to light In and snow so bad. We
l«-en on the road since 3 o'clock.’’
A lady! Pamela Brooke. Four
weeks—that was it—the four weeks
he had delayed that letter.
Apology whs in l.ige Walker's
voice, and something else—panic,
l.ige had not told her, had not told
Ely s girl who had come all the
way in from Little Travois.
"All—you hotter come in.’’ Lu
eien hardly knew his own voice. It
had a flat, far away quality. Like
that of a man tniking in his sleep.
The girl climbed down numbly. She
was bundled to shapelessness in
many coats. Lueien recognised the
old moth eaten beaver belonging to
the station agent ut Mahnpac as
the outer covering.
"I’m stiff. ' she said in an even,
melodious voice "Ely-—Ely is bet
ter?”
Lueien flamed with hot agony, ft
had been hard enough to write it
down—but this
He began feebly. "Ely—Ely--”
l.ige Walker eagerly assisted.
•‘Yes'm. Ely lie—now Ely-”
They moved toward the house
•’He is better?” insisted the girl.
Lueien could not speak. He
opened the door. And just then the
giiKt blew out ttie light, but even
as fhe flame died he saw her face,
knew that she had noted that
solemnly empty bed.
She clutched the door posts on
cither side, her hands lost in Bleat
fur gloves.
‘‘Kly Is dead?''
I.ueien nodded, the agony In his
ryes only faintly less than her own.
"1 wrote you a letter—but the
snow has been so bad. *The trnine
weren't running—there wasn't any
mail—"
"No," she repeated dully, "there
wasn't any mail."
l.igc Walker ’broke In, eager to
smooth the sharp angles of the
situation. "I could 'a' told you
down yonder to Mahopno, ma'am
1 could 'a' told yt>u Kly was gone,
ltut I thought mebbe I.oosh would
ruther break tho noos himself
Heen four weeks now, ain't II.
!,oosh, sence Kly was took? That's
it—four weeks. Just 'fjire the big
snow come, I recollect—cold spell
i-nmo along and fro mthe ground
six foot dorp. I.oosh certainly took
can1 of Kly mighty grand, ma'am
lie was a friend and a father to
tint hoy Some of us confe out and
set ill) long fords the last, hut
I.oosh never left him a minute.
Hi Id his head when bin breath go!
short—and Kly he says—’*
"My (iod. I.ige—shut up!” This
from I.ueien, who was white with
uigulsh.
The girl had sunk into a chair,
where Hhe huddled, a shapeless bun
die of fur, with a fair tress of hair
striving out and two eyes burning
likeuilue flames in a face as white
as death. She stared straight in
front of her while the two men
looked on miserably.
"I knew," she said dully, after
a little. “All the way up—sonic
how—1 knew. After the letters
stopped coining—I knew. Hut 1
kept on hoping—you can't stop
hoping, even when you feel It's no
use. Thank you for lieing kind In
hint."
I.n< ion's straight brows drew
down. "Kind to him?" he repeated
"Kind to Kly?"
"I guess you don't kno™ about
I.oosh and Kly, ma'am,” volunteer
ed I.ige Walker. "They heen like
brothers, you might say, ever since
they came up here to this piece of
timber. 1 guess If you'd seen I.oosh
standing there when we were fillin'
up tho-"
I.ige!" warned i.ueien sharplj
Ik- turned to the girl. "Nobodj
hived Kly lietter than I did," lie
said. "We shared everything, Miss
Hnmke. Ilo was all I had—"
"And you let him die!" A deso
late agony was in her voice, but to
I.ueien Mefford's ears, made too
keen by grief and pride and soli
tude, the tremor of her words was
scorn; the flick of u lash, the flash
of blue, bitter fire. He stiffened
"Hood Olid!"
I.Iky a wall of frosted steel tin
shadow which had shut him it
barring him gently away from this
love of Ely's which he could not
share, fell crystallized suddenly into
a definite icy prison. Through Its
frozen and unfriendly glitter ho
beheld Pamela Brooke—a woman
of snow and marble, white throat
ed, eyes like blue ice, hostlly. He
drew hack a step, shivering a littli
his black brows lient. Then he in
dined his head stiffly.
"This hon.se is your's, Miss
Brooke. It is yours as it was Ely's.
1 im sorry for what has happened
—but it cannot be helped. Please
make yourself comfortable. We bet
ter see about your horse. IJge.”
In the Rtahle T.ige Walker relieved
his mind. "Ely wnulda played hell
marry in* that girl, now wouldn't
he? Buckin' a half section of raw
stump land with a white fingered
woman like that—and him coughin'
up his guts half the time."
