Summer passed all too soon for the miners in the valley of the Quaska. The days were shortening and the nights lengthening in an alarming manner. Great wedge-like battalions of wild geese honked their way southward each day until all had fled. A greyness settled over the land, and at night the Northern Lights flared brighter in the heavens. It was quite evident to all that winter was not far off. To the ones not prepared for its coming the outlook was not pleasant. They had but started panning out gold, and there was little prospect that they could do much more before spring.

At the approach of winter Martin once again resumed his rounds of the creeks. Many of the miners who had cleaned up a considerable amount of gold during the summer had moved down to the mouth of the river, and settled in little shacks at Quaska. These men could buy their supplies at the stores, even though the prices were exorbitant. But the ones who had met with no success could not afford such luxuries. They preferred to remain on the creeks, to hide their poverty from prying eyes, and, if possible, eke out a precarious living from any wild game they might be able to procure with their rifles.

Carrying with him sufficient food to last him for several days, Martin halted at each cabin. He was always given a hearty welcome, and won all hearts by his brightness and his optimistic spirit. To the miners he was one of themselves, and they believed that he was in the same straitened circumstances as they were. Upon leaving he was always invited to come again, and as often as possible.

Martin returned home at the end of each week. During his absence Nance stayed with Nurse Marion, for her assistance was needed now at the hospital more than ever, owing to the number of patients who had been admitted. Martin was always eager to hear all the news from across the river, and he would sit and listen while Nance recounted everything. She told him about the church; that it was all finished, and how it was opened each night for the men to gather to play games, and to read the few books which the missionary had brought with him.

"We might let some of our books go, eh?" and Martin nodded toward the volumes upon the shelves.

"Oh, that would be so nice, daddy," Nance replied. "The men will be delighted. May I take several over to-morrow?"

"No, not now. It will be better to wait until winter settles in. If they read them all now they will have nothing when the evenings are long and cold. Wait until then."

Nance was greatly pleased at the change which had come over Martin. He talked more, and the worried, haunted expression had left his eyes. She often spoke about him to Nurse Marion, and the latter was never tired of listening to her, and she would occasionally question Nance about her father.

The next time that Martin left his house for the creeks he carried with him his violin. At every cabin he was doubly welcomed now, and often he would play for hours to a handful of men who had drifted into the shack which he happened to be visiting. He sang, too, and at times the miners would join in when the tune and the words were familiar. He was surprised at first to find how frequently the men asked for some well-known hymn, and as they all sang it he noted the expression upon their faces. He knew that they were face to face with a hard proposition, and needed something to keep up their spirits.

Thus from cabin to cabin he moved, bringing cheer and comfort wherever he went. The men were loth for him to leave and always pressed him to stay longer. As the days shortened, and the long evenings became almost unbearable, the lonely men counted the days and the hours which would bring Martin and his violin once again to their doors. They could not understand him now, and often discussed among themselves why he should make such regular rounds of the creeks. Although they knew where he lived, and how long he had been in the country, he would never talk about himself. This added to the mystery concerning him. What can he be doing it for? they asked over and over again. Some believed that it was for the enjoyment he got out of it, and the companionship of the miners. But when he spent a whole week with Andy Henderson, caring for him when he was sick, the miners did not know what to think.

"If he was a parson," one remarked, "the whole thing would be clear."

"Sure thing," another replied. "But he never says a word about religion."

"Doesn't he, eh? That's where you are mistaken. His is a religion of deeds and not words. If he had come here and handed out a whole lot of talk about being patient under discouragements how much good would it have done us? Mighty little, I can tell you that. But he drops in on us with a word of cheer, and brings along his fiddle. That's the religion which gets me every time."

Winter shut down unusually early, and gripped the northland in its icy embrace. Every time Martin made his rounds of the creeks he noticed the grim spectre of famine and despair creeping upon the miners in their desolate cabins. They scoured the land for miles around in search of game, with but meagre success, for the moose and caribou had withdrawn farther afield upon the arrival of the white men. To follow them far the miners had not the strength. They had been living upon short allowance for some time, and every day their small supplies were becoming much diminished. Several, feeling the pinch of want, went to the stores in town, and asked to be supplied with food on credit until spring. Their request was refused, and with hearts rankling with bitterness they marched back up the creek to bear the news to their companions. The proud spirit of this little band of men was aroused, and they swore that they would die rather than ask again for any food from Quaska. They, accordingly, shared their scanty remaining supply with one another with the feeling that when this was gone there was nothing before them but death.

