It was the Englishman who stood looking through the
tear in that curtained window.
Mukee's moccasined feet made no sound. His hand fell as gently as a
child's upon the stranger's arm.
"Thees is not the honor of the beeg snows," he whispered. "Come!"
A sickly pallor filled the other man's face; but Mukee's voice was
soft and dispassionate, his touch was velvety in its hint, and he went
with the guiding hand away from the curtained window, smiling in a
companionable way. Mukee's teeth gleamed back. The Englishman
chuckled.
Then Mukee's hands changed. They flew to the thick, reddening throat
of the man from civilization, and without a sound the two sank
together upon the snow.
The next day a messenger behind six dogs set out for Fort Churchill,
with word for the company's home office that the Englishman had died
in the big snow--which was true.
Mukee told this to Jan, for there was the bond of blood between them.
It was a painting of life, and love, and purity. Deep down in the
loneliness of his heart, Jan Thoreau, in his own simple way, thanked
the great God that it had been given to him to play his violin as the
woman died.
CHAPTER III
LITTLE MELISSE
The passing of Cummins' wife was as quiet as had been her coming.
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