BACK AT WOLF BIGHT Bob's apparent death was a sore shock to Richard Gray. When Douglas found him on the trail and broke the news to him as gently as possible, he seemed at first hardly to comprehend it. He was stunned. He said little, but followed Douglas back to the cabin like one in a mesmeric sleep. A few days before he had gone away happy and buoyant, now he shuffled back like an old man. Mechanically he looked at the remains and examined the gun and the axe--Ed had brought out but one of the axes found by the rock with the remains--and said, "Th' gun's not Bob's. Th' axe were his." "Th' gun's not Bob's!" exclaimed Mrs. Gray "Th' clothes is not Bob's! Now I knows 'tis not my boy we've found." "Yes, Mary," said he broken-heartedly. "Tis Bob th' wolves got. Our poor lad is gone. No one else could ha' had his things." He and Douglas made a coffin into which the remains were tenderly placed, and it was put upon a high platform near the house, out of reach of animals, there to rest until the spring, when the snow would be gone and it could be buried. For a whole week after this sad duty was performed the father sat by the cabin stove and brooded, a broken-hearted, dispirited counterpart of what he had been at the Christmas time. It was the man's nature to be silent in seasons of misfortune. During the previous year, when luck had been so against him, this characteristic of silent brooding had shown itself markedly, but then he did not remain in the house and neglect his work as he did now. He seemed to have lost all heart and all ambition. He scarcely troubled to feed the dogs, and the few tasks that he did perform were evidently irksome and unpleasant to him, as things that interfered with his reveries. From morning until night Richard Gray nursed the grief in his bosom, but never referred to the tragedy unless it was first mentioned by another; and at such times he said as little as possible about it, answering questions briefly, offering nothing himself, and plainly showing that he did not wish to converse upon the subject. Over and over again he reviewed to himself every phase of Bob's life, from the time when, a wee lad, Bob climbed on his knee of an evening to beg for stories of bear hunts, and great gray wolves that harried the hunters, and how the animals were captured on the trail; and through the years into which the little lad grew into youth and approached manhood, down to the day that he left home, looking so noble and stalwart, to brave, for the sake of those he loved, the unknown dangers that lurked in the rude, wild wastes beyond the line of blue mysterious hills to the northward. And now the poor remains enclosed in the rough box that rested upon the scaffold outside were all that remained of him. And that was the end of all the plans that he and the mother had made for their son's future, of all their hopes and fine pictures. Mrs. Gray had never seen her husband in so downcast and despondent a mood, and as the days passed she began to worry about him and finally became alarmed. He had lost all interest in everything, and had a strange, unnatural look in his eyes that she did not like. One evening she sat down by his aide, and, taking his hand, said: "Be a brave man, Richard, and bear up. Th' Lard's never let Bob die so. That were not Bob as th' wolves got. I'm knowin' our lad's somewheres alive. I were dreamin' last night o' seem' he--an'--I feels it--I feels it--an' I can't go agin my feelin'." "No, Mary, 'twere Bob," he answered. "I feels 'tweren't, but if 'twere 'tis th' Lard's will, an' 'tis our duty t' be brave an' bear up. Tis hard--rare hard--but bear up, Richard--an' bear un like a man. Remember, Richard, we has th' maid spared to us." And so, heart-broken though she was herself, she comforted and encouraged him, as is the way of women, for in times of great misfortune they are often the braver of the sexes. Her husband did not know the hours of wakeful uncertainty and helplessness and despair that Mrs. Gray spent, as she lay long into the nights thinking and thinking, until sometimes it seemed that she would go mad. Bessie, gentle and sympathetic, was the pillar upon which they all leaned during those first days after the dreadful tidings came. It was her presence that made life possible. Like a good angel she moved about the house, unobtrusively ministering to them, and Mrs. Gray more than once said, "I'm not knowin' what we'd do, Bessie, if 'twere not for you." After a week of silent despondency the father roused himself to some extent from the lethargy into which he had fallen, and returned to his trail. The work brought back life and energy, and when, a fortnight later, he came back, he had resumed somewhat his old bearing and manner, though not all of the buoyancy. He entered the cabin with