old gold dredge and the rattle of its chains as it devoured its tons of
sand for a few grains of treasure; over him there were lacy clouds in a
blue heaven again, he heard the sound of voices, the tread of feet,
laughter--life. His soul reborn, he rose to his feet and stretched his
arms until the muscles snapped. No, they would not know him back
there--now! He laughed softly as he thought of the old John
Keith--"Johnny" they used to call him up and down the few
balsam-scented streets--his father's right-hand man mentally but a
little off feed, as his chum, Reddy McTabb, used to say, when it came
to the matter of muscle and brawn. He could look back on things without
excitement now. Even hatred had burned itself out, and he found himself
wondering if old Judge Kirkstone's house looked the same on the top of
the hill, and if Miriam Kirkstone had come back to live there after
that terrible night when he had returned to avenge his father.

Four years! It was not so very long, though the years had seemed like a
lifetime to him. There would not be many changes. Everything would be
the same--everything--except--the old home. That home he and his father
had planned, and they had overseen the building of it, a chateau of
logs a little distance from the town, with the Saskatchewan sweeping
below it and the forest at its doors. Masterless, it must have seen
changes in those four years. Fumbling in his pocket, his fingers
touched Conniston's watch. He drew it out and let the firelight play on
the open dial. It was ten o'clock. In the back of the premier half of
the case Conniston had at some time or another pasted a picture. It
must have been a long time ago, for the face was faded and indistinct.
The eyes alone were undimmed, and in the flash of the fire they took on
a living glow as they looked at Keith. It was the face of a young
girl--a schoolgirl, Keith thought, of ten or twelve. Yet the eyes
seemed older; they seemed pleading with someone, speaking a message