in spite of his homeliness, had the two best bloods of all dog
creation in his veins. Yet in a way it was like mixing nitro-
glycerin with olive oil, or dynamite and saltpeter with milk and
honey.

Peter's heart was thumping rapidly as he took a step toward the
deeper shadows. He swallowed hard, as if to clear a knot out of
his scrawny throat. But he had made up his mind. Something was
compelling him, and he would go in. Slowly the gloom engulfed him,
and once again the whimsical spirit of fatalism had chosen a
trivial thing to work out its ends in the romance and tragedy of
human lives.

Grim shadows began to surround Peter, and his ears shot up, and a
scraggly brush stood out along his spine. But he did not bark, as
he had barked along the shore of the lake, and in the green opens.
Twice he looked back to the shimmer of sunshine that was growing
more and more indistinct. As long as he could see this, and knew
that his retreat was open, there still remained a bit of that
courage which was swiftly ebbing in the thickening darkness. But
the third time he looked back the light of the sun was utterly
gone! For an instant the knot rose up in his throat and choked
him, and his eyes popped, and grew like little balls of fire in
his intense desire to see through the gloom. Even the girl, who
was afraid of only one thing in the world, would have paused where
Peter stood, with a little quickening of her heart. For all the
light of the day, it seemed to Peter, had suddenly died out. Over
his head the spruce and cedar and balsam tops grew so thick they
were like a canopy of night. Through them the snow never came in
winter, and under them the light of a blazing sun was only a