At the end of three-quarters of an hour the missionary stood up, put his hand on the shoulder of the sleeping boy and gave him a slight shake. With one movement the boy was on his feet, awake and alert. “What is it, Peter? Time, eh?” he asked, gazing upon the faces about him. “I was—I’m afraid I was asleep,” he said shamefacedly. “All ready? Let us go.” He drew on his light fur coat, seized his mitts, caps and snowshoes. “No use, Mother,” said the missionary. “All right, we’re off. You’ll see us when we get back. Good-bye.” He kissed his wife. “Oh, he cannot make that trip, John. He will perish on the way,” said his wife, quick tears coming to her eyes. “Nonsense, Mother! He has two days’ march in him.” The boy stood, his big grey eyes turning from one to the other. They were concerned for him. The tears in the woman’s eyes were for him. Slowly a deep red flush overspread his thin haggard face. Silently he took her hand in both of his, held it for a moment, then with a kind of shy grace he kissed it. “You are awfully good,” he muttered, turned away and made for the door. “_En avant!_” shouted the missionary cheerily. “All aboard! See you later, Mother!” There was little breaking trail for the dogs that day; for, in Thomas’ dramatic words, “de win’ she’s blow heem—poof!” So after the first half hour the party struck and held to the steady dog trot that devours the white miles in the north land and keeps the blood jumping in the teeth of forty below. The boy took his turn with the other two in leading. After two hours’ run the missionary would have swung off to a bold out-jutting headland, heavily wooded, dimly seen through the storm. “There is the point beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas,” he said. “Oui!” “No, that is not the camp,” said Paul. “Farther up, farther up.” “Beyond the Grande Traverse, Thomas, eh?” said the missionary. “Another eight miles at least. Are you fit? Can you go on?” The boy looked at him a moment with eyes that burned in their deep sockets like points of fire, then without answer he set off on a dog trot on the northward trail. A twenty minute run brought them round the headland. They were on the edge of the Big Traverse, a bleak white plain, bare of mark or guiding sign, swept by bitter wind and driving snow. The missionary was for striking straight across the open, but Thomas after the Indian habit was for the more cautious plan of skirting the shore. “De win’, she no so bad, and de trail he’s no get los’.” Paul was for the shore line too. They had not run for more than half an hour longer when old Skookum, who was leading, began to show signs of anxiety, sniffing, whimpering and uttering short yelps. The missionary pulled up his team short. “Something coming, sure thing, man or beast,” he shouted to the others following. They all stood listening intently, but only the howling and hissing of the storm came to their ears. The dogs had all caught Skookum’s restlessness, sniffing and whimpering.