sick man on his hands for three or four days and wants one of us to
relieve him. I allow I'd sooner stop here. It's pretty fierce
to-night."

"Who's sick?" Thirlwell asked.

"Black Steve. I don't know that he has much claim on us, but Father
Lucien's a good sort. I guess we've got to help him out."

Thirlwell nodded. Father Lucien was a French-Canadian missionary who had
studied medicine, and, for the most part, lived with his wandering
flock. In summer, he went North with canoe and tent, but generally
returned in winter to a shack near the mine. Scott and Thirlwell had
found his society pleasant when they sat round the stove on long cold
nights, for the priest had been trained in Europe and knew the great
world as he knew the Canadian wilds. A scholar and something of a
mystic, he was marked by a wide toleration and liberality of thought.

"Who's going? Shall we draw cuts for it?" Scott resumed.

Thirlwell hesitated. He felt tired, the shack was warm, and he heard the
blizzard rage among the tossing pines; but he was curious about Driscoll
and something urged him to go to the priest's help.

"I'll take first turn. You can come along to-morrow if you're wanted,"
he said, and putting on his fur coat and cap, went out with the Indian.

When the door shut he let his companion take the lead, for his eyes were
filled with water and snow. He knew the bush, but imagined that nobody
but an Indian could find the trail that night, and to lose it would mean