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Show George J feAPf Marsh UMil COPYRIGHT iy TAf PENN PUBLISHING CO. " ' "-VS&' SERVICE you will stny hero, wilh your friends." He turned crypt leiilly to the nurse. "She. was n soldier; she did not tllncli from wounds," nml went out, followed hy the puzzled eyes of the oilier. Then, outside, In the cool dusk of the clearing rose n wail, mournful, unenrthly, followed hy (mother nml nnother. Jonn Qunrrler's face appeared In the duorwiiy of the living room. "It's too ghastly," she suid with n shiver. "How do they know?" "They always know n I ways wnll for the deud." And he went out to quiet the dogs. At the Rate of the stockade stood the airedale, Joining the huskies In their threnody under the fading slurs. At Guthrie's conminnd, the dog stopped nnd trotting up, wllh a muf-fled muf-fled whine thrust his moist nose Into his muster's hand. "Nindn's gone, Shot." CHAPTER III Daylight founrt man nnd dog on the high river shore. At times the nmn spoke to 1 lie airedale, who, sensing his master's mood, repeatedly returned from short excursions to nuzzle Guthrie's hand. Again and again, he-fore he-fore the light came, the whimpering huskies had taken up their wailing, to he checked hy the man on guard, whose thoughts traversed the swift weeks of the summer. Out of the silent places, this doomed child of the valiant heart had come, nnd now into the silence had gone. What must have been her despair, de-spair, he thought, to have left her people nnd sought sanctuary among strangers. But it had been friends she hacf found. But what a miracle to have had that schooner driven on Aklmiskl with the girl who had shared the wntch with him! What a solace and rock she had been those fine, straight-gazing straight-gazing dark eyes, and capable hands. It was because she had understood had resented his thinking it necessary to explain the situation at Elkwnn the sailors of the shipwrecked schooner schoon-er manned four long oars. In the how, the geologist, Kl.HI smarting from his humllhilliin, talked In low tones to his sailing master. Beside the steersman steers-man stood Gulhrlc, holding a compass, com-pass, for the shores were Invisible. Near lilm, wilh forefeet on the rail the alredale peered Into I lie white wall of mist, his black nostrils diluting as he caught, at Intervals, on the moist air, scents vague, Illusive, enticing. "You are losing valuable time from your goose hunt by taking us to Albany Al-bany in your boat," suggested Joan Quarrier to Guthrie, who had found a seat beside her. "After what you've done, I could not send you oil' in that ship's boat. You might have been days making Albanyhad Al-banyhad serious trouble getting ashore to make camp If the wind changed. It's a tricky coast. You're not much like your dignilied brother," he answered, his face lighting In amusement as he glanced toward the sulking Quarrier. "He's hardly worrying worry-ing about our goose supply for the winter." The clean-cut mouth of the man beside be-side her curled in the smile she had come to associate with the factor of Elkwan. Then her eyes, shifting to the dim ribbon of spruce edging the marshes, saw the face of the girl of the photograph at the post, and she wondered what was behind it all. He studied the prolile of Joan Quarrier, Quar-rier, the musing eyes with the strongly marked brows, the half-parted lips, th frame of chestnut hair shot with gold. Fine, It was, he thought with the beauty of expression ; but above Its comeliness of line and skin the stamp of strength, the essence of character. The absent look faded from her eyes. "I can understand ou a day like this," she said, "what you mean by this gray coast holding you. It's so untouched so primeval. It seems almost al-most as if we were the first to see It." "It's like this for a thousand miles the west coast," he replied, "with a few fur posts at the mouths of the rivers." "A thousand miles of silence except ex-cept the call of the geese." "You won't be here for the Black Brant and the Grand geese. They are the last to reach the west coast they and the swans." "Swans?" He nodded. "You haven't heard the voice of the raw solitudes If you've missed the trumpeting of the swans, high against the October stars." "Man, you're growing poetic." "The swans and the gray geese," he went on, "typifying it all tUe silence, the loneliness, the beauty." For a space she sat, chin in hand,' heavy brows contracted. Then she looked up with : "Like so many, the din and excitement of the war the disillusion of its aftermath, has left you with abnormal nerves. This loneliness lone-liness which attracts you now will make a hermit of you a brooding eccentric. ec-centric. Go back to Montreal before It's too late." "Not until I've had it out with Laughing McDonald," he laughed. "But whatever do you do in winter here? You'll admit it's forlorn enough then. Is it hard to keep warm in this terrible cold?" "Cold? Why, It's colder on the north shore of Superior, and there's not as much snow. Of course when the wind blows it's cold on the sea ice. It's cold anywhere then." "And so you're actually not lonely," she persisted, "I've heard of men going mad." "Oh, of course, there are times " His wind-burned