When morning dawned the horrors of the night lessened, and although weary from want of sleep Martin was not so much depressed. This was due principally to the fact that Nance was somewhat improved. The change had come very quietly, and toward morning she had opened her eyes and had spoken to the bowed man crouching in the chair before the fire. Martin had bounded to her side, and when he saw the new expression in her eyes he knew that the turn for the better had come, and that with care she would recover.

There was complete silence in the cabin all through the day, for Nance, who had sunk into a natural sleep, must not be disturbed. Quabee, and often Taku, kept a patient and faithful watch by the child, while Martin slept on the couch to the left of the fire-place.

Thus through the days and weeks which followed this season of anxiety Nance rapidly improved. Martin was ever with her, played with her, told her stories, and did all in his power to atone for his past neglect. The story he was called upon to tell more than any other was about Beryl. Nance was never weary of hearing about her, and it was the one which Martin was never tired of relating. A mere general and vague idea of what her heroine was like would not satisfy the child. She had to know the colour of her eyes, hair, what kind of dresses she wore, and how she looked when she sang, in fact so many things that Martin's memory was severely put to the test.

To Nance Beryl was more than human. The child's vivid imagination wrought a marvellous transformation, and invested her heroine with qualities little short of divine. As the months passed and Nance's mind steadily developed this silent adoration instead of diminishing increased. Beryl was her standard of perfection in everything. She must have her hair arranged just like Beryl's, and she endeavoured to teach Quabee to make her dresses like those of her heroine. The Indian woman would often gaze in amazement as Nance talked about Beryl. She could not see with the eyes of the child, nor enter into her bright and wonderful world of fancy.

The greatest thing of all to Nance was that Beryl could sing. She, accordingly, must do the same. She had a sweet voice herself, and a true ear, and picked up tunes almost intuitively. Able to sing himself, Martin taught her all the songs and hymns he could remember. Then when she became old enough he gave her lessons upon the violin. It was a great day for the child when she was allowed to take the instrument into her own hands. She had often looked upon it with deep longing, and would sit for any length of time watching Martin drawing the bow so skilfully across the strings, and producing such marvellous music.

Since Nance's illness Martin's mind had been much concerned as to the child's future. He had brought her into the wilderness, and was it right that she should grow up in ignorance? He began to realise his responsibility more and more. Some day, no doubt, she would go out into the world of civilisation, and should she go as a young savage? No, such should not be the case. He would teach her here in the little cabin. It would be the schoolhouse, he the teacher, and Nance the pupil. He would instruct her year after year, develop her mind, and lead her into many fields of knowledge. Although far away from the great centres of education she should have learning which should not make her ashamed if ever she should leave her forest home.

With his mind thus made up Martin at once outlined a course of studies for Nance. The instruction was very simple at first. Martin was a good teacher, the child an apt scholar, and so rapid progress was made. By the time Nance was able to read there came the great necessity for books. Martin had printed everything for her upon scraps of paper. But this was a laborious and a never-ending task. He, therefore, sent an order to the trading post, and after waiting for over a year the books at last arrived. Martin had written for children's books suitable for a little girl. This order the trader had forwarded to his company in England, and the selection was accordingly made there.

It was a great event for Nance when the books arrived. It was a cold night in midwinter when the Indians returned from their trip to the post. There were other things as well in the various packages, but the girl had no eyes for anything but the books. Martin, too, was much interested. The sight of a book was to him like a sparkling spring of water to a thirsty traveller. Although they were only books for children, yet he unwrapped the parcel with feverish haste and examined each volume. He and Nance were on the floor before the fire, and as the thick paper wrapping gave way, and the books were exposed to view, the maiden clapped her hands with delight.

"Oh, daddy, look at this!" and she picked up one of the treasures with a bright picture on the cover.

"You will like that, Nance," Martin replied. "It's 'Alice in Wonderland,' the story your mother used to tell you, and suppose we begin upon it first."

Thus sitting upon Martin's knee, with her head resting against his shoulder, Nance heard again that sweet, thrilling story of Alice's marvellous adventures. Never before had she listened to a tale from a real book, and often she would interrupt the reading that she might look upon the funny, and, to her, wonderful pictures.

