over the blanket to reach the imaginary instrument. So often did he mention "Connie," that Keith felt quite sure she must be his sister, and in his mind he pictured a sweet-faced maiden, far away in some comfortable home, wondering, perhaps, when her brother would return.
One night, as he sat wearily at his post, something attracted his attention. It was a string fastened around the man's neck. Hoping to obtain some clue to his identity, he examined it closely, and found it held a small locket, hidden beneath the rough shirt. Opening the trinket, the beautiful face of a young woman was exposed to view. Long and earnestly he studied it, and, notwithstanding the wasted condition of the man lying before him, he could easily trace a marked resemblance between the two faces. Two letters, "K. R.," were neatly engraven upon the gold cover, but nothing else could he find which would reveal the man's name.
Carefully, almost reverently, he closed the locket, and restored it to its former position. But the sweet eyes which had looked forth at him still remained in his mind. The face burned itself into his soul, and twice during the night he again opened the locket, and studied the features most earnestly.
For ten long years he had not looked upon such a face, and to see this one before him brought back scenes of by-gone days. He remembered one, how pretty she looked on his graduation day, and what a thrill of pleasure he had experienced as she placed her delicate hand into his, and uttered words of congratulation. The future looked very bright then, and in all his visions that little woman stood out sweet and clear. But that was years ago, and now—she had been married long since to a portly, wealthy merchant, while he, no doubt, was forgotten.
At length, wearied out with watching, he threw several sticks upon the fire and lay down in front of it for a short nap. He awoke with a start, to find the fire low, and the form wrapped in the wolf-skin robe very still. A sense of dread crept over him, and, going to his side, he peered into that haggard face. Yes, it was still. The expression was one of peace, the awful peace of death. His right hand, firmly clutching the string of the little locket, was lying upon his breast. For him, at least, the long trail was ended.
CHAPTER III
THE GRAVE IN THE SNOW
The sun of the short winter day was touching the mountain peaks, and slowly stealing down their rugged sides, as Keith emerged from the cabin bearing the cold body of the unknown man. He had a sacred task to perform, and he would not leave the place till all was completed. He had no winding sheet, no coffin in which to lay that silent form. A deep hole dug in the snow with the point of a snow-shoe, was grave and coffin combined, while the same soft, yielding snow spread tenderly over the body was the only winding sheet.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord." How weird and strangely hollow sounded his voice in that lonely place, as he repeated from memory some of the beautiful sentences of the Burial Service of the Church of England. There were none to respond, none to weep, and none to lay fresh flowers upon that snowy mound. There was one mourner, however; the lean dog, silent and wistful, crouching near. At times he glanced up into the speaker's face, as if trying to comprehend the meaning of the words.
"Poor dumb brute," said Keith, when the prayers were over, "you are faithful to the last. While this man was deserted, left here to die, you did what you could to save him. For this, Brisko, old boy, you shall have a home with me, or, I should say, an abiding place, for I hardly know the meaning of the word home."
Before leaving the cabin, Keith had searched long and carefully for some clue as to the dead man's identity. There was only the little locket, which he felt might some day help to explain the matter. Reluctantly he had unclosed the cold, stiff fingers from the slender string, and fastened the trinket around his own neck as the best place where it could be safely guarded.
When the body was well covered he sought for some way to mark the spot. A stick would stand but a short time; something else must serve. Presently an idea occurred to him. Near the grave a huge rock lifted itself several feet into the air, with a side so smooth and perpendicular that no snow could rest upon its surface. Going at once to the cabin, he brought forth the dead man's camping axe, and with the dull blade began to cut into the solid rock.
"Yes," he muttered to himself, "you shall have as solid and grand a monument as the world can afford. The grave is not pretty, I admit, and no hand will lay flowers over you. But this stone will not tumble down till the finger of God touches it, and, I think," he added after a pause, "with this mark upon it He'll let it stand till the Judgment Day."
The mark was a large cross, not artistically done, but cut deep into the hard surface to withstand the wear of years. Beneath this he simply placed the two letters "K. R."
"Not too bad," he remarked, as he stepped back to view his handiwork. "It's the best I can do with such a rough tool, and I think she would be pleased to know that something marks the spot where he is lying."
Then, a strong dual feeling came over him. He longed to track the dead man's rascally partner, find him, and have the just punishment meted out upon his head. Next, to meet the original of the picture, restore the locket, and to tell the story of the death in the wilderness.
"What an appearance I would make," he mused, glancing at his rough buck-skin clothes, coarse leggings, and moccasined feet, while his right hand swept across his unkempt beard and long hair. "If she could see me now she would think I had murdered her brother instead of fighting hard to save his life."
Leaving the grave he returned to the cabin. Here he strapped his slender outfit on the small sled, and with snow-shoes on his feet left the place. He had advanced some distance when suddenly he remembered the dog. He stopped and gave a sharp whistle. Then he called, but the animal did not appear.
"Strange!" he thought. "What has happened to the brute? I must not leave him here."
Retracing his steps, he searched the cabin. Not finding him, he went to the grave, and there, lying on the snowy mound, he found the poor brute. His grief was plainly evident, and, as he lifted his head in response to Keith's call, sorrow, almost human, was depicted on his face. Only after much coaxing was he induced to leave the spot, abandon his old master, and cast in his lot with the new.
Together, at length, they set out upon the long trail; the man drawing the sled, the dog walking dejectedly behind. It was a dreary march over that desolate waste, as on and on they moved, two creeping specks. Nowhere, except it be upon the heaving ocean, does one feel more deeply his own insignificance than when alone in the great white North in midwinter. No human voice to break the awful silence; no song of bird or buzz of insect to fall upon the ear; thousands of miles from home, in a roadless wilderness.
As the second day was drawing to a close, Keith's weary steps quickened. He leaned eagerly forward, his strong, gaunt face filled with expectancy. Creak! Creak! How loudly the snow-shoes sounded at each swinging stride. The noise disturbed him. He stopped and listened intently. Then a look of disappointment passed over his countenance. His gaze swept the sky. The Northern Lights were streaming across the heavens like huge pennons flung out into a strong breeze. The unseen spirits of the North seemed to be marching and countermarching in vast battalions through the Arctic night. Their banners rose, faded, vanished; to reappear, writhing, twisting, curling, flashing forth in matchless beauty all the colours of the rainbow. Yellow and green, green and yellow, ruby-red and greenish-white, chasing one another, vieing with one another as the great, silent army incessantly retreated and advanced.
Such scenes seldom failed to arouse in Keith the feeling of wonder and awe, but on this night he hardly noticed the grand display. He was watching the friendly stars as they tumbled out one by one. For long years they had been his steady companions on many a toilsome journey, and he read them like an open book. He saw the belted Orion swinging in its accustomed place, and the Great Bear dipping close to the horizon. It was seven o'clock, he felt sure of that, and yet that sound did not come. He advanced for some distance, halted, and again listened.
It