The night the jam gave way Constance was seated by the table engaged upon a piece of needlework. The candle by her side threw its feeble, flickering beams upon her dark hair and well-formed face. The rich tide of health was not flowing as of old, free and strong. It had fled from her cheeks, leaving them at times very white. Occasionally her busy fingers ceased and her work lay unheeded in her lap, while a far-away look stole into her dark brown eyes. The wind beat against the little window and shook the loose panes of glass; it whirled around the cabin, and rattled the rudely constructed stove pipe. Constance shivered, but not from the cold, and often unconscious sighs escaped her lips.
Her father was sitting near, reading, or pretending to read, a book Keith had loaned him. It was one of the few volumes left of the missionary's carefully chosen library. The rest had gone up in smoke. It exemplified the truth that what we keep we lose; what we give we have. Mr. Radhurst was much improved. The haggard look had left his face; his eyes were clear and his step strong and decisive as of old. Occasionally his gaze wandered from the page he was reading to his daughter's face. He was uneasy about her of late, and noted with apprehension the paleness of her cheeks and the absence of her cheery songs.
"Connie," he kindly said, laying aside the book, "I'm afraid this life is not agreeing with you."
"Why, father dear," she smilingly replied. "Do you think I look very sick?"
"You look far from well, my child, and you need a decided change. This is no place for a woman. You have no companion, no place to visit, nothing but the same dreary routine from morning till night, week in and week out. Then this commotion among the miners and your adventure with that rascally Pritchen are telling upon you, I can see that."
"Yes, father, I am uneasy about the miners, I must admit. We saw them with all those Indians this afternoon, but have heard nothing. Every one seems to have forsaken us."
"Connie," and Mr. Radhurst's voice was low, "I think we had better leave the North. It is no place for us. We are not accustomed to the hardships, and I am too old. It was a great mistake I made, but the fever ran in my veins, and my eyes were blinded. Now I see differently, and think it best to go back."
Had Mr. Radhurst uttered these words several months before Constance would have been filled with delight. But now they brought little joy to her heart. She had changed much. Her old life, with all its associations, was fading, and the North was gripping her hard, as it does so many sooner or later who enter its portals. Chains had been forged which were binding her to the land, chains of hardships, sorrow, and, not the least, love. She had lost a dear and only brother here, but she had gained much in compensation. Life had become more real since Keith Steadman had crossed her path and infused into her heart and mind the longing for higher and nobler things. She compared him with many she had met in days gone by, and how superior he appeared. They were living so much for self, with their little rounds of business, pleasure and small talk. He was living for others, not a common life, but one filled with thought and activity, an unconscious hero in a stern, dreary field. Go back! back to what? That was the question which surged through her mind, causing her long lashes to droop, and her head to bend over her work, till the rich abundance of her hair almost hid her face.
Her father, noticing her embarrassment, wondered. He felt there was some reason for her bent head and unusual silence, but with fatherly solicitude forebore to question her farther.
A peculiar noise outside startled them.
"What's that?" exclaimed Constance.
"The wind," replied her father, "or else a prowling dog."
When, however, the pounding upon the door began both sprang to their feet, and with fast-beating hearts crossed the room. Then when the door was opened and Keith, weary, ragged and blood-stained, staggered into the building, they stared in amazement. They listened speechlessly to his brief message, gasped forth in quick, short syllables, and before they had recovered from their astonishment he was gone.
Constance was the first to realize the situation. "Quick, father!" she cried, reaching for her cloak and hood. "We must leave the cabin! The flood is coming! Hurry!"
"But I don't think it will reach us, Connie. We are too high up. But what about the miners?"
By this time Constance was out of the house, listening to the dull, ominous roar, sounding down through the darkness. She shivered and drew the cloak more closely around her shoulders. How weird it all seemed! Oh, if the night would only pass and give the blessed daylight!
"Connie," said her father, who had joined her, "I think we had better cross to the higher ground by the Indian encampment. We must not run any risk, and, besides, we may learn how the miners are faring."