the old greeting--"An' how's my maid been wi'out her daddy?" It made the others feel better and happier; and he was almost his natural self again when he left them for another period. The report of Bob's death did not appear to affect Emily as greatly as her mother feared it would. She was silent, and took less interest in her doll, and seemed to be constantly expecting something to occur. One day after her father had left them she called her mother to her, and, taking her hand to draw her to a seat on the couch, asked: "Mother, do angels ever come by day, or be it always by night?" "I'm--I'm--not knowin', dear. They comes both times, I'm thinkin'--but mostly by night--I'm--not knowin'," faltered the mother. "Does un think Bob's angel ha' been comin' by night while we sleeps, mother? I been watchin', an' he've never come while I wakes--an' I'm wonderin' an' wonderin'." "No--not while we sleeps--no--I'm not knowin'," and then she buried her face in Emily's pillow and wept. "Bob's knowin', mother, how we longs t' see he," continued Emily, as she stroked her mother's hair, "an' he'd sure be comin' if he were killed. He'd sure be doin' that so we could see un. But he's not been comin', an' I'm thinkin' he's livin', just as you were sayin'. Bob'll be home wi' th' break-up, mother, I'm thinkin'--wi' th' break-up, mother, for his angel ha' never come, as un sure would if he were dead." On two or three other occasions after this--once in the night--Emily called Mrs. Gray to her to reiterate this belief. She would not accept even the possibility of Bob's death without first seeing his angel, which she was so positive would come to visit them if he were really dead; and it was this that kept back the grief that she would have felt had she believed that she was never to see him again. Bessie remained with them until the last of February, when her father drove the dogs over to take her home, as many of the trappers were expected in from their trails about the first of March to spend a few days at the Post, and her mother needed her help with the additional work that this entailed. Emily was loath to part from her, but her father promised that she should return again for a visit as soon as the break-up came and before the fishing commenced. Douglas Campbell was very good to the Grays, and at least once each week, and sometimes oftener, walked over to spend the day and cheer them up. Often he brought some little delicacy for Emily, and she looked forward to his visits with much pleasure. One day towards the last of May he asked Emily: "How'd un like t' go t' St. Johns an' have th' doctors make a fine, strong maid of un again? I'm thinkin' th' mother's needin' her maid t' help her now." "Oh, I'd like un fine, sir!" exclaimed Emily. "I'm thinkin' we'll have t' send un. 'Twill be a long while away from home. You won't be gettin' lonesome now?" "I'm fearin' I'll be gettin' lonesome for mother, but I'll stand un t' get well an' walk again." "Now does un hear that," said Douglas to Mrs. Gray, who at that moment came in from out of doors. "Your little maid's goin' t' St. Johns t' have th' doctors make she walk again, so she can be helpin' wi' th' housekeepin'." "The's no money t' send she," said Mrs. Gray sadly. "'Tis troublin' me wonderful, an' I'm not knowin' what t' do--'tis troublin' me so." "I'm thinkin' th' money'll be found t' send she--I'm knowin' 'twill," Douglas prophesied convincingly. "Ed were sayin' Bob had a rare lot o' fur that he'd caught before th'--before th' New Year--a fine lot o' martens an' th' silver foxes. Them'll pay Bob's debt an' pay for th' maid's goin' too. That's what Bob were wantin'." "Did Ed say now as Bob were gettin' all that fur?" she asked. "I were feelin' so sore bad over Bob's goin' I were never hearin' un--I were not thinkin' about th' lad's fur--I were thinkin' o' he." "Aye, Ed were sayin' that. Emily must be ready t' go on th' cruise t' meet th' first trip o' th' mail boat. Th' maid must be leavin' here by th' last o' June," planned Douglas. "But we'll not be havin' th' money then--not till th' men comes out, an' then we has t' sell th' fur first t' get th' money," Mrs. Gray explained. "Then--then I hopes th' maid may go. 'Tis what Bob were goin' t' th' bush for--an' takin' all th' risks for--my poor lad--he were countin' on un so----" "We'll not be waitin'. We'll not be waitin'. I has th' money now an' th' maid must be goin' th' first trip o' th' mail boat," said Douglas, in an authoritative manner. "Oh, Douglas, you be wonderful good--so wonderful good." And Mrs. Gray began to cry. "Now! Now!" exclaimed the soft-hearted old trapper, "'Tis nothin' t' be cryin' about. What un cryin' for, now?" "I'm--not--knowin'--only you be so good--an' I were wantin' so bad t' have Emily go--I were wantin' so wonderful bad--an' 'twill save she--'twill save she!" "'Tis no kindness. 