face darkened as he avoided her look. "But there are compensations, com-pensations, you know. Shot !" The airedale left' the rail and pushing between be-tween Guthrie's knees, lifted his whiskered whis-kered muzzle with a throaty rumble, his eyes searching his master's face. "Here is one. I couldn't be lonely with Shot, could I, old man?" His tail beating the air, the nose of the airedale wrinkled in a display of formidable face smiling down at him. "He .worships you, doesn't he?" said the girl. "We went through the last months together comrades. You see he found two of us gassed and brought help." The brown hands of Guthrie rubbed the airedale's small ears. Closing his eyes, Shot grunted in ecstacy. "No, but we tire of pork, so when the goose is gone, go after caribou." (TO BE CONTINUED.) 0 lifer5' 7 STORY FROM THE START Garth Guthrie, Canadian war veteran, having to live In the open on account of weakened lungs, Is factor of a Hudson's Bay post nt Klkwan. He came hack from the conflict with a permanently scarred face, which he realizes cost him the love of his fiancee, Kdifli Falconer. Sir Charles Guthrie, his brother, Is a millionaire war profiteer. With Etienne Savanne, halfbreed, his firm friend, Garth meets Doctor Quarrier, geologist, and his sister sis-ter Joan. Their schooner has drifted ashore. Quarrier complains com-plains he has been robbed by a man known as "Laughing McDonald." Mc-Donald." At Elkwan an Indian girl, Kinda, tuberculosis victim, whom Garth has befriended, ts dying. CHAPTER II Continued "Recause, at present, my duty Is here, as you can see." Then the man, whose Intimate knowledge of the inanimate had seemingly taught him little of men, laughed rawly : "Your duty? Yes, I suppose when you fur people get yourselves Into a mess of this kind," he nodded toward the door, "you feel you have to see it through." Joan Quarrier rose from her chair, stunned by the stupid brutality of the remark fearful of the retribution it deserved. Eyes black with anger, Guthrie glared at his guest, who, sensible sen-sible of his mistake, grinned sheepishly, sheep-ishly, then flushed to the roots of his stiff hair. The muscles in the face of the factor knotted, the veins in the brown neck above the flannel shirt swelled with blood in his efforts at self-control. "I I went too far," Quarrier mumbled. "I duni't mean, of course " But he was cut off short with: "Your bed is In the trade-house! You know the way!" The long arm of Guthrie pointed to the door. For a space Quarrier stared Into the cold eyes ; then, stung by the outrage to his dignity, got to his feet in angry protest. "What do you mean? You dare Insult In-sult me order me out of your house like an inferior?" But there was that In the face of the man whose arm still Indicated the door which wrung "the bluster from the geologist as water wa-ter Is wrung from a rag. "You'll hear from this this conduct of yours. I'll report this to your superiors," su-periors," protested Quarrier, as he stormed out of the room. Guthrie turned to the girl, who was visibly swept by shame stirred by an , emotion which left her weak, clouded eyes fixed on the man who said in a voice still thick with anger: "I'm sorry, Miss Quarrier so sorry. He went too far." "You were right he was lmpos-, sible," she agreed in a voice raw with disgust, with a slow nod of the dark head. "He has always blundered always failed to understand." "I want to tell you about her." She turned on him almost fiercely. "Do you think I, also, do not understand?" under-stand?" she demanded. For a space he searched her tense, white face; then replied1, cryptically, "You have served with the wounded ; It Is enough." He went to the door and whispered to old Anne. Then he began: "She came here in June with some Ojibwas, from far beyond the Klkwan headwaters, for this is a Cree country. coun-try. They were not her own people, I am convinced, hut one of the men claimed to be her father. She was not sure, for she had grown up with r- them didn't even know her age. hut she can't be more than eighteen. Old Anne found her sick In a tipi half fed neglected. We took her In, and for a time the canned milk amf the broth worked a miracle. She was happy too; that helped. "When the trade was over and the Indians started for their summer camps, -they demanded her and she could hardly walk a hundred yards without resting. Of course, they didn't really want her; their purpose was to hold me up. They asked for everything every-thing in the store. They always cro when such a thing happens an Indian In-dian girl stays behind, at the factor's quarters. "You see they thought this was the old situation so did the Crees in spite of what Anne told them. They couldn't understand. Well, I finally got rlo" of her people kicked them out. For weeks she was so happy." Guthrie tiptoed to the sickroom door, looked in, and returned. "In her last conversation with the Indian who called himself her father, I heard her repeatedly say 'Xin da, nln da!' She was so earnest about it. I asked IClivnne what it meant, and he f-ihl me It was Ojibwa for 'I stay here.' Pretty, Isn't It? Nln da, I dwell here. She has chosen her home. So we called her Nlnda. She wns one of us. "Miss Quarrier," went on