Together they made their way through the night, along the rough trail, and after much stumbling reached the Indian village. Here they paused and listened. No light was to be seen, and no human voice could they hear. The camp was deserted.
"Let us go farther," suggested Mr. Radhurst. "We may find out something lower down."
Through the midst of the lodges they moved for several hundred yards along the high bank of the Kaslo. The waters were now surging tumultuously on their left. They could hear the ice groaning and tearing in its onward sweep, but could see nothing. When the last house had been reached they stood straining their eyes in an effort to pierce the darkness.
"What's that?" cried Constance, grasping her father's arm more firmly.
"I heard nothing but the waters," was the reply.
"But I did, father, and it sounded like a shout far ahead. Oh, let us go on along the bank! I am afraid something terrible has happened!"
They had groped their way but a short distance when a light fell upon their eyes. Small at first, it soon grew larger, and then they knew it was a watch-fire upon the shores. Forms of men were seen flitting here and there, gathering sticks to throw upon the flames, which ere long developed into a magnificent blaze. Guided by this they soon reached the spot, and great was the miners' surprise to behold the gray-haired man and the hooded maiden emerge from the darkness.
"What's wrong?" inquired Mr. Radhurst, looking from one to another.
"Wrong?" replied a husky fellow, who had just deposited an armful of wood, "everything's wrong to-night! Flood and death, that's what's wrong!"
Constance's face paled as she listened to these words.
"Why," she gasped, "didn't all escape?"
"Naw. The best has gone down, the only men of the whole gang."
"Who? Oh, tell me quick!"
"Old Pete an' the parson."
The words smote Constance like a sudden blow. Pale at the first intimation of the disaster, she was like death now. She tried to speak, but could utter not a sound.
"Don't be frightened, Miss," said the man not unkindly, noticing her excitement. "It may not be as bad as we think."
"Oh, tell me!" she gasped, "what has happened?"
"Well, to tell you the truth, Miss, we don't know much ourselves. You see we were at that devilish job when the parson landed upon us with a yell which made our blood run cold. Then there was a scramble for the high bank, and I guess the Injuns are scramblin' yet, for they haven't shown up since. It was Pete who first shouted out for the parson, and when he could not be found I thought the old man would go mad. He made for the river with one bound, and the last we heard of him was his cry, "I'm comin', laddie!" and then the flood was upon them."
"But didn't anyone go to their rescue?" asked Constance excitedly. "Did the men all stand by and let them drown?"
"Not a bit of it, Miss. Most of the men are down yon searchin' the shore, but it's so dark I'm afraid they can do very little. We've made this fire to guide them back, and if they do find the poor chaps, a little heat won't be amiss, I reckon."
"Oh, what can we do!" and Constance wrung her hands in agony of mind.
"Wait, Connie. We can wait," replied her father.
"Wait! Wait, and——" A thought flashed through her mind. It was like a still, small voice.
"Call upon Me in the day of trouble," it said.
Yes, why had she forgotten? It made her feel that a Presence was very near, and that He who long ago had delivered His people from the waters of Egypt would hear her now.
"Father," she said quietly, "we can wait, and we can do something more, we can pray."
"Yes, Connie, we can do that."
"And will you pray, father?"
"You do it, dear, for you know better what to say."
A slight flush came into her face as she knelt upon the ground before the fire. She knew the men were watching her, but she did not mind, for what were they to the ones now in peril?
"Oh God," she prayed, "lighten our darkness, we beseech Thee, and by Thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night, for the love of Thine only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ."
"Amen. Amen. Amen," came from the miners, who with bowed and uncovered heads were standing reverently around her.
That was all she could utter. When she rose from her knees the men were bestirring themselves. Some had gone for more wood, while others were poking the fire. This latter work was unnecessary, but the men had to do something. The pathetic sight of the beautiful woman kneeling on the ground, offering up that fervent prayer, had touched their hearts, and more than one brushed their sleeves across their eyes when safe under the friendly cover of darkness.
The wood-gatherers had been gone but a short time when they came hurrying back much excited.
"They're coming! They're coming!" shouted one, "and I believe they've found them!"