"What the devil did you bring her
up here for—ami not tell her?"
“Oosh. how could I tell her—her
looking through me that way she**
got, like I was a cold draft out of
the north or aoniething equally in
significant?' Callin’ mo my good
man,' orderin' me to drive her to
Ely Lucas' place Immediately.
Where’d Ely pick up an iceberg
like her?”
"Ely came out of the provinces
after the war. His people had
money—lost most of it. I guess.”
"Yeah—hut Ely didn't give you a
mouthful of high and mighty talk.
If he wanted anything he'd yoll
out 'HI, you old sun of a gun’—
sumo as anybody. She was mighty
took back when I told her it was 14
miles tip here on shoes, and the
loads all blowed to hell with drifts
higher than the devil can spit. "Did
you know Ely was Axin' to git mar
ried?”
"Yes, he told me.” Lueien thought
with dull pang of the times that
Ely had tried to tell him; tried to
plan the future, dream aloud his
boyish dreams of Pamela Brooke.
"She'll make this shack a home,
hoosh. And you’ll be a brother to
both of us." Always Luclen's own
grudging silences had chilled Ely's
confidences. Always the shadow
had fallen. The memory hurt.
"What you goln' to do with her.
I .oosh?”
"She can have what was Ely's. I
guess he would have wanted her to
have It."
"1 guess Ely hadn’t told her much
about you. She got a notion you
was some kind of a hired man
somebody Ely's befriended and
hel|>ed out. She was took back
when I told her you owned this hull
section.”
"Tho land was mine, hut me
money was Ely’s. Half of every
thing was his—half of everything.”
Luclen’s voice held a dead level.
But Into his soul a bard had thrust,
lending, poisoning. In every fiber
lie was loyal to Ely. hut doubt be
ton to work like a toxin, brewing
swift, Insidious decay. He tramped
out of the barn and swallowed
through the welter of the blizzard
to the drifted place beneath the
hemlock. There he leaned his head
against tho sadly singing tree, and
lot wretchedness possess him. This
was ft new pain—jealousy—and
doubt. x .
"1 don't guess Ely had told her
much about you.”
He fought it with argument and
. old" logic. “Why the devil should
he have told her about me?” Elgo
Walker was a liar, a cheaply mail
. ions liar who distorted the truth to
sis* men wince. And what was there
about him—silent, eseetlc, dogged
I.m ien Mefford, that would fit Into
v love letter?
- You’re a fool'." he scoffed at him
self. "You're about as romantic as
i crosscut pawl”
But in the hollow core of his
heart, in that aching, empty place
which had been Ely's, a wall per
“isted. If he, Lueien. had owned
i girl, what could he have written
i0 per that would not have Kben
colored with Ely, red and brown
end laughing with Ely. steeped ami
tinctured with Ely? Had he matter
. d so little, then, in the boy's life?”
‘Eoosh. you’re a damn fool,” he
scorned. “You’re acting like a fool
woman. He wrh all you had—and
you were only a little part of what
he had—and wanting to be all"'
It was always that way. Out ot
iu-y two there must be one who
loves deepest, gives most. He walk
c d back to the house, beaing
igainst tho wind.
Within Pamela Brooko still sat
beside the stove, •‘she had not
i ken off her wraps.
The big snow is here. Miss
Brooke,” Lueien told her. ' You may
have to stay for some time. You will
have this room. Ligo and I will
hunk In the leanto.”
For three days the storm new.
md in the tar paper shack a great
silence, keen strung and tense ns
l he blue stillness of the pines
diode, broken only by the spas
modic grumbling of I„ige Walker
who spat on the stove and cursed
tho snow which whirled uneasily
uni refused to settle, cursed the
fool woman who made all the
trouble for a man, cursed the green
dssing wood and the cold, even
he frozen sausage and beans which
lUeien hewed out of cans and cook
d at meal times.
Pamela Brooke hqddl'd, whltely.
i transparent, desolated figure, in
mie of Ely's heavy mackinaws. She
Stoke seldom, and then quietly, ex
cept to the deg. Chinook had at
inched himself devotedly to her
front the first hour. T.ucien grim
aced bitterly when the dog refused
to follow him, but somewhere deep
within him lurked a faint glow.
Chinook had been h.s dog, not Ely's.
On the fourth day Idge tightened
his snow shoes relentlessly. "1 got
to get back to my woman,' he
argued. "Mebbe 1 can get old
Charlie Fishtail's squaw to shoe
down here and chaperone you.
