THE SHADOW OF DEATH The kettle was singing merrily on the stove, and Mrs. Gray was setting the breakfast table, when Emily awoke on Christmas morning. Her father was just coming in from out-of-doors bringing a breath of the fresh winter air with him. "A Merry Christmas," he called to her. "A Merry Christmas t' my maid!" "And did Santa Claus come?" she asked, looking around expectantly. "Santa Claus? There now!" he exclaimed, "an' has th' old rascal been forgettin' t' come again? Has you seen any signs o' Santa Claus bein' here?" he asked of Mrs. Gray, as though thinking of it for the first time. Then, turning towards the wall back of the stove, he exclaimed, "Ah! Ah! an' what's this?" Emily looked, and there, sitting upon the shelf, was a doll! "Oh! Oh, th' dear little thing!" she cried. "Oh, let me have un!" Mrs. Gray took it down and handed it to her, and she hugged it to her in an ecstasy of delight. Then she held it off and looked at it, and hugged again, and for very joy she wept. It was only a poor little rag doll with face and hair grotesquely painted upon the cloth, and dressed in printed calico--but it was a doll--a real one--the first that Emily had ever owned. It had been the dream of her life that some day she might have one, and now the dream was a blessed reality. Her happiness was quite beyond expression as she lay there on her bed that Christmas morning pressing the doll to her breast and crying. Poverty has its seasons of recompense that more than counterbalance all the pleasures that wealth can buy, and this was one of those seasons for the family of Richard Gray. Presently Emily stopped crying, and through the tears came laughter, and she held the toy out for her father and mother to take and examine and admire. A little later Mrs. Gray came from the closet holding a mysterious package in her hand. "Now what be this? 'Twere in th' closet an' looks like somethin' more Santa Claus were leavin'." "Well now!" exclaimed Richard, "what may that be? Open un an' we'll see." An investigation of its contents revealed a couple of pounds of sugar, some currants, raisins and a small can of butter. "Santa Claus were wantin' us t' have a plum puddin' I'm thinkin'," said Mrs. Gray, as she examined each article and showed it to Emily. "An' we're t' have sugar for th' tea and butter for th' bread. But th' puddin's not t' get all th' raisins. Emily's t' have some t' eat after we has breakfast." Dinner was a great success. There were roast ptarmigans stuffed with fine-chopped pork and bread, and the unwonted luxuries of butter and sugar--and then the plum pudding served with molasses for sauce. That was fine, and Emily had to have two helpings of it. If Bob had been with them their cup of happiness would have been filled quite to the brim, and more than once Emily exclaimed: "Now if Bob was only here!" And several times during the day she said, "I'm just wishin' t' show Bob my pretty doll--an' won't he be glad t' see un!" The report from the Mountaineer Indians that no Nascaupees had been seen had set at rest their fears for the lad's safety. The apprehension that he might get into the hands of the Nascaupees had been the chief cause of worry, for they felt full confidence in Bob's ability to cope with the wilderness itself. The day was so full of surprises and new sensations that when bedtime came Emily was quite tired out with the excitement of it all, and was hardly able to keep awake until the family worship was closed. Then she went to sleep with the doll in her arms. The week from Christmas till New Year passed quickly. Richard Gray was at home, and this was a great treat for Mrs. Gray and Emily, and with several of their neighbours who lived within ten to twenty miles of Wolf Bight driving over with dogs to spend a few hours--for most of the men were home from their traps for the holidays--the time was pretty well filled up. Emily's doll was a never failing source of amusement to her, and she always slept with it in her arms. Over at the Post it was a busy week for Mr. MacDonald and his people, for all the Bay hunters and Indians had trading to do, and most of them remained at least one night to gossip and discuss their various prospects and enjoy the hospitality of the kitchen; and then there was a dance nearly every night, for this was their season of amusement and relaxation in the midst of the months of bitter hardships on the trail. Bessie and her mother had not a moment to themselves, with all the extra cooking and cleaning to be done, for it fell upon