the man whose face had softened grown boyish, boy-ish, "it fairly tore my heart the happiness, hap-piness, the gratitude of that sick child. Those big eyes of hers followed me like a dog's. I had rescued her, no doubt, from unspeakable misery. . . . It was only natural, I suppose. "After a few weeks she began to fail, and In August, when they called me to Albany, I couldn't throw off the memory of the despair in her eyes when I left You see she feared she would not live until I returned wanted me there when It came. Her eyes haunted me every mile of the coast "This last time when I went, she bade ne good-by was sure that It was the end. But we needed the geese we had to go. . . . I've seen men die my friends ; but those wistful eyes I . . . It's tragic. . . . and she so young." Guthrie stopped his pacing to run his'fingers nervously through his dark hair. "Oh, the dumb misery, here In the north! Think if she'd stayed with her people, to die In a tipi neglected! I'm thankful If I've eased the loneliness loneli-ness the pain for one." The1 souno of coughing, followed by Old Anne's frightened face In the doorway, summoned thera to the other room. The effects of the opiate had worn off. The woman who hud "served with the wounded" wiped the crimsoned crim-soned ling that moved in vain attempt at utterance, as the large eyes, bright with fever, clung to the face of the man who sat beside the cot. "You go to bed, Anne," said Guthrie to the wrinkled Cree. "I will be here the rest of the night." With muttered protest the old woman shuffled from the room. Presently the dry Hps of the sick girl again niovecf. "She wants to say something," said the nurse, and left them. Guthrie bent over the pillow. "YTou go no more?" be faintly heard. He smiled into the questioning eyes, as he shook his head. "No more Ninda." The heavy lids slowly drooped. Through the slow hours of the night they sat beside the waif, who, out of the wilderness haa come to Elkwan, and was now returning. And in the intervals between her ministrations min-istrations to the life which was slipping slip-ping away, the guest of Guthrie learned much of the man with whom she shared the night watch. In the candor of his explanation of the presence of the Indian girl at Elkwan, he had unconsciously revealed re-vealed to the curious woman who studied him, Intimate glimpses of heart. The emblem of the Distinguished Distin-guished Service order which he wore in the photograph In his bedroom vouched for bis caliber as a soldier. But why, she mused, did the brother of the rich Charles Guthrie linger In the wilderness of the west coast when a girl of such loveliness as her three photographs suggested waited for his return? For the nature of their relations rela-tions was established beyond doubt hy the written sentiment on the photographs. photo-graphs. Yet, his health returned, he seemed to be deliberately staying on in the north. What was behind it all, womfered Joan Quarrier; not pity for this poor child, who, in the manner of her kind, had given him worship for the only kindness life had vouchsafed her. That, clearly, would have anchored an-chored Guthrie at Elkwan while Ninda lived, but in face of the fact that the girl was desperately ill could not live Into the autumn, he had prepared to winter on the west coast. Why? So, together, they kept their watch, where, through the halting hours, the spirit of the waif of the forests hovered, hov-ered, awaiting release. Once, after a paroxysm of coughing, the veil of delirium de-lirium lifted and there was a moment mo-ment of consciousness. He leaned to her and the fear which lookecf from the groping eyes faded as she recognized recog-nized the scarred cheek. The wraith of a smile touched the drawn mouth. As the stars paled above the purple tundra of Akimiski, again she recognized recog-nized the face of Guthrie. Her lips moved. His straining ears caught a faint "Bo-jo," the Ojibwa farewell. . , . Then a crimsoned froth welled from the tortured lungs. Joan Quarrier left him with his dead. When she returned wilh Old Anne crooning her grief, she touched him on the shoulder. "You must go now. We will care for her." For a space he stoocf beside the cot, then said : "Good-by, Ninda. As you wished it, "You See He Found Two of Us." that he had been able to talk so freely of Ninda. She had proved her mettle she, too, was a soldier. He pictured Ethel, with her horror of the ugly, thrown into the situation which Joan Quarrier haa calmly met with delicacy and skill. That afternoon Etienne and Guthrie erected a spruce cross over the fresh grave In the little post cemetery and on the white wood of the arm, Guthrie burned with a hot iron the Inscription: "In Memory of Ninda A Soldier," which for years was to be the cause of much shaking of puzzled heads among the whites and the Crees who saw it. At dawn the following morning, Guthrie's York boat with a Peterboro canoe in tow, slowly picked its way through the river mist of the Elkwan delta. In the stern, steering with a sweep hewn from a spruce sapling, stood the wiry Etienne, who knew the channels of the river mouths and the depths of the shoal const from the Raft to Albany. To give the craft steerage way on the first of the ebb, |