It was a night of wind and storm in the Quaska valley. It had been snowing all day, and a fierce wind was driving down the river. As long as daylight lasted Nance had stood by the window, looking out towards the lake. The mountains were all hidden from view, and nothing could she see but the snow which swirled and raved around the house. It was the last of January, and all through the winter Nance had been thinking seriously of that life beyond the mountains which was drawing her with irresistible, invisible cords. She was not a child now, but a young woman of seventeen, tall and graceful.

Leaving at length the window, she began to prepare the evening meal. The cabin had undergone considerable changes during the past five years. It was no longer a bare dingy place. The rough walls had been carefully covered with cotton, and this coloured with a light-blue paint, which had been procured at the trading post. Magazine-pictures were tacked on all sides, while several large rare pelts were stretched out upon the walls. The bareness of the floor was relieved by a number of well-dressed bear skins. On the side of the fire-place, where Nance's cot had formerly stood, a room had been curtained off especially for her own use. Instead of scraped skins letting in the light through the windows, glass had been obtained at much expense. In the middle of the room stood the table as of old, but this now was covered with a cloth of a deep rich shade. It had been one of Martin's ambitions to make this little home as cosy and comfortable as possible, and each year he had added some of the refinements of civilisation. In this way he had hoped not only to educate Nance but to make her more satisfied with her lot.

As Nance now prepared supper she laid a white cloth upon the table, and brought from a little cupboard to the left plates, cups, saucers, knives, and forks. She was a good housekeeper, for Martin had instructed her in such matters, as well as in music and other accomplishments. She was thus busy at work when the door opened and Martin entered. He stood for a few seconds looking upon the scene before him. The bright light of the fire illumined the room, forming a pleasing contrast to the roughness of the night outside. Nance turned towards him with a smile of welcome.

"Oh, daddy," she began, "I'm so glad you are back, as I have been very lonesome. What has kept you so long?"

Martin walked over to the fire and laid aside his heavy coat.

"Supper is ready, I see," and he glanced at the nicely-browned piece of moose meat sizzling by the fire. "I'm hungry as a bear, so can't tell you now what I've been up to. But you shall know before long."

When both were seated at the table, and the meal was well under way, Martin looked over at Nance.

"I've heard important news to-day," he remarked.

"At Taku's?"

"Yes. It's somewhat startling, too. The Indians have brought in word that there has been a rush of white men into the country. There's been a gold strike somewhere down the Heena, and they came in by way of the Ayan River."

"Will it affect us here, do you think?" and Nance looked earnestly at Martin.

"Not for a while," was the reply. "But we can't expect to be left alone for any length of time. There will be prospectors prowling all over the country now, and they are bound to strike the rich diggings up the Quaska. When that happens there'll be hordes and hordes up this way."

"Will they trouble us any, daddy, do you think?"

"Will they! You may be sure they will. This will be no place for us if they discover the gold up yonder. They will swarm in here like flies, and our days of peace will be over."

Nance did not reply to these words, and save for the crackling of the fire there was silence in the room. Martin's mind dwelt upon the changes which would take place around the quiet lake should the miners come. He thought also of the gold, so carefully concealed in the ground at the rear of his house. He and Nance were the only ones supposed to know anything about the treasure buried there.

"Daddy, let us go away from this place," Nance at length remarked.

Martin started, and almost dropped the cup he was raising to his lips. He looked keenly into the flushed face before him, and then partly understood what an effort it had been for Nance to make such a request.

"Are you tired of living here, little one?" he asked, and his voice had a pathetic note, which did not escape Nance's attention. "Are you dissatisfied with your lot?"

"Not altogether, daddy. But we used to talk, you remember, how some day we would go away to the great world outside, although we have not spoken about it for several years. In a way I am happy here, and you do so much for me that I should be satisfied. But I do want to see some of the things of which you have told me."

"Sure, sure; it's only natural," Martin assented.

"It seems as if we should go soon," Nance continued, "if we are to go at all. Should the miners come here our quiet home-life would be broken up, and you would not wish to remain any longer if they came, would you?"

Martin did not at once reply to these words. He pushed back the stool upon which he was sitting, and drew forth his pipe. His mind was in a perturbed state. He had been dreading the coming of the time when Nance should wish to leave the Quaska valley. He had taught her for years, and she had responded to his teaching. He was proud of her, and he well knew that she could soon take her place in the great world beyond. There were many things, of course, which she would have to learn there in addition to what he had taught her. He had kept from her all knowledge of the Church, and of clergymen. Of them she knew absolutely nothing. She would naturally be astonished when they went outside, and would ask why he had not spoken to her about such things. What answer would he be able to give? At times during her reading Nance had come across various things about the Church, but as Martin had told her that it was merely a society of men and women she had thought nothing more about it then.

Martin dreaded, moreover, the idea of mingling again with many people. He tried to believe that all had forgotten him, and what he had done. But now he did not feel so sure, as he felt that some would remember. For himself he did not care so much. But suppose that Nance should hear of it! There were bound to be meddlesome people, who would consider it their duty to tell everything they knew. He had met such persons, who seemed to consider it a part of their religion to make it as uncomfortable as possible for any one who had stepped aside from the path of rectitude. He recalled the case of a young man who had slipped in life, and had spent several years in prison. Upon his release he determined to redeem the past. He obtained a position with a large firm, and was giving excellent satisfaction when several human vultures recognised him, and with hypocritical solicitude informed the manager about the young man's past life. The result was that he was discharged. The same thing occurred wherever he went, until, broken in spirit, he gave up the fight, and drifted into evil ways. He knew the people who had wrecked that young man's after life, and they firmly believed that they were doing the Lord's work.