The report was true, for soon a band of men slowly approached, bearing something between them.
Constance stepped quickly forward and scanned the faces of the men, and, oh joy! there before her stood Keith, with water dripping from his clothes, his wet hair streaming over his forehead and his face white and haggard.
He did not look upon the men, nor did he see the eager woman gazing so longingly upon him. He beheld only the prostrate form of Pete Martin lying by the fire. Intense agony was expressed in every line of his face as he stooped down and examined the unconscious man.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" he murmured, as he found the prospector's pulse still beating. "We must get him somewhere out of this," he continued, turning to the men. "He is alive and we may do something for him yet."
"Bring him to our cabin, Mr. Steadman," said Mr. Radhurst. "We will care for him."
"Thank you," and Keith turned towards the old man. Then his eye rested upon Constance's animated face, standing by her father's side. It was like a ray of sunshine to his clouded heart, a light in the darkness, peace in the midst of storm, and a faint smile crossed his face—the first in many days.
Tender hands bore Old Pete over the trail to the Radhurst cabin and laid him upon the couch within. Outside, the miners stood in little groups waiting, but hardly knowing what they were waiting for. Homeless, penniless were they, but they never thought of it then. Their own losses were swallowed up in the excitement of the moment, and the sudden blow which had fallen.
Down below, the river—the river of death—surged and moaned. It had swept away the cabins and had gripped in its icy grasp the body of one wretched man, whose hand no more would be raised to strike at the Standard of the Lord and His co-workers.
When morning dawned it was a dreary sight which met the eyes of the tired watchers gathered about the smouldering embers of the fire upon the high bank. The waters had subsided, leaving masses of ice, trees, rocks and mud strewn around in every direction. Of the miners' cabins nothing remained; they had been swept out into the river.
Looking down upon the scene of desolation, the men realized the helplessness of their position; without cabins, food or blankets matters seemed serious enough. Most of them said nothing, but sat or stood watching the river flowing sullenly by. A few, however, broke into loud complaints. Of these Perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most incessant in his lamentations.
"Only think," he wailed, "I've lost everything, saved nothing. My supplies and money are all gone."
"An' yer pizened whiskey, why don't ye say," replied Caribou Sol, turning fiercely upon him. "What are ye howlin' fer, anyway? Why can't ye stan' up an' take yer dose like a man, instid of whinin' like a baby?"
"Chuck him into the river, Sol," called out one of the men. "That will cool him off."
"No, I'll not soil me hands with the likes of 'im; I've other things to do," and Sol turned on his heel and started for the Indian camp.
He had almost reached the place when he saw the missionary emerging from the old chief's lodge, and with him was Amos, the catechist.
"Good morning, Mr. Burke," said Keith, extending his hand. "I'm afraid you have had a bad night of it."
"None the best, sir," came the reply. "But, say, how's Pete?"
"Bad, very bad," and a pained expression came into Keith's face.
"Any chance of gittin' better, de'ye think?"
"I'm afraid not. He is wounded internally. He was badly jammed by the ice."
"An' how did you come through without gittin' pinched?"
"I cannot tell. It was all like a terrible dream. The water swept me off my feet, and when I thought it was all up with me, Pete seized me in his strong arms. A block of ice caught us and drove us to the shore, crushing Pete as it did so. Oh, it was fearful! We were face to face with death."
"An' Bill went down?"
"That was Pritchen, was it?"
"Yes."
"What were you doing to him?"
"Stretchin' his neck."
"I thought so. Did he confess?"
"Yes, coughed up everything."
"Poor chap!"
"It sarved 'im right. He was a bad egg."
"But he was not always bad."
"Ye don't say so! What changed 'im into sich a divil?"
"Drink, gambling and evil companions."
"It seems, sir, that ye knowed 'im afore he struck the North."
"Know him! I should say I did know him! He was my only sister's husband. Oh, Nellie, Nellie! How can I ever tell you all! But how about the men?" he suddenly asked, wishing to change the subject, which was becoming most painful.
"What, the b'ys down yon?"
"Yes."