them to provide for every one; and it became quite evident to Bessie that she could not get away for her proposed visit to Wolf Bight until the last of the hunters was gone. This would not be until the day after New Year's, so she postponed her request to her father, to take her over, until New Year's day. Then she watched for a favourable opportunity when she was alone with him and her mother. Finally it came late in the afternoon, when he stepped into the house for something, and she asked him timidly: "Father, I'm wantin' t' go on a cruise t' Wolf Bight--t' see Emily--can't you take me over with th dogs an' komatik?" "When you wantin' t' go, lass?" he asked. "I'm wishin' t' be goin' to-morrow." "I'm t' be wonderful busy for a few days. Can't un wait a week or two?" "I'm wantin' t' go now, father, if I goes. I'm not wantin' t' wait." "Bob's t' be home," suggested Mrs. Blake. "Oh, ho! I see!" he exclaimed. "'Tisn't Bob instead o' Emily you're wantin' so wonderful bad t' see now, is un?" "'Tis--Emily--I'm wantin'--t'--see," faltered Bessie, blushing prettily and fingering the hem of her apron in which she was suddenly very much interested. "Bob's a fine lad--a fine lad--an' I'm not wonderin'," said her father teasingly. "Now, Tom," interceded Mrs. Black, "don't be tormentin' Bessie. O' course 'tis just Emily she's wantin' t' see. She's not thinkin' o' th' lads yet." "Oh, aye," said he, looking slyly out of the corner of his eye at Bessie, who was blushing now to the very roots of her hair, "I'm not blamin' she for likin' Bob. I likes he myself." "Well, Tom, be tellin' th' lass you'll take she over. She's been kept wonderful close th' winter, an' the cruise'll be doin' she good," urged Mrs. Black. "I wants t' go so much," Bessie pleaded. "Well, I'll ask Mr. MacDonald can he spare me th' day. I'm thinkin' 'twill be all right," he finally assented. And it was all right. When the last hunter had disappeared the next morning, the komatik was got ready. A box made for the purpose was lashed on the back end of it, and warm reindeer skins spread upon the bottom for Bessie to sit upon. Then the nine big dogs were called by shouting "Ho! Ho! Ho!" to them, and were caught and harnessed, after which Tom cracked a long walrus-hide whip over their heads, and made them lie quiet until Bessie was tucked snugly in the box, and wrapped well in deerskin robes. When at last all was ready the father stepped aside with his whip, and immediately the dogs were up jumping and straining in their harness and giving short impatient howls, over eager to be away. Tom grasped the front end of the komatik runners, pulled them sharply to one side to break them loose from the snow to which they were frozen, and instantly the dogs were off at a gallop running like mad over the ice with the trailing komatik in imminent danger of turning over when it struck the ice hummocks that the tide had scattered for some distance out from the shore. Presently they calmed down, however, to a jog trot, and Tom got off the komatik and ran by its side, guiding the team by calling out "ouk" when he wanted to turn to the right and "rudder" to turn to the left, repeating the words many times in rapid succession as though trying to see how fast he could say them. The head dog, or leader, always turned quickly at the word of command, and the others followed. It was a very cold day--fifty degrees below zero Mr. MacDonald had said before they started--and Bessie's father looked frequently to see that her nose and cheeks were not freezing, for a traveller in the northern country when not exercising violently will often have these parts of the face frozen without knowing it or even feeling cold, and if the wind is blowing in the face is pretty sure to have them frosted anyway. Most of the snow had drifted off the ice, and the dogs had a good hard surface to travel upon, and were able to keep up a steady trot. They made such good time that in two hours they turned into Wolf Bight, and as they approached the Grays' cabin broke into a gallop, for dogs always like to begin a journey and end it with a flourish of speed just to show how fast they can go, no matter how slowly they may jog along between places. The dogs at Wolf Bight were out to howl defiance at them as they approached and to indulge in a free fight with the newcomers when they arrived, until the opposing ones were beaten apart with clubs and whips. It is a part of a husky dog's religion to fight whenever an excuse offers, and often when there is no excuse. Richard