That evening a little group gathered before the open fire, for the nights were still cool. Martin was in better spirits, and talked freely with the old prospector, to whom he had taken a great liking. Dad Seddon was sitting close to Nance, gazing upon the bright flames as they licked around the large chunks of wood and then curled up the chimney. The sleep had much refreshed the old man, although he was still quite weak from his hard experience since leaving Rapid City.

Tom was in fine fettle. The little circle pleased him greatly, and at times he cast admiring glances toward Nance, who was busy with her needle. He had been thinking deeply over what he had heard that day about Martin, and he was anxious to know for certain if he were the same man who had buried his Nell years ago. He had tried in vain to find some resemblance between this long-bearded, rugged frontiersman and the trim young man who had stood before him on that saddest day of his whole life. "It cannot surely be the same," he thought, as he turned his eyes occasionally toward Martin, who was puffing away at his pipe. "And yet," he mused, "years make a great difference in a man's appearance."

"How are ye feelin' now, Dad?" he suddenly asked, turning to the old trapper.

"Better, Tom," was the brief quiet reply.

"That's good. A game of chess would put ye right on yer pins, eh?"

"Sure thing!" and Dad's eyes brightened at the mention of his favourite game.

"Ah, I thought that would bring ye out of yer dumps," and Tom's hearty laugh rang out. "But ye needn't think that I'm goin' to keep my nose down over any chess-board to-night, not a bit of it."

"No?" and the old man looked his disappointment.

"How d'ye expect to git a board an' men out here?" Tom queried.

"Sure. I never thought of that," Dad sadly replied.

"Don't tease Mr. Seddon," Nance laughed. "Would you like to have a game with me?" and she turned to the man at her side as she spoke.

"What! Can you play, Miss?" There was a pathetic eagerness in Dad's eyes as he riveted them upon the young woman's face.

In reply Nance rose, and going to a shelf brought down a chess-board and a small box containing the various pieces. Dad was delighted as he took the latter in his hands and examined them with a critical eye.

"Did you make these?" he asked, turning to Martin.

"Yes," was the reply, "and many a fine game we've had with them during the long winter evenings, though we haven't played much of late."

Nance had now drawn up a small table, and soon she and Dad were deeply engaged in the royal game. Tom watched them with much satisfaction, and gave vent to several chuckles of delight when he found that Nance was a match for the trapper.

"Ha, that was a fine move!" he exclaimed, while Nance laughed with glee as Dad scratched his head and endeavoured to extricate himself from the clever trap into which his fair opponent had led him. "I'm glad that Dad has met his equal at last," Tom continued, "fer he always beat me without mercy. The first time I ever saw chess played," and he now addressed his remarks to Martin, "was away back in Eastern Canada. Old Parson Dowden, who was rector fer forty years of Glendale, the parish in which I was born, didn't have an equal at the game as fer as I know. Why, he'd go without his meals any time to play chess."

At these words, and especially at the mention of "Dowden" and "Glendale," Martin gave a distinct start, took the pipe from his mouth and looked keenly at Tom. But the latter seemed as though he did not notice Martin's surprise. He bent over, lighted a splinter of wood at the fire, and applied it to his pipe.

"Yes," he continued between puffs, "old Parson Dowden was a great man at chess. I remember hearin' how he licked the parson from the next parish in a wonderful game. But he was a young man, an' hadn't the experience of Parson Dowden."

The fingers of Martin's right hand clutched the pipe with a firm grip. His eyes, staring and big, were fixed upon the prospector's face. Surprise, mingled with consternation, was depicted upon his countenance. But Tom did not seem to notice anything unusual, and Nance was too intent upon the game to heed anything else.

"I only saw that young parson from the adjoinin' parish but once," Tom went on after a pause, in which he seemed to be meditating. "It was when he buried my Nell. But, poor chap, I heard that he got into trouble, was put out of the Church, an' so left the parish to parts unknown. 'Twas a great blow to his friends an' relatives, so I understand."

Tom ceased his narration, casually blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and shot one lightning glance toward Martin. Any doubt as to the identity of the man before him was now removed. The strained, haggard expression upon Martin's face plainly told of the agony within. He sat very still, although he often looked anxiously and keenly into Tom's face as if wondering how much he knew, and if he had any idea that the man sitting before him was the same who had buried his Nell. But the prospector's manner as he watched the game led him to believe that he had not the slightest suspicion. Although this was somewhat of a relief to Martin, yet he began to feel uneasy in Tom's presence. He longed to hear more about his old parish, and he knew that Tom could supply him with the information. Several times his lips moved ere he could sufficiently control himself to speak.

"You've been away from Eastern Canada for some time, I suppose," he at length remarked in an attempted off-handed manner.

"Yes, nigh on to twenty years," was the reply.

"Many changes must have taken place in your home parish during that time."

"Yes, many," and Tom gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "I kept in touch with it fer years, but I haven't heard any news fer a long time now. I guess people have fergotten all about me an' my Nell. It's wonderful how soon people will fergit except one thing."

"And what is that?" Martin queried.

"Oh, anything bad about a person. Now take the case of that young parson from Glendale fer instance. I don't believe they've fergotten about it yit, at least they hadn't the last time I heard from home."