"In a bad way. Nothin' left."
"And they've no food?"
"Not a scrap."
"Well, look here, Mr. Burke. There's the school room which the men can use until they get new cabins built. They will have to do their cooking outside, but there is a stove in the place which will keep them warm at night. I have just seen the old chief, and the Indians will loan what blankets they can spare until the steamer arrives."
Sol's eyes opened wide with amazement. "De'ye mean it?" he asked. "I know ye'ud do what ye could to help us out, but I didn't think them Injuns 'ud ever fergit what was done to 'em."
"Yes, I mean every word I say. And what's more, the Indians are willing to give what food they can to the miners. They have a fair supply of dried fish and moose-meat, which will help some."
In reply Sol stretched out a huge hand. "Put it thar!" he said, and tears stood in his eyes. "I can't say any more, but I'll tell the b'ys, an' they'll thank ye."
When Keith returned to the Radhurst cabin he met Constance just outside the door.
"Oh, I am so glad you have come back!" she said. "Pete is awake and calling for you."
"How long did he sleep?" questioned Keith.
"Only a short time after you left. I am afraid he is failing fast."
A faint smile passed over the old man's face as they entered the room where he was lying. It was Constance's room, which she had gladly given up to the patient.
"Laddie, laddie!" he said. "I'm so glad to see ye. I knowed ye'd come back."
"How are you feeling now, Pete?" asked Keith, as he grasped the hand which was extended in welcome.
"Not very well. I've a bad pain in my chist, but I'm a-thinkin' it'll go away soon."
"We will do all we can to help you, Pete, never forget that."
"I don't mean that, laddie, fer an army of doctors couldn't help me now. I guess it's only the good Lord who will give me any relief."
"Pete, Pete, don't say that!" cried Constance. "We can't spare you yet. What will we do without you?"
"It's the good Lord's will, lassie, an' though I'd like to stay wid yez a while longer, still when He calls I must be a-goin'. An' yit I wonner," he continued after a pause, "what He wants the likes of me up yon fer anyway."
"He wants you, perhaps," replied Keith softly, "for the same reason that we want you here, because He loves you."
"Loves me! Loves me! What is thar in me to love? an' what have I ever done that He should love me?"
"'I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat,'" quoted Constance, "'I was thirsty and ye gave me drink, I was a stranger and ye took me in.' That is what you did to us at Siwash Creek, and I am sure Christ won't forget that."
"Oh, that's nothin', lassie. I jist done it 'cause I couldn't see yez suffer, that's all."
"I think it very much. And didn't Christ say that a cup of cold water given in His name will not lose its reward?"
"'In His name!' Ah, lassie, that's jist whar the stick comes. I didn't think much about 'Im when I was a-doin' them things. Thar wasn't the burnin' love in my heart for 'Im that I should have had, an' it's never been very strong in my heart at any time."
"I think the Master will judge differently," said Keith. "Did He not say, 'That greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends?' Isn't that what you did for me last night?"
"Did He say them words, laddie; are ye sure?" and the old man looked his eagerness.
"Yes, that's just what He said. I will read them to you," and Keith opened his Bible and read the beautiful scene, recorded by St. John, of the true vine and the branches.
For a while Pete remained very still, with his eyes closed, to all appearance asleep.
"Laddie," he suddenly remarked, "them words are very comfortin', but thar 're others which make me feel bad in that same good Book."
"What! in here?"
"Yes, whar the Master tells us about the journey food. I don't recollect the exact words, but He says if we don't eat His flesh and drink His blood we have no life in us. Now, them are purty straight words, an' I've often thought about 'em. I took the Communion once, jist after my Confirmation, an' a most solemn an' elevatin' sarvice it was. But I ain't took it since. I ain't been worthy."
"But you shall have it now if you wish," said Keith eagerly.
"But de'ye think I'm worthy, laddie?"
