“First sit here close to the fire,” said the missionary, drawing close to the glowing stove a big rocking chair. “Eat and drink all you can. Don’t guzzle; take your time. Get dry, warm things on your feet and hands. We shall not move for twenty minutes or so. Eat—drink—rest. Do you hear?” “Yes, sir. I will. I am all right, sir, thank you, sir.” “Good boy! Good stuff, eh? Now don’t talk.” Eagerly, ravenously, yet with no indecent haste, he ate the food given him, helping it down with cups of strong tea, pulling on the while dry clothing. Having eaten and got into dry things, he settled himself down into the big rocker. In a dozen breaths he was asleep, insensible, immovable, dead to his world. The missionary smiled. “We will give him half an hour, Mother. He is dead beat.” “Poor lad! How thin he is! And how terribly worn he looks! I am quite anxious about him, John. He can never go with you. Why not slip away now? You would be back before he wakes.” “He has had a hard go, but he looks fit enough.” “Why not let him sleep? He cannot go twenty miles.” “We will give him half an hour. If he woke and found us gone you would have to tie him. He would follow us till he dropped.” In consultation with Thomas the missionary studied the boy’s rough sketch. “That is just beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas, eh?” Thomas pondered. “How long he marshe?” “From midnight. But he could not make good time in his condition and against that storm, eh?” Thomas stood calculating. “La Petite Traverse ten miles,” he said, holding up two hands. “La Grande Traverse, he—” he showed fifteen fingers “and some more. S’pose he run queeck, eh? No dreeft. De win’—she’s blow heem—poof!” “The Big Traverse!” exclaimed the missionary. “That’s good eighteen miles! Still, as you say, there would be little drifting on the lake with this wind. He might do it. By Jove! Thomas, we have a big job before us. And that boy wants to come with us.” “Non, non, he cannot! Impossible!” Thomas was very emphatic, the missionary’s wife equally so. “Look at him, John! Did you ever see a boy so terribly worn?” The missionary sat regarding the youth. “He is thin and worn. I am sorry I gave him my word, by Jove! Everything ready, Thomas? What have you, Mother? There is a sick woman, you know.” “Starving and worn out, like enough,” replied his wife. “There’s a bottle of soup and tea and hard tack and meat.” “Fine. We will give him a full half hour.” “Perhaps when he wakes he can be persuaded to wait here,” said his wife. “Not he! He is a mule, a perfect mule. Look at that mouth, that long jaw. He will try it anyway. We may have to put him on the toboggan, but he will go.” Thomas shook his head. “No bon! No bon! Him sleep so five hour, dead like one bear. We go toute suite!” But to this the missionary would not agree. “At any rate, we must give him the chance to say.” “It’s a shame! a crime!” said his wife.