The Bridgeport evening farmer., 1912-08-19

"Ak, the white angel is seeI-ver' seek"
 nuPnured Jan.
 ans lips Jan Thoreau played softly upon his violin. It was the great, heartbroken sob of John Cummins that stopped him. In the dim light of the cabin their eyes met. It was then that Jan Thoreau knew what had happen ed. He forgot his starvation He crushed his violin closer and whispered to himself:
 'sThe white angel ees-gone.'
 Cummins rose from the bedside slow ly, like a man who had suddenly grown old. His moccasined feet dragged as he went to the door They stumbled when he went out into the pale star glow of the night.
 Jan followed, swaying weakly, for the last of his strength had gone in the playing of the violin. Midway in the cabin he paused, and his eyes glowed with a wild, strange grief as he gazed down upon the still face of Cummins' wife, beautiful in death as it had been in life and with the sweet softness of life still lingering there. Some time, ages and ages ago, he had known such a face and had felt the great clutching love of it.
 Cummins had partly closed the door after him, but watchers had seen the opening of it. A door opened here, and another there, and paths of yellow light flashed over the hard trotlden snow as. shadowy life came forth to greet what message he brought from the little cabin. When the word came totthem at last and passed from lip to lip and from one grim, tense face to another the doors closed again and the lights went out one by one, until there remained only the yellow eye of the factors office and the faint glow from the little cabin in which John Gum mins knelt with his sobbing face crushed close to that of his dead.
 There was no one who noticed Jan Thoreau when he came through the door of the factors office. His coat of caribou skin was in tatters. His feet thrust themselves from the toes of his moccasins. His face was so thin and white that it shone with the pallor of death from it's frame of straight dark hair. His eyes gleaned like black dia- monds. The madness of hunger was In him.
 An. hour before death had been grip ping at his throat when he stumbled upon the lights of the post. That night he would have died in the deep snows. Wrapped in it's thick coat of bear skin he clutched his violin to his breast and sank down in a ragged heap beside the hot stove His eyes travelled about him in fierce demand. There is no beggary among these strong souled men of the far north. and Jan's lips did not beg. He un- wrapped the bear skin and whispered: For the museek of the violon-some ting to eatp'
 He played even as the words fell from him, but only for moment, for the bow slipped from his nerveless grip and his head sank forward upon his breast
 In the half Cree's eyes there was something of the wild beauty that gleamed in Jan's. For an instant those eyes had met in the savage rec ognition Of blood. and when Jan's head fell weakly and his violin slipped to the floor Mukee lifted him in his strong arms and carried him to the shack in the edge of the spruce and balsam.
 And there was no one who noticed Jan the next day, except Mukee. He was fed. His frozen blood grew warm. As life returned he felt more and more the pail of gloom that had settled over this spark of life in the heart of the wilderness. He had seen the woman in life and in death, and he, too, loved her and grieved that she was no more. He said nothing; he asked nothing. But he saw the spirit of adoration in the sad, tense faces of the men.