“No!” said the young man, getting to his feet. “I will not sit! Must get back—mother—two children—in camp—snow bound—starving—dying! Must go.” He was on his feet now, his hands stretched out imploringly. “What?” shouted the missionary. “A woman and children? For God’s dear sake, where? How far?” “Left there—an hour after midnight. Come! She is dying!” “Where, boy? For God’s sake, where?” Without waiting his answer the missionary flung open the door, whistled a succession of shrill blasts with his fingers, waved violently to a man who appeared at the door of one of the huts near by and turned back to the boy. “What’s your name, boy?” he shouted. “My name? Paul.” “And the woman—your mother?” “No—yes—my stepmother.” “And dying? Where? Show me!” The missionary dragged him to a map hanging on the wall. The boy shook his head. “Give me paper,” he said. The missionary thrust paper and pencil into his hands. With shaking fingers he drew a rough outline of the lake, and traced a trail along the east shore. “There!” he said, indicating a jutting point. “Twenty miles—one hour after midnight—I left.” “Twenty miles! God help us now!” muttered the missionary, making swift preparations. “Quick, Mother! Tea, hot bricks, blankets, grub, whiskey. Ah! Thomas, good man—” he turned to an Indian who had come in—“party lost up the lake, twenty miles. Get ready to go with me. Another team—the Factor’s. Quick! quick!” Without a word the Indian vanished. The missionary turned to the boy. “Now, lad, you go to bed. Mother will look after you.” He turned to his wife, busy with the preparation of food. “Feed him, Mother, and let him sleep. I know that point. We will bring them in safe enough.” “I am going. I am all right now,” said Paul, pulling on his moccasins. “I am going. I know the way.” “Nonsense!” shouted the missionary. “You stay here. You don’t go a foot. You will only keep us back.” Paul looked at him stupidly, then smiled. “I am going. You can’t keep me here. I am going.” His voice remained quite quiet. “I’ll not hold you back. Let me go! Oh, let me go!” Again his hands went out in an imploring gesture. The missionary paused in his preparations, keenly searching the boy’s face. “All right, you young mule!” he snapped. “We haven’t time to argue. Anyway we have two toboggans,” he added to himself. “All right, all right. Feed this youth, Mother. He can stand some meat now. Fill the beggar up while we get ready. Here, off with those socks of yours,” he continued. “Dry socks, Mother. Two pairs. My mackinaws—find a pair of mitts. All right, now! Steady all!” His wife, without a word and with swift hands that never hesitated or fumbled, followed out his instructions. “Here, boy!” said the missionary. “If you are going with me, listen and obey orders.” There was no mistaking that tone. “Yes, sir, I will!” said Paul. “Tell me what to do.”