"Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from the table.

"Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard.

"I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so promisin' I has t' go."

"Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th'

night."

"When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom.

"Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a _long_ time," plead Emily. "I've been wishin' t' have she _so_ much. Please be leavin' she a _long_ time."

"Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though I'd like t' bide longer."

"Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily a fortnight," her father suggested.

"I'll take th' la.s.s over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard.

"'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be doin' your la.s.s good."

So it was agreed, and Tom drove away.

It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and her presence brightened the cabin very much.

No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with "th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter.

When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now, and Emily was as happy as could be.

Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home, admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the threshold.

Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy burden upon his shoulders.

It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him and cried in agony:

"Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!"

"Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un."

He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child.

Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint, and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried gently to soothe her.

Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief.

At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----"

upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the first effects of the shock.

Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step, beginning with the arrival of himself and d.i.c.k at the river tilt on Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and pa.s.sed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller explanation here and there.

When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she raised her head and announced:

"None o' _them_ were ever a part o' Bob's clothes."

"Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her decision.

"None of un were _Bob's_. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes, an'--I--_knows_: I _knows_," she insisted.

"But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said Ed.

"Th' _clothes_ were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my lad is livin'--somewheres--I _feels_ my lad is livin'," she a.s.serted.

Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question.

"Why," she asked, "had he two axes?"

It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe in any of the tilts.

"Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's axe."

The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that Bob still lived. She a.s.serted that he was alive as one states a fact that one knows is beyond question. The circ.u.mstantial evidence against her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason, and her conclusions she will hold against the world.

"I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t'

do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door.

Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair.

That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs.

Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly speak:

"Mother."

She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek.

"Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?"

"Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, la.s.s, an' th'

Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he."

"But," she insisted, "he's an angel now _if_ th' wolves killed un?"

"Yes, dear."

"An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves, don't He, mother?"

"Be quiet now, la.s.s."

"But He does?" persisted the child.

"Aye, He does."