That night after Nance was asleep Martin sat for a long time before the fire. The book he was reading was not new to him, but it had been years since he had first read "Little Women." It fascinated him now more than ever. He could enter into the ways of children, and in every incident Nance always rose up before him. How pure and innocent were the little folk mentioned in the book, and what a confiding trust they had in their elders.

After a while he laid the volume aside and began to muse upon what he had just been reading. Suppose that the children should have found out that the older ones, surrounding them with such love and care, were very wicked, and had committed evil deeds in the past. What a fearful and heart-breaking revelation it would have been to them. Then he thought of Nance. What if she in some way should learn that he himself was a bad man! What would she think? He knew that she looked upon him as her hero, and if she should find out the truth about his past life what a terrible grief it would bring to her.

Martin sat straight up in his chair as these thoughts swept upon him. Nance must never know. She must always think of him as a man true and pure. Neither must he give her any cause to believe otherwise.

Martin was not at all satisfied with himself. He longed to be worthy of Nance's trust. What would he not give to be able to look into her clear, confiding eyes, and to feel that he was just what she considered him to be. This was what gave him so much concern now. He wanted the child to believe in him, and at the same time he wished to be worthy of that belief.

A new life was now opened up to Nance. She was growing fast, not only in body, but in mind as well. The books had admitted her into a world of wonder of which she had never before dreamed. They were only a few to be sure, but she knew them almost by heart. Her music, too, gave her much delight, and Martin was astonished at the rapid progress she made. The next year more books arrived, with some sheet-music as well, and thus Nance's mind was fed upon new delights. Then, one Christmas morning, when she opened her eyes, she found at the foot of the Christmas tree a fine new violin—her very own. She did not know how much the instrument had cost, nor the effort which had been made to obtain it. Her cup of joy was now overflowing. Martin, too, was happy as he watched Nance. Her eyes sparkled with animation, and her face beamed with happiness as she drew the bow deftly across the strings.

That she was developing into a beautiful maiden he was well aware. She was growing fast, with a figure lithe and graceful. Her dark eyes reflected as in a clear spring the various moods of her nature. They twinkled with fun, and danced with delight. Often they grew sad and thoughtful, and at times they were soft with the light of love. Hers was an affectionate nature, which was revealed more and more as the years passed. To her Martin was all in all, and as her mind expanded she saw the difference between him and the Indians. The latter were very dear to her, especially Quabee. But the native women could not understand the deep longings hidden within her bosom. She knew that Martin could, and to him she talked.

Nance often wondered what the great world was like beyond the mountains, about which she had read so much in the books. Why were she and Martin living away in the wilderness among the Indians? she asked herself many a time. Martin often noticed the far-away expression in her eyes, and partly surmised the cause. It gave him considerable uneasiness. He was afraid lest Nance should become dissatisfied and wish to go to the places of which he had so often told her. He had expected this, and had even looked forward to the day when they would leave their forest home. But now when the time seemed to be drawing near he shrank more and more from the idea.

Although Nance had just entered her teens when these thoughts came to Martin, yet he realised that every year would make the life more unbearable to her. She was longing for some white girl to play with. The Indian children, notwithstanding the teaching they had received from Martin, did not suit her as companions. She seldom cared to play with them, preferring to be by herself or with Martin.

During the summer Nance lived mostly in the open. When not roaming along the river gathering wild flowers, which grew in such abundance, she was out upon the lake with Martin. What life could be more congenial than that spent in God's Great Open. Yet in the maiden's heart there was a longing for other things. She wished to know more of the world beyond the mountains, and to mingle with the people of whom she had heard so much from Martin and read about in the books. She often pictured to herself what it would be like, how she should act, and what people would think of her. At such times she always thought of Beryl, and tried to imagine what she would do and say. Such an influence was by no means without its effect, and Martin often marvelled how Nance acquired such a quiet and graceful manner, never having seen a white woman, except her mother, whom she did not even remember. He did not know that the silent daily worship of an ideal woman was working the transformation. Everything he had told her about Beryl had been thought over so continually that the very character of the woman of beauty, refinement and nobleness had become indelibly impressed upon the maiden's plastic nature.

Thus, while Nance was living in her enchanted world of fancy, Martin was brooding deeply over more serious things. Of his burden, which grew all the heavier as the years passed, he could in no way lighten it by speaking of it to Nance. He had to bear it alone, no matter how crushing it might become.