"That's not the question, Pete. I doubt if any of us are really worthy of the blessings we receive, and if we waited until we were worthy to follow His command about the Communion we would never take it at all. If we waited until we were well before obeying the doctor's orders, what good would they do? Now, Christ is the Doctor of souls, the Great Physician, and He has given us this blessed food to strengthen, comfort, and to give us more and fuller life. What He wants to see in us is an earnest desire, a true, living faith."
"I do want it, laddie," said Pete eagerly. "It is His command, an' He said, 'Do this in remembrance of Me,' didn't He? I ain't fergot them words, an' when I meet 'Im up yon, mebbe He'll ax me about it, an' what kin I say if I haven't obeyed 'Im. So if ye don't mind, an' it ain't too much trouble, mebbe ye'd give it to me now."
It did not take Keith long to bring the Communion vessels from the church, and when the fair linen cloth had been spread upon the little table, the bread and wine made ready in the small silver chalice and paten, and the missionary robed in his white surplice and stole, the short, beautiful service began.
Pete followed earnestly every word, and at times a low "Amen" escaped his lips.
"Lassie," he said, turning to Constance when the benediction had been given, "won't ye sing a leetle?"
"Yes," came the reply, "what would you like?"
"Thar's a hymn me mother uster sing very often, an' it's mighty fine. It begins this way, 'Jeeroosalem, the golden.' I've sung it meself out on the hills."
"I know it," replied Constance, and in a low, sweet voice she sang the familiar words with eyes filled with tears.
"Go on, lassie, don't stop," said Pete, when the first verse was ended.
Verse after verse was accordingly sung, and when at last the amen fell from her lips, she glanced at the old man and found that he had fallen asleep.
"It is well," said Keith gently. "We will leave him now for a time."
When Pete again awoke the day was far spent, and the sun was swinging low in the west. He opened his eyes, and looked around in a dazed manner, when, meeting Constance's anxious eyes fixed upon him, a smile flitted across his face.
"I had a wonnerful dream, lassie. I saw me father an' mother very plain. They was a-holdin' out their hands to me, jist like they uster do when I was a leetle lad. They looked so happy, an' they was a-smilin' at me. All around them thar was flowers, an' beautiful trees, in which the birds were a-singin'. A leetle brook flowed right by, an' I could hear it ripplin' an' makin' music, like the leetle stream which ran through the medder near my old home. I heard children a-playin' an' laughin' by the brook, an' among the flowers. Oh, it was wonnerful! When I tried to go somethin' held me back. I struggled so hard that at last I woke, an' it all went away."
Again he fell into a sleep, not a peaceful one as before, but troubled. He tossed much, and often unintelligible words escaped his lips. When he next awoke Constance and Keith were sitting near, watching him attentively. He did not notice them, however, for he was off on the trail, following up the golden lure.
"Alec, man," he said, "are ye thar? It's gittin' dark, an' the trail's rough. Lower this pack from me back, man; it's too heavy, I can't stan' it. Whar's me blanket, Alec? It's cold to-night. Throw some sticks on the fire. Thar, that's better ... We ain't got much further to go, Alec; jist across yon range, down the valley, an' up t'other side ... Ah, thar's the gold! I knowed it was thar! I've been a-follerin' it all me life ... Look, man, see how it shines! Gold! Gold! Thank God, I've struck it at last!"
He looked around the room, and his eyes fell upon the anxious watchers.
"Whar am I, lad?" he asked. "I thought I was on the trail an' had made a rich strike."
"You are here, safe in this cabin," replied Keith, "so don't worry."
"What's the time, laddie?"
"Almost midnight."
"Ah, I didn't think it was so late. But I know it can't be long now, fer I'm slippin' away fast."
Then he looked at Constance and noticed the tears in her eyes.
"Don't cry, lassie. I'm only an old man, an' ain't wuth the fuss."
He was soon away again, this time a child, back in his old home.
"Mother, are ye thar? Bring the light, mother, an' hold me hand while I say me prayers."
He fumbled over the blanket, as if expecting the loving pressure as of old. At once Constance bent over him and took his cold, rough hand in her own. He grasped it firmly, while a look of contentment stole into his face.
"Now, kiss me, mother. I'm very tired, an' want to go to sleep."