and Mrs. Gray came running out to meet Tom and Bessie, and Bessie was hurried into the cabin where Emily was waiting in excited expectancy to greet her. Mrs. Gray bustled about at once and brewed some hot tea for the visitors and set out a luncheon of bread for them. "Now set in an' have a hot drink t' warm un up," said she when it was ready. "You must be most froze, Bessie, this frosty day." "I were warm wrapped in th' deerskins, an' not so cold," Bessie answered. "We were lookin' for Bob these three days," remarked Mrs. Gray as she poured the tea. "We were thinkin' he'd sure be gettin' lonesome by now, an' be makin' a cruise out." "'Tis a long cruise from th' Big Hill trail unless he were needing somethin'," suggested Tom, taking his seat at the table. "Aye," assented Richard, "an' I'm thinkin' th' lad'll not be wantin' t' lose th' time 'twill take t' come out. He'll be biding inside t' make th' most o' th' huntin', an' th' fur be plenty." "That un will," agreed Tom, "an' 'twould not be wise for un t' be losin' a good three weeks o' huntin'. Bob's a workin' lad, an' I'm not thinkin' you'll see he till open water comes." "Oh," broke in Emily, "an' don't un really think Bob's t' come? I been wishin' so for un, an' 'twould be grand t' have he come while Bessie's here." "Bessie's thinkin' 'twould too," said Tom, who could not let pass an opportunity to tease his daughter. They all looked at Bessie, who blushed furiously, but said nothing, realizing that silence was the best means of diverting her father's attention from the subject, and preventing his further remarks. "Well I'll have t' be goin'," said Tom presently, pushing back from the table. "Oh, sit down, man, an' bide a bit. There's nothin' t' take un back so soon. Bide here th' night, can't un?" urged Richard. "I were sayin' t' Mr. MacDonald as I'd be back t' th' post th' day, so promisin' I has t' go." "Aye, an' un promised, though I were hopin' t' have un bide th' night." "When'll I be comin' for un, Bessie?" asked Tom. "Oh, Bessie must be bidin' a long time," plead Emily. "I've been wishin' t' have she so much. Please be leavin' she a long time." "Mother'll be needin' me I'm thinkin' in a week," said Bessie, "though I'd like t' bide longer." "Your mother'll not be needin' un, now th' men's gone. Bide wi' Emily a fortnight," her father suggested. "I'll take th' lass over when she's wantin' t' go," said Richard. "'Tis a rare treat t' Emily t' have she here, an' th' change'll be doin' your lass good." So it was agreed, and Tom drove away. It was a terrible disappointment to Emily and her mother that Bob did not come, but Bessie's visit served to mitigate it to some extent, and her presence brightened the cabin very much. No one knew whether or not Bob's failure to appear was regretted by Bessie. That was her secret. However it may have been, she had a splendid visit with Mrs. Gray and Emily, and the days rolled by very pleasantly, and when Richard Gray left for his trail again on the Monday morning following her arrival the thought that Bessie was with "th' little maid" gave him a sense of quiet satisfaction and security that he had not felt when he was away from them earlier in the winter. When Douglas Campbell came over one morning a week after Bessie's arrival he found the atmosphere of gloom that he had noticed on his earlier visits had quite disappeared. Mrs. Gray seemed contented now, and Emily was as happy as could be. Douglas remained to have dinner with them. They had just finished eating and he had settled back to have a smoke before going home, admiring a new dress that Bessie had made for Emily's doll, and talking to the child, while Mrs. Gray and Bessie cleared away the dishes, when the door opened and Ed Matheson appeared on the threshold. Ed stood in the open door speechless, his face haggard and drawn, and his tall thin form bent slightly forward like a man carrying a heavy burden upon his shoulders. It was not necessary for Ed to speak. The moment Mrs. Gray saw him she knew that he was the bearer of evil news. She tottered as though she would fall, then recovering herself she extended her arms towards him and cried in agony: "Oh, my lad! My lad! What has happened to my lad!" "Bob--Bob"--faltered Ed, "th'--wolves--got--un." He had nerved himself for this moment, and now the spell was broken he sat down upon a bench, and with his elbows upon his knees and his face in his big weather-browned hands, cried like a child. Emily lay white and wild-eyed. She could not realize it all or understand