Year: 1876

night and its loneliness. The way was
long, he was tired from his day of excite
ment and travel, and he began to feel some
msgivings about reaching home in time to
save Marie from a night of watching.
There was different trail from the one
taken by himself and companions that
morning. which would cut off mile or two
of his Journey, and into that he would turn.
He shifted his course, and was soon al the
stream which marked the new trail. Fol-
lowing its guidance short distance, he
came to a pine tree which a late storm had
uprooted, and which now lay across the
frozen river. The sight of the tree decided
him to cross and follow the path on the
other side. And, yielding to a desire to
feel something more solid than crumbling
snow under his feet, he shook off his shoes
and climbed upon the fallen trunk. AS he
did so he noticed that the ice had been
shattered by the tough branches, and the
water was running swift and cold through
the green leaves. He strobe forward along
the ice incrusted bark with free, careless
step. In the middle of the stream, he
sprang lightly past an interfering bough.
| slipped as he regained his footing, clutch
ed at the branches overhead, crashed
through the wiry tree. and an instant later
felt the icy water sweeping over his feet.
The fall, when he realized it seemed on
ly the Interruption of a moment, and the
slight Inconvenience of pair of wet moe.
casns which would soon freeze and cease
to trouble him. He threw his arm up for
supporting branch by which to extricate
himself. but it fell back powerless, and
sent sickening thrill through his frame.
Still, even now, he reasoned, his accident
could be nothing serious, and he struggled
up to free himself from the close-lapping
branches. But the short struggle showed
him how vain it was. He could neither
rise nor sink. The heavy burden on his
shoulders held him firmly down. Beneath,
his only foot-hold was the rushing water,
and lie seemed bound about by a thousand
firmly fixed cords in the slender, tough
branches. More than the slightest move
ment was an impossibility, and by degrees
the horrible truth that he was chained in a
prison. in spot which might not be trav-
ersed for years by human feet, and from
which he could only be released by the
hand of death, forced itself upon him. He
did not submit to the discovery quietly, for
with all the strength of his slender, athlet.
ic frame, he struggled; but after each
fruitless attempt, he paused, only to find
himself held more firmly in the pine trees
embrace. The tolls which encompassed
him were seemingly so slight that to be
batlled by them filled him with fierce rage
and he shook them and beat wildly about
him with his left hand to break them away
But the branches only gave out bruised
fragrance as they cut sharply through the
cold air and swayed against his face and,
after an hour or more of combat, he sank
back hopeless, to wait. Save for the pain
which his arm gave him when he moved
it, he was not suffering, or. if suffering.
his mental anguish made him insensible to
it. And, as he stood upright in his trap,
his mind supernaturallv clear, he thought
until his imasinings became torture al.
most uncomfortable.


Again the picture of his lowly home
arose before him. Again, more vividly
than ever, he saw Marie pale and fearful,
listening for the step she would never
again hear. Oh, why had he parted from
her so coldly? Why had he not told her
his partially formed plans that last night
as they sat before the fire I? How plainly
he remembered her answer when he asked
her what she would do without him-''I
would die. Antoine" AS he repeated the
words, they brought him a strange Joy TO
know that without him she could not live,
that they would meet again ere long, when
he could tell her that he had always been
true to her, that even when death came to
him he was Fastening to her.


With the certainty of death came
thoughts of the future. His life, in the
sight of the church aud the world, had
been one of outlawry and disobedience
to the laws of God and man. What hope
was there for him now? What a vast
distance would separate him from Marie,
even after they Were both dead. Would
they ever meet? Or would she look as
immovably upon him from her sanity
heights, as the cold moon now looked up
on him from the wintry sky? How could
a dying man repent and be forgiven with
out the aid of q sanctified prayer? If
only he could see Marie, She was his
church, his priest, his heaven. And with
the remembrance of her love, there came
an underlined feeling that if she, in her
pure heart, could find him worth loving
and saving, God-intinitely purer, holier,
and more pitying-would receive his
blackened soul and make it white and
clean.


AS the first gleam Of light penetrated
the darkness OF her long night. Marie pre-
pared for her journey. During the night
she prayed as iervently as her distracted
heart would allow, that her search might
be successful, that the welcome sight of
Antoine might greet her eyes before an
other night She believed that she would
be guided to him. wherever he was, and
so she started on. 10 find him, or perish
in the wilderness.


Through the slowly dawning day she
passed toward the camp. The snow of
the night still lay thickly upon the trees,
obscuring the pale light and giving the
forest weird, gloomy aspect she had
never seen before.


Her wanderings of the summer had
taught her some things necessary to know
of forest travel. She had learned the
signs by which Antoine recognized trail
So she found her way without great diff
Guilty. though her progress was slow and
she often sank down exhausted and un-
happy, to rest. But there was comfort in
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