In this world he knew there could not be another woman such as she.  Here, in all this emptiness and glory, her shallow soul would have shrieked in agony; she would have shrivelled up and died.  It was too clean.  Too white.  Too pure.  It would have frightened her, tortured her.  She could not have found the poison she required to give her life.  Her unclean desires would have driven her mad.  So he arraigned her, terribly, without malice, and without pity.  And then, like the quieting touch of a gentle hand in his brain, came the thought of the other woman—­the Girl—­whose picture he carried in his pocket.  This was her world that he was entering.  She was up there—­somewhere—­and he looked over the barriers of the forest to the northwest.  Hundreds of miles away.  A thousand.  It was a big world, so vast that he still could not comprehend it.  But she was there, living, breathing, alive!  A sudden impulse made him draw the picture from his pocket.  He held it down behind a bale, so that Father Roland would not chance to see it if he looked back.  He unwrapped the picture, and ceased to puff at his pipe.  The Girl was wonderful to-day, under the sunlight and the blue halo of the skies, and she wanted to speak to him.  That thought always came to him first of all when he looked at her.  She wanted to speak.  Her lips were trembling, her eyes were looking straight into his, the sun above him seemed to gleam in her hair.  It was as if she knew of the thoughts that were in his mind, and of the fight he was making; as though through space she had seen him, and watched him, and wanted to cry out for him the way to come.  There was a curious tremble in his fingers as he restored the picture to his pocket.  He whispered something.  His pipe had gone out.  In the same moment a sharp cry from Father Roland startled him.  The dogs halted suddenly.  The creaking of the sledge runners ceased.

Father Roland had turned his face down the lake, and was pointing.

“Look!” he cried.

David jumped from the sledge and stared back over their trail.  The scintillating gleams of the snow crystals were beginning to prick his eyes, and for a few moments he could see nothing new.  He heard a muffled ejaculation of surprise from Mukoki.  And then, far back—­probably half a mile—­he saw a dark object travelling slowly toward them.  It stopped.  It was motionless as a dark rock now.  Close beside him the Little Missioner said: 

“You’ve won again, David.  Baree is following us!”

The dog came no nearer as they watched.  After a moment David pursed his lips and sent back a curious, piercing whistle.  In days to come Baree was to recognize that call, but he gave no attention to it now.  For several minutes they stood gazing back at him.  When they were ready to go on David for a third time that day put on his snow shoes.  His task seemed less difficult.  He was getting the “swing” of the shoes, and his breath came