A wonderful quiet fell upon him. In the clear warm glow of the firelight in the old Pine Croft bungalow he saw a boy sitting on a low stool, gazing up into a face alight with serene courage. Outside, the tempest howled down the valley, lashing the windows, pounding at the doors and twisting the huge pines about like wisps of hay. “That is a good verse to learn tonight, my boy,” the woman was saying. And over and over again, till the words were bedded firmly in his soul, she chanted the great words of that noble Hebrew psalm. As on that night long ago, so tonight again the storm suddenly lost its power to terrify him. He remembered the vision he had that night of the great God out there, the good and kindly God whom he had been taught to know as his friend, riding forth down the Windermere upon his rolling cloud chariot and borne upon the wings of the wind. Gone was his paralysing fear. He rose from his huddled position and stood at the mouth of the shelter, his own man again. Steadily he faced the howling blizzard. It had lost its terror. He raised his hand high above his head, as if in salute. He knew he was not alone. He would win through. Deep in his soul was the conviction whose roots ran far back into his childhood memories, that in the eternal covenant and plan his life had a place. That, among others, he owed to his mother. Yes, he would win through. No blizzards that blew could down him. His Calvinistic faith held him steady on his course. He threw some wood on the fire and as the wood crackled up he touched Peter on the arm. Instantly the boy was wide awake. “Quiet!” whispered Paul. The dark Indian face immediately hardened into bronze, the black eyes only gleaming with life. “Come,” signalled Paul. Carefully the boy stepped around the fire and sat down beside his brother. Upon a piece of birch bark, with a burnt stick, Paul drew an outline of the lake, showing the trail leading to the Hudson’s Bay Post at the south-east end, as he had got it from Onawata. “Peter, I am going to the Post tonight. You stay here. Keep the fire going. Some one will come for you. Keep the fire going and make a big smoke all the time. Kill the dogs if you must.” “Wait for the morning, eh?” he said, his dark eyes imploring. “No, I must get through. The blizzard may last three days, then it will be too late for any of us. You see?” The boy nodded silent assent. “When the fire burns low twice wake me up.” Again the boy nodded. “Good boy! We’ll get through,” said Paul, putting his hand on his shoulder. The boy’s face flushed red, then grew grey again. The chances for getting through he knew well were very slim indeed. With but a moment’s further delay Paul lay down near the fire. Round the little snow-banked shelter the storm howled its wildest, but through all its strident and threatening voices another voice came, calm and serene and heart-stilling, “He rideth upon the wings of the wind,” and Paul hearing that voice was instantly asleep.