Gently as a mother Constance stooped low, and as her lips touched his bronzed forehead he started suddenly up.
"The trail! The shinin' trail!" he cried. "How bright it is! an' ... oh, I see..."
The little clock in the room struck midnight, and the watchers looked at each other in silence.
"It's all over," said Constance, gently withdrawing her hand. "The long trail is ended."
"And thank God," Keith replied, "that it's of no earthly mine the gold he's struck to-night."
"The ice is going! The ice is going!"
The cry rang through Klassan late one afternoon, and produced a magical effect. Men dropped their frying-pans, axes, or whatever they had in their hands, and hurried to the river. The Indians swarmed from their lodges and raced along the bank, eager to see the stirring of the great, icy monster.
It was truly a marvellous spectacle which met their view. Far up the Yukon the vast field was moving irresistibly onward. From shore to shore the wildest confusion reigned as the huge blocks of ice tore and jammed one another in their rapid rush. Now a massive, sparkling fragment would be lifted into the air, held for a time as if in a vise, and then, released, would plunge with a roar beneath the surface, to emerge hundreds of feet below like some monster of the sea. Logs, swept down from tributary streams, snapped like pipe-stems in the merciless grip, while trees, torn roots and all from the banks, were whirled along like wisps of hay.
Where the banks were steep and high the crush was terrible, and the ice wedged and jammed as if struck by the sledge of Thor. The water rose accordingly, and every creek was inundated for miles back.
After the river became clear of ice anxious days of waiting followed. When would the steamer come? That was the question on the lips of all. At length their patience was rewarded, for early one morning a shout was raised that at last she was coming. Far away down stream a film of white smoke was to be seen curling up into the sky. Nearer and nearer it approached, and then the wheezy puffing could be faintly heard, sounding like the sweetest of music to the weary, waiting ones. Steadily she approached, bravely stemming the racing current, until at length her smoke-stack and pilot-house appeared above the bank. She was a jaunty little craft, and had made a noble struggle up that northern stream, laden with supplies. Rocks had ripped and scarred her hull; floating ice had damaged her small stern wheel, and for several days she had been stranded upon a bar. But she had conquered every obstacle, and now port was in sight.
Ere long the eager watchers were able to discern the steamer's name, for the sun resting upon the pilot-house showed clearly "The Arctic" in brightly gilded letters. The captain and the pilot were at their posts; the deck-hands were sitting below, well forward, and the roaring furnace, with doors wide open, was throwing out its ruddy glow. Then a long, shrill blast ripped the air, followed by another, and yet another. Far from the distance came back the echo, Nature's answer and welcome to the little steamer.
For several hours Keith sat in the vestry of the church, which had been his dwelling place since his return from the Quelchie camp. He was surrounded by his mail. Papers and parcels of books strewed the floor, while on the table was a liberal supply of letters. He had been busily engaged upon the latter, and they brought him varied news; this of joy, that of sorrow.
He rose from the table, when his eye caught sight of an unopened letter lying on the floor which had fallen from the table. Quickly opening it, he ran his eyes over the contents, and as he did so his face flushed. He sat down again, re-read the letter, and then remained for some time in deep thought.
At length he arose and wended his way to the Radhurst cabin. Constance was not in. She had gone to Old Pete's grave, so her father told him. Would he come in and wait for her return?
"No, thank you," Keith replied. "I shall stroll that way myself. I want to visit the grave, too."
As he drew near the spot where the prospector was lying he beheld Constance kneeling by the side of the mound, arranging some early wild flowers she had gathered that morning. How pretty she looked, and as Keith paused and watched her a pained feeling stole into his heart. She would leave on the steamer to-morrow, and what would the place be like without her? He was going, too, but how could he come back and carry on his work without her helpful presence? Would she return, too? The thought had often entered his mind. But how could he expect such a thing? How could he ask her to leave the comforts of civilization and dwell far off in the wilderness among a rude people? An involuntary groan escaped his lips, which caused Constance to start and to look suddenly up from her work.
"Oh, it is you, Mr. Steadman!" she remarked with a smile. "I didn't know any one was near."
