"You bought a fine skin," he resumed. "I haven't seen the thing since.
What have you done with it?"

"I sent it away," said Thirlwell. "Old Musquash said he'd try to make
the settlements and took it out for me."

"He'll probably get through, though I don't think a white man could. But
I didn't know you had friends in Canada."

Thirlwell did not reply. He had bought the skin for Agatha and now
wondered what she would think about his present, or whether she might
feel he ought not to have sent it. Still he doubted if the skin would
arrive, because the old half-breed would meet with many dangers on the
way. Thirlwell pictured him hauling his sledge up thinly frozen rivers,
crossing wide lakes swept by icy gales, and plunging into tangled
forests smothered in snow. The thought of it emphasized the sense of
isolation one often felt at the mine, but while he mused there was a
knock at the door.

"I expect it's an Indian come to beg for food," Scott remarked and the
door swung open.

The flame of the lamp leaped up and then nearly flickered out as a
shower of snow blew in. The stove roared and the room got horribly cold,
and for a moment or two a shaggy, white figure, indistinct in the
semi-darkness, struggled to close the door. Then there was a sudden calm
and when the light got steady an Indian in ragged furs leaned against
the table, breathing hard and holding out a note.

"From Father Lucien," said Scott, who took the folded paper. "He's had a