I.oosh—but I ain’t goin' to stay an
other day. The crust holds— und
it's likely to thaw and rot hell out
of everything tomorrow. Old Mnndy
Fishtail la a right good cook, too, if
you can keep her from spittin on
the griddle. That's what a feller
needs In this country, a good, fat
squaw that can swing an ax and
butcher a beef and make good mash
whisky. Ain't no place for queens
to queen It in. That gal ought to go
•
back to linden and hoard In Buck
ingham palace. It'll be April 'fore
you can take her out In a pung.
Wouldn't be so duberous for you
if she was like wane women—but a
lish blooded stony faced critter like
her—’’
“You watch your lip. lJge! She
belongs to Ely!"
''All right. Don't get hot about
it."
When luge bad floundered away
I.ucien lingered about the barn till
the swift, steely dark fell. Reluc
tantly he tramped to the door, be
tween the dogged M and the laugh
ing U Within was warmth and
light—to which men have for ages
returned with gladness. But Luclcn
felt an alien, defensive aloofness,
lie opened the door reluctantly. He
had composed a formal speecn In
the barn and he begun It. doggedly,
but Pamela Brooke cut him short.
"How long will this snow last.
Mr. Mcfford?” she a.-ked quietly.
“This is January. Wo may have
a thaw—and then the roads may
be closed till April."
“Very well.” She stepped from
behind the table and lifted the cof
fee pot from the stove. “We will
have supper now. It is ready."
“It is not necessary for you to
cook."
“I shall do iny part." He saw
with amazement that she had dress
ed herself In some of Ely's clothes
—an old pair of cordupoy knickers,
■i flannel shirt, army puttees, and
a sweater.
Luclen braced himseir. I may us
well tell you. I am not pleasant to
live with, like Ely. I can’t talk—
or Bing or luugh—or dig up a tune
like ho could. I’m sorry—I’ll try to
mako things as easy for you as J
can. I've sent for an Indian wo
man. She ought to get down tomor
row."
Strange days—all alike as so
.many black crows sulking by. ley.
silent days, made of glaring, snow
blind mornings, pale frozen noons,
and bitter nights. The pines about
(he house swayed and cracked like
shot. A rabbit crept under the
hemlock and died, rigidly, and Lu
oien hid It beneath a drift before
ho remembered that it no longer
mattered to Ely how many little
creatures froze and died In the
woods.
He lay at night in the leanto,
where the air was more hitter than
death. At times he rose and tip
toed Into the wide room to feed the
lire, and only once did he look
toward the western corner where
Pamela Brooke slept under her furs
in Ely's wooden bed. Only once,
and then the sight of a lock of yel
low hair lying loose on the worn
beaver of the station agent’s coat
made his breath quicken, until he
conquered the tremor with wrath.
Old Charlie Fishtail's squaw did
not come. The cold settled, deeper,
merciless. Coffee froze in the tin
pot on the back of the stove of
nights. And deeper and deeper the
freezing sank into Luclen Mef
ford's soul. He walked, like a man
of ice. He spoke, when rarely he
uttered a sentence, with the cold,
clipped thinness of icicles clipping
•ft boughs of pine. Even Chinook
moved away from him nervously
and hung about the girl, his small
eyes upturned In devotion. The girl
was still, self-sufficient, proud.
They moved about the house like
two formal shadows, and sat at the
red covered table with the vrarmth
of the lamp between them, Luclen’s
eyes held doggedly upon his plate,
Pamela Brooke's round chin lifted
her look level and undaunted.
A dumb devil brooded in Lueien s
breast, sulky and dour, whic.h he
fostered, since by the unleavened
poisons it brewed it slew strange
troubling thoughts which crept into
his brain—slew them a most be
fore they were born. Thoughts be
gotten by the sight of white fin
gers under a light, by two chairs
beside a glowing stove by the re
membranes of that tress of yellow
hair.
lie nutrued this devil, for more
and more he found his eyes seeing
not the cold pride of Pamela’s face
but the soft curve of her cheek, the
strong, sure movement of her white
wrist, the still mothering look that
lay aways behind a cloudy barrier
in her eyes. For so long there had
been nobody—nobody but Ely. For
so long the desert of his days had
lain stark and arid under an un
friendly sky, uncomforted by rains,
a mournful place where no flow
ers grew. The thing which was
happening to Lueien was inevit
able, but not knowing this he
fought it with moods and surly
silent-es and smolderings of temper
until at times lightning flashed in
Pamela Brooke's eyes and her lips
parted in anger before her cool in
hibitions prevailed.
"I hate you!” she said to him one
lowering morning. "I wonder if
you know how utterly intolerable
you are?”
"Thank you.” His tone held an
even scorn. “I know it very well.”
