“A rare human being—a soul,” reproved Father Batiste. “And it is le bon Dieu who makes us all.” “But the de’il gets hold of some very young,” insisted the Scotchman. Father Batiste stayed in the cabin for two days. “He was not meant to die this time,” he said later. “It will be long—weeks perhaps—before he will be strong enough to take the trail. He will need care, such care as only a woman can give him. If he does not have this care he will die. If he does have it he will live. Adieu, my children; you have a sacred, human life in your hands.” And he got the care that only a woman could give him. For the next two weeks Duncan MacGregor watched his niece’s devoted nursing and gnawed his red beard gloomily. “Trouble—trouble—trouble!” he muttered over and over to himself. “It rides around the man’s head like a storm-cap. Hattie MacGregor, take care. Yon man will be a different creature to handle when he has the strength back in his body.” At the end of a week Reivers awoke as a man wakes after a long, fever-breaking slumber, weak and wasted, yet with a grateful sense of comfort and well-being. Before he opened his eyes he sensed by the warmth and odours of the air that he was in a small, tight room, and in a haze he fancied that he had fallen in the tepee of Tillie, the squaw. Then he remembered. He opened his eyes. He was lying in a bunk, raised high from the floor, and above the foot of the bed was a small window, shaded by a frilled white curtain. Reivers lay long and looked at the curtain before his eyes moved to further explore the room. For once, long, long ago, he had belonged in a world where white frilled curtains and frills of other kinds were not an exception. In his physically washed-out condition his memory reached back and pictured that world with uncanny clearness, and he turned from the curtain with a frown of annoyance to look straight into the eyes of Duncan Roy, who sat by the fireplace across the room and studied him from beneath shaggy red brows. Reivers looked the man over idly at first, then with a considerable interest and appreciation. Sitting crouched over on a low stone bench, with the light of the fire and of the sun upon him, MacGregor resembled nothing so much as an old red-haired bear. He was short of leg and bow-legged, but his torso and head were enormous. His arms, folded across the knees, were bear-like in length and size, and his hair and beard flamed golden red. There was no friendliness in the small, grey eyes which regarded Reivers so steadily. Duncan MacGregor was no man to hide his true feelings. Reivers looked enquiringly around. “She’s stepped outside to feed the dogs,” said MacGregor, interpreting the look. “You’ll have to put up with my poor company for the time being.” “I accept your apology,” said Reivers and turned comfortably toward the wall. A deep, chesty chuckle came from the fireside.