“A woman!” gasped David.

“Yes, a woman—­a woman who lives—­or lived—­up in the Stikine River country you mentioned to-day.”

David’s heart stirred strangely.

“The Stikine River, or—­or—­Firepan Creek?” he asked.

It seemed a long time to him before Father Roland answered.  He was thinking deeply, with his eyes half closed, as though striving to recall things that he had forgotten.

“Yes—­it was on the Firepan.  I am sure of it,” he said slowly.  “He was sick—­small-pox, as I told you—­and it was on the Firepan.  I remember that.  And whoever the woman was, she was there.  A woman!  And he—­afraid!  Afraid, even now, with her a thousand miles away, if she lives.  Can you account for it?  I would give a great deal to know.  But he will say nothing.  And—­it is not my business to intrude.  Yet I have guessed.  I have my own conviction.  It is terrible.”

He spoke in a low voice, looking straight at David.

“And that conviction, Father?” David barely whispered.

“Tavish is afraid of some one who is dead.”

“Dead!”

“Yes, a woman—­or a girl—­who is dead; dead in the flesh, but living in the spirit to haunt him.  It is that.  I know it.  And he will not bare his soul to me.”

“A girl ... who is dead ... on Firepan Creek.  Her spirit....”

A cold, invisible hand was clutching at David’s throat.  Shadows hid his face, or Father Roland would have seen.  His voice was strained.  He forced it between his lips.

“Yes, her spirit,” came the Missioner’s answer, and David heard the scrape of his knife as he cleaned out the bowl of his pipe.  “It haunts Tavish.  It is with him always. And he is afraid of it!”

David rose slowly to his feet and went toward the door, slipping on his coat and cap.  “I’m going to whistle for Baree,” he said, and went out.  The white world was brilliant under the glow of a full moon and a billion stars.  It was the most wonderful night he had ever seen, and yet for a few moments he was as oblivious of its amazing beauty, its almost startling vividness, as though he had passed out into darkness.

“A girl ...  Firepan ... dead ... haunting Tavish....”

He did not hear the whining of the dogs.  He was again piecing together in his mind that picture—­the barefooted girl standing on the rock, disturbed, startled, terrified, poised as if about to fly from a great danger.  What had happened after the taking of that picture?  Was it Tavish who had taken it?  Was it Tavish who had surprised her there?  Was it Tavish—­Tavish—­Tavish....?

His mind could not go on.  He steadied himself, one hand clutching at the breast of his coat, where the picture lay.

The cabin door opened behind him.  The Missioner came out.  He coughed, and looked up at the sky.

“A splendid night, David,” he said softly.  “A splendid night!”