it. It seemed for a moment as though Mrs. Gray would faint, and Bessie, pale but self-possessed, supported her to a seat and tried gently to soothe her. Douglas, too, did what he could to comfort, though there was little that he could do or say to relieve the mother's grief. At first Mrs. Gray simply moaned, "My lad--my lad--my lad----" upbraiding herself for ever letting him go away from home; but finally tears--the blessed safety-valve of grief--came and washed away the first effects of the shock. Then she became quite calm, and insisted upon hearing every smallest detail of Ed's story, and he related what had happened step by step, beginning with the arrival of himself and Dick at the river tilt on Christmas eve and the discovery that Bob's furs had been removed, and passed on to the finding of the remains by the big boulder in the marsh, Mrs. Gray interrupting now and again to ask a fuller explanation here and there. When Ed told of gathering up the fragments of torn clothing, she asked to see them at once. Ed hesitated, and Douglas suggested that she wait until a later time when her nerves were steadier; but she was determined, and insisted upon seeing them without delay, and there was nothing to do but produce them. Contrary to their expectations, she made no scene when they were placed before her, and though her hand trembled a little was quite collected as she took up the blood-stained pieces of cloth and examined them critically one by one. Finally she raised her head and announced: "None o' them were ever a part o' Bob's clothes." "Whose now may un be if not Bob's?" asked Ed, sceptical of her decision. "None of un were Bob's. I were makin' all o' Bob's clothes, an'--I--knows: I knows," she insisted. "But th' flat sled were Bob's, an' th' tent an' other things," said Ed. "Th' clothes were not Bob's--an' Bob were not killed by wolves--my lad is livin'--somewheres--I feels my lad is livin'," she asserted. Then Ed told of the two axes found--one on the toboggan and the other on the snow--and Mrs. Gray raised another question. "Why," she asked, "had he two axes?" It was explained that he had probably taken one in on a previous trip and cached it. But she argued that if he needed an axe going in on the previous trip he must have needed it coming out too, and it was not likely that he would have cached it. Besides, she was quite sure that he had but one axe with him in the bush, as there was no extra axe for him to take when he was leaving home; and Douglas said that when he left the trail at the close of the previous season he had left no axe in any of the tilts. "Richard 'll know un when he comes," said she. "Richard'll know Bob's axe." The mother was still more positive now that the remains they had found were not Bob's remains, and Ed and Douglas, though equally positive that she was mistaken, let her hold the hope--or rather belief--that Bob still lived. She asserted that he was alive as one states a fact that one knows is beyond question. The circumstantial evidence against her theory was strong, but a woman's intuition stands not for reason, and her conclusions she will hold against the world. "I must be takin' th' word in t' Richard though 'tis a sore trial t' do it," said Douglas, preparing at once to go. "I'll be findin' un on th' trail. Keep courage, Mary, until we comes. 'Twill be but four days at furthest," he added as he was going out of the door. Ed left immediately after for his home, to spend a day or two before returning to his inland trail, and Mrs. Gray and Emily and Bessie were left alone again in a gloom of sorrow that approached despair. That night long after the light was out and they had gone to bed, Mrs. Gray, who was still lying awake with her trouble, heard Emily softly speak: "Mother." She stole over to Emily's couch and kissed the child's cheek. "Mother, an' th' wolves killed Bob, won't he be an angel now?" "Bob's livin'--somewheres--child, an' I'm prayin' th' Lard in His mercy t' care of th' lad. Th' Lard knows where un is, lass, an' th' Lard'll sure not be forgettin' he." "But," she insisted, "he's an angel now if th' wolves killed un?" "Yes, dear." "An' th' Lard lets angels come sometimes t' see th' ones they loves, don't He, mother?" "Be quiet now, lass." "But He does?" persisted the child. "Aye, He does." "Then if Bob were killed, mother, he'll sure be comin' t' see us. His angel'd never be restin' easy in heaven wi'out comin' t' see us, for he knows how sore we longs t' see un." The mother drew the child to her heart and sobbed.