayed. He was of the sort who have born in them the fighting
instinct, And with this instinct, which is two thirds of life's
battle won, goes the sort of optimism that has opened up raw
worlds to the trails of men. Without the one the other cannot
exist.

As the blows of his axe cut deep into the birch, Philip knew that
so long as there is life and freedom and a sun above it is
impossible for hope to become a thing of char and ash. He did not
use logic. He simply LIVED! He was alive, and he loved Josephine.

The muscles of his arms were like sinews of rawhide. Every fibre
in his body was strung with a splendid strength. His brain was as
clear as the unpolluted air that drifted over the cedar and
spruce. And now to these tremendous forces had come the added
strength of the most wonderful thing in the world: love of a
woman. In spite of all that Josephine and Jean had said, in spite