his life again. It took them a full hour to go that mile, although
both were experts on the shoes, but as they reached the rim of the
canyon they were rewarded by seeing a thin blue streak of smoke
curling up from her lodge "chimney." Wingate sat down in the snows
weakly. The relief had unmanned him.

"I didn't know how much I cared," he said, "until I knew she was
safe. She looks at me as my mother used to; her eyes are like
mother's, and I loved my mother."

It was a simple, direct speech, but Brown caught its pathos.

"She's a good woman," he blurted out, as they trudged along towards
the shack. They knocked on the door. There was no reply. Then just
as Wingate suggested forcing it in case she were ill and lying
helpless within, a long, low call from the edge of the canyon
startled them. They turned and had not followed the direction from
which the sound came more than a few yards when they met her coming
towards them on snowshoes; in her arms she bore a few faggots, and
her face, though smileless, was very welcoming.

She opened the door, bidding them enter. It was quite warm inside,
and the air of simple comfort derived from crude benches, tables
and shelves, assured them that she had not suffered. Near the fire
was drawn a rough home-built couch, and on it lay in heaped
disorder a pile of gray blankets. As the two men warmed their hands
at the grateful blaze, the blankets stirred. Then a small hand
crept out and a small arm tossed the covers a little aside.

"_Catharine_," exclaimed Wingate, "have you a child here?"