“Shut up, you idiots,” said the man to the five chorus dogs. “You didn’t smell anything.” For a moment the missionary stood undecided, looking at Skookum. “All right, old boy. It’s a beastly day to be out in, too beastly to take a chance. We’ll take your word for it.” He entered the house, shouting, “Mother, Skookum says there’s some one up the lake, so before I go to Pine Point I shall run up a bit.” “All right, John. It is a dreadful storm, but you were going out anyway, and it may be a runner from the Indian camp, you know.” “You’re right, Mother, as you always are. I didn’t think of that. My mitts? Ah, here they are. And my bottle in case——? Ah, yes, thanks. I shall come in before I start, for the Point if I don’t find anything. Good-bye.” His wife followed him to the door. “What a day! No! No! Come back, children, from the storm.” She drew back into the cosy room two brown-faced little boys who were keen to follow their father to the lake shore. Within twenty minutes they heard the barking of the dogs, and in another moment her husband burst into the room, steadying a tall slight youth who swayed, staggered, clutched at the door and so hung, his chin fallen on his breast, his breath coming in gasps and deep drawn sobs. “Quick, Mother, tea!” said the missionary, holding the stranger from falling. “Here, old chap, sit down. You’re all right now,” said the missionary, pushing a chair toward him. But the youth clung fast to the door. “No!” he gasped. “No! Mustn’t sit. Mother—two kids—up lake—mustn’t sit—never get up again.” But even as he spoke his hold loosened on the door. The warm air of the room relaxed his nerve tension and he slumped down in a huddled heap on the floor. Swiftly the missionary’s fingers were at work, loosening hood and coat. “Yes, that’s right, Mother,” he said, taking from her hand a cup in which she had poured some spirits and hot water. “Now, get this into you. Good! A little more! Ah, now you are coming round. Now finish up the cup. Down with it, do you hear! No nonsense! Fine! Now, let’s see how you are. Hands all right, or nearly so. Off with his moccasins, Mother! Feet? Toes frozen a bit. Some snow, Mother, and rub ’em hard. All right, boy! You’re sound outside.” So working swiftly he kept up in a loud, cheery voice, now soothing, again commanding, a monologue with which he strove to divert his patient from his own condition and restore him to normal self-control. “Now the tea, Mother. A little spirits in it—ah, not too much—he doesn’t need it. Nothing like tea. Puts heart into a man—no unpleasant reactions. Great stuff, tea, for this country, eh? Something to chew on now, Mother. Toast? Nothing better! A little more now. Lots of time though, no rush. Sit down, old chap.” By this time the young man was on a chair. “Sit down. _Sit down._ What?”