'Tis no kindness. 'Tis Bob's fur pays for un--no kindness o' mine," he insisted. Emily took Douglas' hand and drew him to her until she could reach his face. Then with a palm on each cheek she kissed his lips, and with her arms about his neck buried her face for a moment in his white beard. "There! There!" he exclaimed when she had released him. "Now what un makin' love t' me for?" Richard returned that evening from his last trip over his trail for the season, and he was much pleased with the arrangement as to Emily. "Your daddy'll be lonesome wi'out un," said he, "but 'twill be fine t' think o' my maid comin' back walkin' again--rare fine." "An' 'twill be rare hard t' be goin'," she said. "I'm 'most wishin' I weren't havin' t' go." "But when you comes back, maid, you'll be well, an' think, now, how happy that'll make un," Mrs. Gray encouraged. "Th' Lard's good t' be providin' th' way. 'Twill be hard for un an' for us all, but th' Lard always pays us for th' hard times an' th' sorrow He brings us, wi' good times an' a rare lot o' happiness after, if we only waits wi' patience an' faith for un." "Aye, mother, I knows, an' I is glad--oh, so glad t' know I's t' be well again," said Emily very earnestly. "But," she added, "I'm thinkin' 'twould be so fine if you or daddy were goin' wi' me. Bob were countin' on un so--I minds how Bob were countin' on my goin'--an' he's not here t' know about un--an' I feels wonderful bad when I thinks of un." Of course it was quite out of the question for either the father or the mother to go with her, for that would more than double the expense and could not be afforded. There was no certainty as to how much would be coming to them after Bob's share of the furs were sold. This could not be estimated even approximately for they had not so much as seen the pelts yet. Richard, grown somewhat pessimistic with the years of ill fortune, even doubted if, after Bob's debt to Mr. MacDonald was paid, there would be sufficient left to reimburse Douglas for the money he had agreed to advance to meet Emily's expenses. "But then," he said, "I suppose 'twill work out somehow." At last the great storm came that opened the rivers and smashed the bay ice into bits, and when the fury of the wind was spent and the rain ceased the sun came out with a new warmth that bespoke the summer close at hand. The tide carried the splintered ice to the open sea, wild geese honked overhead in their northern flight, seals played in the open water, and the loon's weird laugh broke the wilderness silence. The world was awakening from its long slumber, and summer was at hand. Tom Black kept his word, and when the ice was gone brought Bessie over in his boat to stay with Emily until she should go to the hospital. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon when they arrived and Bessie brought a good share of the sunshine into the cabin with her. "Oh, Bessie!" cried Emily, as her friend burst into the room. "I were thinkin' you'd not be comin', Bessie! Oh, 'tis fine t' have you come!" Tom remained the night, and he and Bessie cheered up the Grays, for it had been a lonely, monotonous period since their last visit, and never a caller save Douglas had they had. Time, the great healer of sorrow, had somewhat mitigated the shock of Bob's disappearance, and had reconciled them to some extent to his loss. But now the sore was opened again when, one day, a grave was dug in the spruce woods behind the cabin, and the coffin, which had been resting upon the scaffold since January, was taken down and reverently lowered into the earth by Richard and Douglas. Mrs. Gray, though still firm in the intuitive belief that her boy lived, wept piteously when the earth clattered down upon the box and hid it forever from view. "I knows 'tis not Bob," she sobbed, "but where is my lad? What has become o' my brave lad?" Bessie, with wet eyes, comforted her with soothing words and gentle caresses. Richard and Douglas did their work silently, both certain beyond a doubt that it was Bob they had laid to rest. Nothing was said to Emily of the burial. That would have done her no good and they did not wish to give her the pain that it would have caused. The days were rapidly lengthening, and the sun coming boldly nearer the earth was tempering and mellowing the atmosphere, and every pleasant afternoon a couch was made for Emily out of doors, where she could bask in the sunshine, and breathe the air charged with the perfume of the spruce and balsam forest above, and drink in the wild beauties of the wilderness about her. Here she lay, alone, one day late in June while her mother and Bessie washed the dinner dishes before Bessie came out to join her, and her father and Douglas, who had come