It was not long after Dick and Tom had left Martin's cabin that the stampeders arrived. They were in good spirits, but very hungry, having eaten the last of their meal the previous evening. Nance was washing the breakfast dishes and thinking of Dick, when she was startled by the appearance of several men at the door. They doffed their caps when they saw the young woman, and asked if they might have something to eat.

"We are sorry to disturb you, Miss," Barry Dane explained, acting as spokesman, "but we're down to hard-pan. We've not had a bite to eat since last night, and there's a long trail ahead of us."

"Come right in," Nance replied. "We haven't much ourselves, but I know that my father will be pleased to share with you."

While the men seated themselves about the room, Nance went to the larder, and brought forth a large piece of moose meat. From this she cut off numerous slices, and then began to fry several of them over the fire.

"Let me help you, Miss," Barry volunteered. "I am fairly handy at such work, and it isn't right that you should cook for us lazy louts."

"Well, then, you can attend to this while I look after the table," and Nance handed him the frying-pan.

Each man had with him his meagre supply of dishes, and ere long all were enjoying the meat, as well as the tea, which Nance had prepared. These men treated their young hostess with the greatest courtesy. Not a rough word was spoken, and it was somewhat pathetic to observe the manner in which several of them endeavoured to assume an air of gentility. They were true knights, this body of men, rough outwardly, but possessed of big, loyal hearts.

They were almost through with their meal when Martin arrived, bringing with him an old man, who tottered as he walked. He had wide-staring eyes, and was continually muttering to himself. The stampeders rose to their feet in surprise as they recognised 'Dad' Seddon, whom they had left up the Quaska that morning. He had refused to come with them, saying that he would follow later and overtake them.

"What's happened to Dad?" was Barry Dane's first question. "He seems to be all in."

"He certainly is," Martin replied. "I found him up stream down on his knees, clawing at the ground, and jabbering away at a great rate. He's gold mad, that's what's the trouble with him. Come, Nance," and he turned toward her; "a piece of that meat and a cup of tea will do him much good."

Nance had been staring hard at the pathetic figure of the old man. He looked so frail and helpless that her eyes filled with tears as she watched him.

"Say, Dad, what's wrong with you?" Barry asked, stepping over to Seddon, and laying a heavy hand upon his shoulder.

But the poor creature simply stared, and continued his muttering as before. He ate ravenously the food Nance brought him, and gulped down a cup of tea.

"What are we to do with him?" Jim Lane asked. "We can't take him with us, that's sure."

"Leave him here," Martin replied. "We will look after him as well as we can. I think he'll be all right after he has had a good sleep."

"It's kind of you, sir," Barry remarked, "and we won't forget it. We have a long trail ahead of us and could hardly manage Dad. And, besides, we've no grub until we strike our cache down stream. Could you let us have some meat?"

"I think we can," and Martin crossed over to the larder as he spoke. "We have a little meat and a small supply of smoked fish. We can spare some, eh, Nance?"

"Yes," Nance replied. "We can get along very well, as we shall soon have fresh fish from the lake."

"Thank ye kindly," several of the men responded. "We certainly won't forget what ye've done for us to-day."

In about half an hour they had left the cabin, and were swinging off down the trail. They met Tom a short distance from the house, and to him they imparted the news about Dad.

"I'll look after the poor chap," Tom said. "He'll be all right in a short time, never fear."

When he reached the house he found Dad tucked in bed. The half-crazed man had objected at first, but at last had yielded to Nance. Her words and the touch of her hand upon his greatly soothed his excited state of mind, so in a short time he was sleeping soundly.

"It's jist what he needs," Tom explained, as he looked upon him. "He's slept hardly a wink since startin' upon this stampede. That an' the want of food, together with the thought of the gold, has somewhat upset the machinery of his head. Oh, I've seen sich cases afore. He's a fine one, is old Dad, true as steel to his friends, rather cranky at times, an' a regular devil to any one who tries any crooked business upon him. I always got along well with the old chap. In fact we were quite chums last winter. He's great at chess, an' we used to play it most every night. He's got a set of chessmen he made durin' the long winter evenin's out of ivory from the tusk of an old mastodon we found on a little creek some time ago. He's mighty proud of them, I can tell you that, an' if we can git his mind off of the gold fer a while an' turn it on to chess, it might do him a world of good."

"Why, chess is one of our games," Nance replied. "Daddy taught it to me a long time ago, and he, too, made all the pieces himself, out of wood."

"Well, I declare!" and Tom looked his surprise. "To think of you playin' sich a deep, solemn game as that! I don't believe that ye'd find many young women outside spendin' their time in sich a way, ah, no. They're too lightheaded an' giddy fer that. It certainly'll be a great comfort to old Dad when he sees yer chessmen. He'll keep ye at it all the time. He'd 'a' played night an' day last winter if any one would have played with 'im. You will surely be all right in his eyes when he wakes an' I tell 'im the news."

"You had better be careful," Martin laughed. "Nance might not be able to do anything else if Dad gets hold of her. I might lose my housekeeper."