"You seem to boast. Is it such an
accomplishment to be a beast?’
"There are times when it is an
accomplishment to be a beast.” And
Lueien, aching with a curious and
futile bewilderment, hardly knew
how truly he spoke.
He tramped away, head down,
every pulse jerking. When he re
turned at dusk she was sitting on
the floor tinkering with Ely's worn
old snowshoes.
"What are you doing?" he de
manded.
"I think 1 shall learn to use these.
One should know how to do every
thing. Isn't that true?"
“You'd last about a quarter of a
mile." Lucien scoffed. "You’re abso
lutely soft. The cold would get you
in about 10 minutes."
"But ultimately I would last two
quarters of a mii>. Do you mind
telling me which end of this thing
is which?”
“Neither end is any good. Ely
ruined them last winter following
the log sleds down.”
Her eyes clouded quickly. A
twitch of pain clutched her lips, and
she laid the warped old shoes down. .
It was as if Bhe saw what Lucien
was always seeing—a red head bent,
eyes that laughed and dared, a
laughing mouth, red checks—too
red. The living, glowing Ely whom
it seemed incredible could he lost to
life. She had never wept. Her
grief was frozen, inward turning,
white. She sat stonily for very
long, until Lucien relented.
“May I help you up?”
lie could not remember when he
had touched a woman's hand be
fore.
The thaw had come with the wan
ing of the moon. A sinister, rotting
mildness undermined the snow
heaps, making the paths, rivers and
the woods a quagmire where even
the rabbits sank oozily, leaving chill
pools of black water in their tracks.
"If it freezes it's all right," said
Lucien. But it did not freeze. In
stead came fresh snow, loose and
soft and clinging, lying on every
twig and stem like a covering of
baby fur. Lucien tramped down to
the mill to look to the roof; return
ing at dark. He found an empty
house, cold and dark. Pamela
Brook was gone.
As ho followed tho wide, awkward
track of Ely's old snowshoeos Lu
cien tried not to think. Out of the
curious mire of his thoughts he
chose one and clung to it because it
was loyal and stupid and therefore
safe. Hhe was Ely's. Ho must bring
her back because she was Ely’s.
Not for a white throat or soft hands
or eyes that mothered and then
somehow lighted a lamp and closed
a shutter in his face. For Ely.
- He found her a hundred yards
from the house, thigh deep in a sod
den drift, chilled and soaked, but
undismayed.
"I find you are right,” she said
coolly. “1 did not last a quarter of
a mile. If you’ll take these off my
feet I think I can get out myself.”
“Be still,” ordered Lucien sudden
ly, his brows thunderous. "Take
hold of my shoulders.”
He gave her mustard tea and
rather bad whisky when they re
turned to the house. "I apologize
for everything," he said with diffi
culty. “Don't try to leave the house
again.”
Hhe smiled faintly lor the first time
since she had come from Little Tra
vois. "He told me you carried Ely
—that swearing man. I didn’t be
lieve it then but I do now.”
"I carried him, at the last—alone."
"Will you show me some time—
where-”
"When the snow melts.
"Ah, but I shall be Bone then.”
At midnight came rain, sluicing
• town the roof, trickling in a Mack
i ill beneath jthe door. Lucien moved
into the upper bunk in tiie leanto,
and set his boots high off the earth
en floor. It was then that he heard
a call. For an Instant he thought It
was Ely calling again—"Looslif
Loosh!”
Then he knew it was Pamela
Brooke. He leaped from the bunk,
snatching on his outer clothes. In
the flicker from the stove he saw
her lying, very brigt eyed, her hair
'umbled, flame in her cheeks.
“Something seems to be wrong
here." She wore a brave and ghastly
shadow of a smile.
Lucien counted the wiry leap of
her pulse, marked the rasp of her
breathing. Instantly it seemed to
him that the dreary weeks of win
ter were wiped away like frost on
a pane. That this was Ely lying
here grumbling at the pain in his
gassed lung. He knew what to do.
Ail the clutter of remedies, so futile
with Ely, were still on the shelf. Ho
brought them all out, mended the
fire, opened the window wide.
“Cover your ears,” lie counseled.
“We’ll light this with oxygen."
At dawn she was coughing with
every breath, writhing a iittle with
pain, biting her lips. Lucien made
hot coffee and held her while she
drank it, his arm thrilling under
her shoulders. The clean part of
her bright hair lay near to his lips
and before he scarcely knew what
he did a tingling madness fired him
and he pressed his mouth hard
against the soft gold of it. And at
that moment Pamela Brooke lifted
her eyes and looked into his face.