"Miss Radhurst," said Keith suddenly, "will you please walk with me along this bank? I want to show you a very pretty scene."
"Yes, only let me finish my task. There, that is better, but oh, how soon the flowers fade! Now I am ready."
Side by side they wended their way along the bank, then down into a little valley close by the river, where a small stream purled through a grove of fir and cottonwood trees. Birds were flitting here and there, while a noisy squirrel, sitting on a high branch, chattered and scolded incessantly at the intruders into its domain.
"So you will leave in the morning?" said Keith, as if it were quite news to him.
"Yes. Everything is packed and ready."
"I am going, too."
"Yes, I know it, but you will come back again."
"Come back! Come back! Yes, I expect to come back, but to what?" returned Keith almost bitterly.
"Why, Mr. Steadman, I thought it would be such joy for you to return to your flock. And besides, have you not great plans in store for the Quelchie Indians, and the new mining town, of which we have talked so often. I think you have much in store."
"There is much," came the slow reply. "There is vast work yet to be done. But a letter has filled me with serious thoughts, and I have come to you for advice."
"To me! For advice!"
"Yes. Here is the letter, a fair-sized one, is it not? Well, the long and the short of it is this: I have been asked to go to Toronto to take charge of a church there. It is a great surprise."
"And you will accept?" queried Constance, with a far-away look in her eyes.
"Shall I?"
"Why do you ask me? I am not able to judge. It is too important a matter for me to decide."
"I ask you because—because I love you," Keith stammered. "Oh, Miss Radhurst—Constance—bear with me," he pleaded, noticing her agitation. "You have talked about my returning to this country. You have pictured it out in glowing colours, and I know that I should be enthusiastic. But I cannot, for when I come back you will not be here. Wait, please wait a little longer!" he cried, as Constance endeavoured to speak. "You know not how I love you. Ever since I saw you that wild night at Siwash Creek your image has been enshrined in my heart. Through that terrible trial, on the long trail, and out in the Quelchie camp, the story of which I have told you over and over again, you were ever with me. My love has intensified; it has become a burning fire. And oh, Constance! tell me, is there any response? Dare I hope for any return of my love?"
He was close to her now, looking passionately into her face, from which all the colour had fled. Her eyes remained fixed upon the ground as she listened to his rapid words. Her heart was beating fast, and only with an effort could she control her voice.
"What has this to do with your decision about that church in Toronto?" she slowly asked, with averted face.
"It means much. If you consent to become my—wife, I might accept that offer."
"And why?"
She turned as she spoke and looked him full in the eyes. In her words Keith detected a note of surprise and reproach.
"For—for your sake," he stammered.
"For my sake?"
"Yes. The life would not be so hard there. You would have comforts which you could not obtain here."
"And you would give up your grand work in the North, where you have had such success and so promising a future, for a—a woman? Surely you do not mean it!"
"But what would life be like here without the woman I love? It would be unbearable!"
"And would a woman be worthy of your love unless she were willing to share your lot wherever it might be? A true, loving wife would rather be with her husband in the midst of the fight, by his side to sustain and comfort him in his trials. Then, where love reigned, the little log cabin would be a more blessed spot than a palace where love was not."
"Constance! oh, Constance! can you give me that love? Could you be happy with me in a rough frontier town? Tell me. Tell me, do you love me?"
"Mr. Steadman——," she began.
"Not that! Not that!" he cried passionately.
"Well, Keith, then. Oh, Keith, I do love you! I have loved you so long, but I am not worthy of your love, and—and—"
"Darling! My darling!" he cried, clasping her in his arms and imprinting upon her lips the sacred betrothal seal. "You are mine at last! My very own! Oh, my darling, I am so happy!"
"And I am happy, too," Constance replied. "My heart is just singing with joy."
The sun shone brightly through the trees and kissed the happy lovers; the little brook babbled and laughed joyously at their feet; all around the birds flitted and carolled in the fresh, balmy air, while from the depths of Keith's heart came the fervent "Father, I thank Thee."
THE END.