over to dinner, smoked their pipes and chatted in the house. She was listening to the joyous song of a robin, that had just returned from its far-off southland pilgrimage, and was thinking as she listened of the long, long journey that she was soon to take. Her heart was sad, for it was a sore trial to be separated all the summer from her father and mother and never see them once. She looked down the bight out towards the broader waters of the bay, for that was the way she was to go. Suddenly as she looked a boat turned the point into the bight. It was a strange boat and she could not see who was in it, but it held her attention as it approached, for a visitor was quite unusual at this time of the year. Presently the single occupant stood up in the boat, to get a better view of the cabin. "Bob! Bob! BOB!" shouted Emily, quite wild and beside herself. "Mother! Father! Bob is coming! Bob is coming!" Those in the house rushed out in alarm, for they thought the child had gone quite mad, but when they reached her they, too, seemed to lose their reason. Mrs. Gray ran wildly to the sandy shore where the boat would land, extending her arms towards it and fairly screaming, "My lad! Oh, my lad!" Bessie was at her heels and Richard and Douglas followed. When Bob stepped ashore his mother clasped him to her arms and wept over him and fondled him, and he, taller by an inch than when he left her, bronzed and weather-beaten and ragged, drew her close to him and hugged her again and again, and stroked her hair, and cried too, while Richard and Douglas stood by, blowing their noses on their red bandana handkerchiefs and trying to took very self-composed. When his mother let him go Bob greeted the others, forgetting himself so far as to kiss Bessie, who blushed and did not resent his boldness. Emily simply would not let him go. She held him tight to her, and called him her "big, brave brother," and said many times: "I were knowin' you'd come back to us, Bob. I were just knowin' you'd come back." An hour passed in a babble of talk and exchange of explanations almost before they were aware, and then Mrs. Gray suddenly realized that Bob had had no dinner. "Now un must be rare hungry, Bob," she explained. "Richard, carry Emily in with un now, an' we'll have a cup o' tea wi' Bob, while he has his dinner." "Let me carry un," said Bob, gathering Emily into his arms. In the house they were all so busy talking and laughing, while Mrs. Gray prepared the meal for Bob, that no one noticed a boat pull into the bight and three men land upon the beach below the cabin; and so, just as they were about to sit down to the table, they were taken completely by surprise when the door opened and in walked Dick Blake, Ed Matheson and Bill Campbell. The three stopped short in open-mouthed astonishment. "'Tis Bob's ghost!" finally exclaimed Ed. They were soon convinced, however, that Bob's hand grasp was much more real than that of any ghost, and the greetings that followed were uproarious. Nearly the whole afternoon they sat around the table while Bob told the story of his adventures. A comparison of experiences made it quite certain that the remains they had supposed to have been Bob's were the remains of Micmac John and the mystery of the half-breed's failure to return to the tilt for the pelts he had stolen was therefore cleared up. "An' th' Nascaupees," said Bob, "be not fearsome murderous folk as we was thinkin' un, but like other folks, an' un took rare fine care o' me. I'm thinkin' they'd not be hurtin' white folks an' white folk don't hurt they." Finally the men sat back from the table for a smoke and chat while the dishes were being cleared away by Mrs. Gray and Bessie. "Now I were sure thinkin' Bob were a ghost," said Ed, as he lighted his pipe with a brand from the stove, "and 'twere scarin' me a bit. I never seen but one ghost in my life and that were----" "We're not wantin' t' hear that ghost yarn, Ed," broke in Dick, and Ed forgot his story in the good-natured laughter that followed. The home-coming was all that Bob had hoped and desired it to be and the arrival of his three friends from the trail made it complete. His heart was full that evening when he stepped out of doors to watch the setting sun. As he gazed at the spruce-clad hills that hid the great, wild north from which he had so lately come, the afterglow blazed up with all its wondrous colour, glorifying the world and lighting the heavens and the water and the hills beyond with the radiance and beauty of a northern sunset. The spirit of it was in Bob's soul, and he said to himself, "'Tis wonderful fine t' be livin', an' 'tis a wonderful fine world t' live in, though 'twere seemin' hard sometimes, in the winter. An' th' comin' home has more than paid for th' trouble I were havin' gettin' here."