What lie saw in that look send Lu
cien stumbling out to the hemlock
tree, blind with a curious, monastic
self condemnation. For the first
time he owned to himself the sin
of hi9 own soul. He was a lhief—J
coveting what was Ely's. And
cause he had seen a melting in Pa
mela Brooke’s eyes he knew what
manner of thief he was.
"God knows, Ely," ho declared to
the blackened, rain-washed mound,
“I didn't want It to happen. God
knows that.” He fought the thing
out in the dragging, hours that
passed, fought it first witli pre
tense. "This is Ely,” he said to him
self when Pamela Brooke burned
with fever und fought for breath
and he held her upright all night,
with the old mackinaw of Ely’s
pinned under her chin. "This is Ely,
sick. I’ve got to take care of Ely.”
He fought it with the old dumb
stubbornness until the cruelty of it
made him sick Fever had made Pa
mela a babbler. ‘“Talk to me, I.oosh,”
she plead constantly. "Tell mo about
-him.”
And so I.ucien told over and over
the anguished story of those two
months after the grippe had found
the weakened tissue In Ely's glassed
lung. Every word, every whisper
of Ely’s she wanted, and I.ucien
chanted them as a tortured penitent
might say a miserere, searching for
absolution and finding it nowhere.
But when the fever left her and she
grew stronger he gave it tip. He
had been built four square, with
botli feet on the ground. Deception
was not In him. He could not act.
could not pretend. He came In from
the mill and flung off his coat,
standing forth very lithe and slender
and stern, with black brows drawn
down.
The road is open, lie said to
Pamela Brooke. “In a week or two
-as soon as you are strong enough
I’ll take you down to Little Travois.
They found old Charlie Fishtail’s^
squaw under a drift—she's bcen^
frozen a long time, I guess. And
you can't stay here—1 guess you
know—I care—to much.”
She was still. Her eyes looked'at
him, mothered him, lighted a lamp,
and so Luclen dared to believe—did
not drawn down a baffling shutter
to bar him out. Her lips' grew
gentle.
“But first,” she said after a little,
“you’ll show me—where—
The snow was gone when at last
ho took her out to the hemlock tree.
She walked steadily, clad in Ely’s
old clothes, his puttees and boots,
his niachinaw. They stood together
for very long, while th® barberry
hush rustled Its naked lacy branches
vainly, boasting in a still little way
the wood things have, of the feath
ery leaves it was weaving for those
boughs. Then Pamela Brooke spoke.
"Clood-by, Ely.”
She turned away, her hands in
the pockets of the old mackinaw.
Then she faced Luclen, a curious
expression on her face. In her
fingers she held a folded, soiled piece
of paper.
"It was in the pocket.”
“It’s his handwriting, Ely’s, lie
was pretty weak — see how it
shakes.” The handwriting was
Ely’s. Penciled, frail, wandering.
But the script was decipherable, the
signature unmistakable. This was
Ely’s testament scrawled on a scrap
torn from a letter.
“I want Lueien Mefford to have
everything that belongs to me.
"(Signed) ELY LLCAS.”
r-very tiling that belongs to me.
The girl's voice was shaken. £
Lucien stood still, every nerve
taut as frozen wires. Overhead a
vagrant breeze,, born in the south,
stirred the hemlock till it sang.
Lucien's blood leaped. Ely was
digging up a tune.again. The world
was good. Ah, the world was good.
"Everything that belongs to me!" he
repeated like a prayer.
She went away that day. Llge
Walker drove her, grumbling, in the
pung. Chinook, chained to a stake,
yelped desolately and plunged at his
collar. Lucien told her good bye at
the door. They said little. There
was so little to say, out of a world
of words so few that were any
use.
"I'll come down—after a little,’*
Lucien stammered. "When it's sum
mer will you let me come—Pa
mela?”
"When it’s summer—Loosh.”
The brief warmth of her fingers
iti hia own; a blue, blue tenderness
of eyes—and she was gone. But
Lucien felt no emptiness of loss. lie
stood very straight in the fringy
path between two grayish ribbons
which were all that remained of the
great snow harriers, and the glow of
all the possessions of the earth was
his.
lie looked at the house, at the
rusty tin letters whimsily tacked
beside the door.
Ely had said thnt L le lunged in
Love!
“Shut up. you fool," he said to
the dog. "She's coming hack.”
Copyright, 1922.
The compressed air shovel, which
is taking the place of the old hand Jj
pick and snovel, weighs 2:1 pounds.^
Blows delivered in rapid succes
sion to the upper end of the spade
drive it rapidly into the earth,
which may be then readily pried
loose.