"Oh, you don't think so?" came involuntarily from Martin's lips, which Tom was not slow to notice.

"No, not a bit of it. I understand that what he did almost ruined the Church there, and the man who followed him had a tough time of it."

"Oh!"

"Yes, numbers of people lost all faith in parsons, while others, though they did not exactly leave the Church, looked with suspicion upon the new man, as if wonderin' what capers he'd cut up."

"You don't say so!"

"But there were some who took the trouble harder than all the rest," Tom continued. "The young parson's fall broke his parents' hearts, an' they both died the next year."

"My God!"

This unusual exclamation caused Nance to look up, startled, from the game. But Martin did not notice her. He was standing erect now, with clenched hands, looking straight before him. Quickly recovering himself, he sat down again.

"It's nothing," he said. "I was overcome at the story of that wretch who killed his parents. Go on, please."

And once more Tom stabbed to the quick.

"I heard that there was a young woman, I jist fergit her name, who took on very hard. It nearly broke her heart at what the parson did. She was a fine singer, too, so I understand. She was sick fer a long time. When she got well she left Glendale, an' I heard later that she became a trained nurse. She was very beautiful. I know that, fer I saw her once myself. She was very much in love with the young parson, so I heard, an' she had her weddin' dress all made. They were to have been married the next summer. It was all very sad."

Tom knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sat watching the dying embers before him. Martin remained in his chair with his head bent forward, the very embodiment of despair. Occasionally Tom glanced toward him, and his heart smote him with compunction for having caused the man such agony of soul.

Nance wondered more than usual at the expression upon her father's face as she stooped to give him the customary good-night kiss. She noticed that he took both of her hands in his and held them longer than was his wont. She knew that something was troubling his mind, and her heart was very heavy as she went to her room.

During the following days Martin's mind was much disturbed. The news he had heard about his parents caused him intense remorse. He thought of them by day, and would often start up in the dead of night thinking that they were standing by his side. He pictured over and over again their sorrow as they sat alone at night in the old farmhouse, mourning over their wayward son. He recalled the last time he had seen them and how proudly they had looked into his face. Never before did he fully realise what his sin had meant to them. But now it all swept upon him with a maddening intensity. Often a lump would rise in his throat, and tears roll down his cheeks as that night when he had last seen his parents rose before him. Once out on the hills he had buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a child. Only the trees, flowers, and birds witnessed his grief, and they would not divulge the secret.

Although Martin was fond of the old prospector, yet he felt somewhat uneasy in his presence. Several times he found Tom watching him with a wondering expression in his eyes. He was, accordingly, glad when Tom left with Dad for the diggings up the Quaska. But he knew that he would return in a few days, and his peace of mind would once more be disturbed.

One beautiful evening Martin and Nance were seated at the supper table. The ice had run out of the lake and the river over a week ago. The air was balmy, and the days long and fine. Nance had been unusually quiet of late. She was wondering when Dick would return, and if he would be really the same as when he went away. She had thought over and over again every word he had uttered. The chair on which he had sat the last night he was in the cabin she had carefully kept in the same place. "It will be there for him when he comes back," she had whispered to herself.

Hers was the supreme joy of pure first love, and her heart was light and happy. Dick Russell's strong, manly form rose before her. She saw the twinkle in his light-blue eyes, the frank open face, and the erect poise of his head. To her he was a hero, a knight such as she had read about in a book upon the shelf. She was thinking of him as she now sat at the head of the table on this fine evening.

"It will soon be time for us to be packing up, Nance."

The words startled her, and she lifted her eyes quickly to Martin's face.

"Yes," the latter continued, "we must be over to the Mackenzie in time to catch the steamer on its return from the North."

"Oh!" It was all that Nance could utter, but it caused Martin to study her face very carefully.

"Don't you want to go, little one?" he asked, not unkindly.

"Do you really want to go, daddy?" she returned.

"We can't stay here, Nance, that's certain. I could not live with such a crowd swarming around us. There would no longer be any charm for me here."

"But there would be no quietness outside, daddy."

"That's different, quite different."

Nance lowered her eyes and toyed for some time with her cup. Martin watched her anxiously. He knew as well as if she had told him why she did not wish to leave the country now. But he must get her away forever from the influence of the young usurper, who would undoubtedly return.

Although Nance was very quiet, a great struggle, nevertheless, was taking place within her breast. She wished to stay, to see Dick again. But her duty must be to Martin first. He it was who had done so much for her, and her love for him was deep and sincere. How could she see him stay if his heart was set upon leaving the place? Rising from the table, she threw her arms about Martin's neck.

"Daddy," and her face came close to his as she spoke, "I will go with you whenever the time comes. You are all I have in the world who really loves me, so why should I care to remain here?"

Martin caught her hand in his, drew down her face, and kissed her. Tears came into his eyes, and when he tried to speak he found it difficult to form the words. He rose abruptly to his feet, and dashed his hand across his eyes.

"There, there, little one," and a smile such as Nance had never seen illumined his face. "I know you love me, and it makes me happy. It will be hard for you to leave, but——"

At that instant a hoarse, raucous sound fell upon their ears with a startling intensity. They looked at each other, and then hurried to the door, opened it, and stepped outside.