This he well knew would be true in his own case. There would be some who would recognise him as the outcast clergyman, and who would consider it their unctuous duty to tell all they knew. Of course he and Nance could go to some place far off, away from the scene of his disgrace. But even there he would not feel secure. The world was small in these days of easy travel, and he might find it hard to escape unknown. The gold would supply all their needs. His only worry was as to how he could take so much outside. It would be very difficult to carry it without arousing suspicion.

While Martin was thus musing, Nance had cleared off the table, washed the dishes, and put them carefully away. When all had been completed, she drew the big chair up close to the fire. Then, going to where Martin was sitting, she laid her hand affectionately upon his shoulder.

"Come, daddy," she said, "your chair is all ready. It's more comfortable there."

Martin obeyed her without a word. Nance at once took up her position on a little stool at his feet, and rested her left arm upon his knee. For some time she gazed steadily into the fire without speaking. Martin, too, was silent as he sat there smoking away at his pipe.

"Daddy," Nance after a time began, "you are not my real father, are you?"

"No, little one, I am not," was the quiet reply. "You knew that, didn't you? But I've been a father to you, have I not?"

"Yes, and a mother, too. But I do long to know about my real father and mother. When I was little you told me that you would take me to them some day. I believed that then, but as I grew older I felt there was some reason why you did not do so. I have often longed for you to tell me the whole truth, but I was afraid to ask you."

"What were you afraid of, Nance? That I wouldn't tell you, eh?"

"No, not that. You see, I looked forward so long to meeting them that I used to dream about it by night, and think about it by day. Then it came slowly to me that they were dead. At first I put away the thought, but it grew stronger and stronger the older I became. And then I was afraid to know the truth, because the old hope of meeting them some day had taken such a hold upon me. Now I want to know all."

"I did it for the best, Nance," Martin replied. "When you were little I knew that it would give you much sorrow if I told you all. Then as you grew older I found it difficult to tell you, and as you did not speak to me about them I thought that perhaps you had forgotten. I did it for the best. Now I know that I should have told you."

"I know you did; I am sure of it," and Nance turned her eyes up to Martin's. "You always do everything for the best. You are so good."

At these words a slight mistiness rose before Martin's eyes. If she only knew, he said to himself, how differently she would think. But to Nance he only said:

"Yes, I shall tell you all now, for you are a woman, and can understand such things."

Then Martin unfolded to Nance the sad scene which had taken place on the great Mackenzie River years before. He told her about the accident which had deprived her of father and mother, and left her to the mercy of the Indians. He related simply the part that he himself had performed in caring for her, and carrying her off into the wilderness.

To all this Nance listened with fast-beating heart Her cheeks were flushed, caused not by the heat of the fire, but from the vehemence of her emotion. When Martin spoke about her mother lying so white and still in the Indian lodge her eyes grew moist. But when he mentioned the grave upon the hill-top tears streamed down her cheeks, and her form trembled violently.

"There, there, little one," Martin soothed, laying his hand affectionately upon her head, "I didn't mean to make you feel so badly."

"I know you didn't, daddy," Nance sobbed. "But I cannot help it. My poor father and mother! And only think what would have become of me if you had not been there! I might have lived the rest of my life among the Indians just like one of them. It makes me shudder when I think about it. How much I owe to you."

"You have done more for me, Nance, than I have ever done for you."

"For you!" Nance exclaimed in astonishment. "Why, what have I done for you?"

"You gave me new life, that is what you have done. Before I found you no one loved me, and I had no one to care for. I was a lonely man, without any definite purpose in life. But since you came I have had you to live for. You are all I have now, Nance."

"I have often wondered," Nance replied, "why you ever brought me here. I never liked to ask you, but I have thought about it very much. You know so many things about the world outside, and all that it means, that it must have been hard to bury yourself away in such a wilderness place as this."

As Martin made no immediate reply Nance at first thought that she had offended him. Seeing the expression of pain which passed over his face, she rose quickly to her feet, and threw her arms about his neck.

"Forgive me, daddy," she pleaded. "I'm so sorry that I asked that question. I had no right to do so. You did it for the best, I am sure."

"Sit down, Nance," and Martin motioned her to the stool. "You certainly have the right to ask why I brought you here and kept you shut up in such a place as this for so many years. But how can I answer you? Something caused me to come here, but just what it was I cannot explain. I made a failure in life years ago, and so fled into the wilderness to be far off from people who knew what I had done. To them I am a bad man. But, oh, Nance, I would give anything to be what I once was! How happy I should be to be able to go out into the world and not shrink back from the looks of men and women. But there, I did not mean to tell you this. You will wonder what it all means."

"Don't, don't talk that way, daddy," and Nance placed her hand in his as she spoke. "You are not a bad man. I don't care what people say or think. They do not know you as I do. If they knew what you have done for me all of these years they would think differently. Anyway, no matter what people say, it won't make any difference in my love to you. Though you are not my real father, I love you just the same."

"I know it, Nance; I know it," Martin huskily replied, while his hand closed tight upon hers.

"And, daddy," Nance returned, "if you don't want to go away from here, I shall not mind. So don't let us worry any more about it."

"No, Nance; that must not be. It will be for the best if we go away. I have been thinking it all over very carefully of late. We shall go out to the trading post next summer, in time to go south on the first steamer as it returns from its northern trip. I can get a number of Indians to pack the gold over the mountain. As to the future, we can talk about that again. Come now, let us have some music together, and banish all sad thoughts."

Thus in the cosy cabin before the bright fire Martin and Nance played upon their beloved instruments. The storm continued to rage outside, but they heeded it not. Forgotten for a while were their worries, and what the future might have in store did not trouble them. The music cheered them, and united their hearts with the strong bands of enduring affection.