“You must be, and you have earned a real holiday. And, Hugh, darling,” she came to him with hands lifted, “I know you finished this just for me.” Her face was shining with an inner light, as she locked her hands about his neck. He stood a moment, looking into her eyes, then gathered her gently into his arms and carried her to a chair, holding her to him. “Well, I did,” he said, his voice a little uncertain. “And,” he added, kissing her, “it was worth while.” She settled down into his arms with a little sigh. “We are very happy, Hugh. I am afraid sometimes we are too happy.” “Too happy? I can ‘thole’ a lot o’ yon,” he answered cheerily. “But,” he added suddenly, letting into his voice a deeper tone, “as for you, you jolly well deserve all there is going. Now a little rest before lunch, while I get out my gun.” He laid her on a lounge, covered her with a wrap and left her, with a smile of pride and ineffable joy illuminating the beauty of her face. After a hasty lunch Gaspard looked in upon her, found her sleeping quietly and with the adumbration of that same smile still lingering about her, then taking his gun set forth to the completion of the other task he had set himself for the day. A disturbing factor in his day’s problem he had learned from old Jinny. Paul had gone off with the Sleeman children, Asa and Adelina, on their ponies for the day, and the boy had spoken of a visit to the Indian camp. Of course, he could send the children off on some chase, but none the less it was a complication which added to the difficulty of a situation sufficiently complex already. He did not, however, anticipate much trouble with Onawata. Her love for him and her native Indian pride would work together to further his purpose. As to the old chief, he was an uncertain and possibly refractory element. A Chippewayan chief of ancient lineage, proud of his race and rank, he had kept his tribe aloof from the life and manners of the white man. He had seen the degradation of other tribes through contact with white civilisation and, following the tradition of his ancestors, he had built up in his people a fear of the white man’s power and a contempt for his vices. On the plains of the far north land his people could meet with the white man on equal terms without fear, and at the trading post he could hold his own in shrewd bargaining for the products of trap and gun. He permitted no mingling of blood strains in his tribe, no half-breed could find a home in his wigwams. Next to his passion for his people, his love for his daughter held place with him. Her mother, an Athabascan princess of great beauty and intelligence, trained in one of the out-post Anglican mission schools, had captured his youthful fancy and had held his heart in loyal allegiance for twenty years, until her death twenty-two years ago in giving birth to her only child, Onawata, who, growing up into beautiful girlhood, took her