here—­four hundred miles beyond civilization.  Mukee, the half-Cree, had never seen a white woman, for even the factor’s wife was part Chippewayan, and no one of the others went down to the edge of the southern wilderness more than once each twelve-month or so.  Her hair was brown and soft, and it shone with a sunny glory that reached away back into their conception of things dreamed of but never seen, her eyes were as blue as the early snowflowers that came after the spring floods, and her voice was the sweetest sound that had ever fallen upon their ears.  So these men thought when Cummins first brought home his wife, and the masterpiece which each had painted in his soul and brain was never changed.  Each week and month added to the deep-toned value of that picture, as the passing of a century might add to a Raphael or a Van Dyke.  The woman became more human, and less an angel, of course, but that only made her more real, and allowed them to become acquainted with her, to talk with her, and to love her more.  There was no thought of wrong—­until the Englishman came; for the devotion of these men who lived alone, and mostly wifeless, was a great passionless love unhinting of sin, and Cummins and his wife accepted it, and added to it when they could, and were the happiest pair in all that vast Northland.

The first year brought great changes.  The girl—­she was scarce more than budding into womanhood—­fell happily into the ways of her new life.  She did nothing that was elementally unusual—­nothing more than any pure woman reared in the love of a God and home would have done.  In her spare hours she began to teach the half dozen wild little children about the post, and every Sunday told them wonderful stories out of the Bible.  She ministered to the sick, for that was a part of her code of life.  Everywhere she carried her glad smile, her cheery greeting, her wistful earnestness to brighten what seemed to her the sad and lonely lives of these silent, worshipful men of the North.  And she succeeded, not because she was unlike other millions of her kind, but because of the difference between the fortieth and the sixtieth degrees—­the difference in the viewpoint of men who fought themselves into moral shreds in the big game of life and those who lived a thousand miles nearer to the dome of the earth.  At the end of this first year came the wonderful event in the history of the Company’s post, which had the Barren Lands at its back door.  One day a new life was born into the little cabin of Cummins and his wife.

After this the silent, wordless worship of Jan and his people was filled with something very near to pathos.  Cummins’ wife was a mother.  She was one of them now, a part of their indissoluble existence—­a part of it as truly as the strange lights forever hovering over the Pole, as surely as the countless stars that never left the night skies, as surely as the endless forests and the deep snows!  There was an added value to Cummins now.  If there