"Ye're bound to lose her sooner or later, anyway," and Tom winked at Nance, as he drew forth his pipe and tobacco from his pocket.

At these words Martin's face darkened, and he straightened himself up with a sudden jerk. His lips moved as if he were about to speak, but not a sound did he utter. He looked Tom full in the face for a few seconds, and then turning walked towards the door. He paused upon the threshold, and glanced around upon the prospector.

"You look after him until I return," and he motioned towards Dad. "I brought down a sheep this morning, but left its carcass up the valley in order to bring in the old man."

"Let me go," Tom hastened to reply. "It isn't fair that you should do all the work."

"No, thank you, I shall go myself. You wouldn't know where to find it." With that he was off, leaving Tom much puzzled over his peculiar manner.

The prospector seated himself upon a stool, and deliberately filled his pipe. When it was lighted and drawing to his satisfaction, he turned toward Nance, who was putting away the dishes she had just wiped.

"Yer father seems worried over something," he began. "I wonder what is the matter."

Nance paused in her work and looked intently upon the old prospector's honest, rugged face. She, too, had noticed Martin's strange behaviour of late, and she longed to unburden her mind to some one. She felt that in Tom she would have a sympathetic listener, and that he would keep her confidence as a sacred trust. She, accordingly, left her work and sat down upon a bench at the side of the table.

"My father," she began, "has only acted in this strange manner since you arrived. He was never like that before. Did you notice how he left so suddenly last night, and when he came back he didn't talk at all?"

"I did; I certainly did, Miss," Tom assented. "Some words which my pardner let drop seemed to upset 'im completely. I wonder—I wonder," he mused, half to himself, "if he is afraid of Dick. It may be that. He's mighty taken with you, Miss, is Dick, an' it might be that yer father fears that he'll lose ye."

A flush suffused Nance's cheeks, and her eyes dropped. Was this, then, the reason of her father's strange actions? she asked herself.

"When d'ye expect to leave, Miss?" Tom suddenly queried.

"Leave!" Nance gave a little startled laugh. "I cannot tell now when we shall leave."

"An' d'ye expect to come back some day?"

"It is hardly likely. This place will be too busy for my father. He would never return, I feel quite sure of that."

"Have ye really lived up here all yer life, Miss?"

"Yes, all my life. My father and mother were drowned on the Mackenzie River when I was a little child, and so——"

"What's that ye tell me?" Tom interrupted in astonishment. "Isn't Martin yer father, then?"

"Oh, no. He happened along with several other men, and took me from the Indians, who would have kept me, and brought me to this place."

"Good Lord!" broke from the prospector's lips. "But go on, Miss."

"There's nothing more to tell except that we've lived here ever since."

"But what in the world kept yer father—I mean Martin—in sich a place as this? Didn't he ever tell ye?"

"No. I haven't the least idea. I have often thought about it, but father never told me."

"Well, I declare!" and Tom scratched his head in perplexity. "But what is his other name besides Martin?"

"It's Rutland," Nance replied, "and he lived, so he told me, somewhere back in Eastern Canada before he came here. That is all I know."

Tom sat for some time lost in deep thought, while Nance went back to her work. "Martin Rutland," he mused; "where have I heard that name before?" Presently he came straight to his feet, while an exclamation escaped his lips.

"Pardon me, Miss," he explained to Nance, who had looked around in surprise. "It is nothing. I take strange kinks sometimes, which make me yelp. I'll jist stroll outside a bit an' work it off."

Once in the open he paced up and down before the door. There came to him now through the mist of twenty years the vision of an open grave, where his Nell was lying, and a young clergyman was reading the Burial Service. The man had come from a neighbouring parish, as his own rector was ill. Tom had heard his name then, and remembered it because of later events. Yes, the man's name was Martin Rutland. He had read how he had been deposed by his bishop for a serious offence. The newspapers had made much of the trouble at the time. Could it be possible that this was the same man?

Tom paused in his rapid walk, and looked out over the lake, although he saw neither the shimmering water nor the dark trees in the background. He beheld again the look upon Martin's face the previous evening when he learned that Dick Russell was a clergyman as well as a medical man. He recalled how he had abruptly left the building, returning later, silent and gloomy. Then, why had Martin left so early this morning, and after the reference to Nance leaving him, why had he taken himself off again as if anxious to be alone? Tom thought, too, of the books in the cabin, not of an ordinary reader, but of a scholar and a thinker. Yes, so he concluded, this must be that same outcast person who had hidden himself away in the wilderness all of these years.

There then came into his mind the thought of the beautiful young woman in the house. It was quite evident that she knew nothing about the past life of the man she had been in the habit of calling "father." What a terrible blow it would be to her if she ever heard the truth. Anyway, she should not hear it from him, Tom made up his mind to that. There was the slight chance, of course, that there might be some mistake, and that it was only a coincidence of names. He determined, nevertheless, to keep his eyes and ears open and try to find out what he could.

"If it's true," he mused, "I must stand by the lassie. There'll be many only too glad of an opportunity of casting the story at her and causing her trouble. No, not a soul shall ever hear of it from my lips."