Winter was now upon them in all its fierceness. The weather was extremely cold, and snow lay thick over the land. At this critical time Martin one day appeared at the cabin nearest to Quaska. He was not alone this time, for he had a sled loaded with provisions, and drawn by two husky dogs he had borrowed from Taku, the Indian.

"Had more grub on hand than I needed," was his brief explanation to the miners as they stared longingly upon the loaded sled.

Then throughout the creeks he moved, dispensing supplies wherever he went, and when all was gone he hurried back for more. His feverish eagerness to be doing something for others was what puzzled the miners. He was now more of a mystery than ever. Whereas at first they considered him as one of themselves they came at last to look upon him as some unearthly being, an angel in the form of a man, who had dropped from heaven to aid them in their distress. Who else could it be? they reasoned, who would go to so much trouble for a few lonely men, hard up in a desolate region? It was no ordinary spirit, they well knew, which would drive a man out into such cruel weather for the sake of others.

In a few weeks the news of what Martin was doing reached Quaska, and passed from man to man, causing much curious comment on every hand. In some way the refusal of the storekeepers to provide starving men with provisions leaked out, and caused considerable stir among the leading men of the place, especially Tom. They went at once to the stores, and ordered supplies for their comrades up the creeks, while several volunteered to carry forward the provisions.

"Who will pay for these things?" the storekeepers whined.

"Pay!" Tom fairly shouted the words. "D'ye think we'd come here an' order this stuff without holdin' ourselves responsible? Ye deserve to be cleaned out an' driven from town fer yer meanness. Ye've not only raised the price of yer goods beyond all reason, but ye refused to supply a few poor chaps who were starvin' to death, an' they never mentioned it to a livin' soul. That's what ye've done."

So high did the feeling run in Quaska over the meanness of the storekeepers that a miners' meeting was held that very night, when Tom was appointed chairman. Fiery speeches of indignation were made, and it was decided that the storekeepers had to come down in their prices. They would be allowed to have fair profits on all they sold, but extortion had to be stopped at once. If they would not agree to this, so it was decided, their goods would be seized, paid for at cost price, and they themselves driven out of the town. In fear and trembling the storekeepers agreed to the demands of the irate miners, and so the storm blew over.

The news of Martin's noble work out on the creeks was not long in reaching the hospital. It was Tom who told the story in his own graphic manner. Nance was delighted when she heard what her father was doing, and told how he had stored up the provisions before the winter had set in.

"I didn't know what he was going to do with it," she said in conclusion, "for he would not tell me."

As Nurse Marion listened to the story her mind was busy seeking for the cause of Martin's benevolent work. At last it came to her, and she knew that there was only one reason which could prompt him to do such things. He was trying to atone for the past, and at once there came to her mind the fierce struggle which had been going on in his heart for long years. What a battle he must have fought, and how great the victory. The old self had been crushed down, and in its stead a new life of service, contrite and humble, had risen, which had driven him forth to live for others. She understood now for a certainty that though Martin had fallen and could never be forgiven by the critical world which had condemned him, yet in reality he was superior to his critics. He had sadly missed the mark, and had fallen. But he had fought a brave fight, had risen from the pit, and with a courage which nothing could daunt was now plunging into a noble work for others. As she thought of all this a sweet peace stole into her heart. Martin was worthy of her affection, after all, and her love had not been misplaced during the years she had been loyal to him while others had condemned.

Knowing nothing of the stir he was causing at Quaska, Martin continued his work of relief up and down the creeks. For weeks he moved from cabin to cabin, carrying food where it was most needed. But his own supply was getting low, and only one sled load now remained. He knew that to obtain more he would have to go direct to the stores, which he was now very loth to do.

He was travelling late one cold afternoon far up a lonely creek, many miles from Quaska. He had only a small part of his load of provisions and he wished to carry this to a man living all alone, who was in great need. Of all the miners he had met Tim Ralston seemed the most obdurate and ungrateful. He was a man of few words, sullen and morose. His hard luck during the past summer had embittered him more than ever, and living alone he had brooded so much over his troubles that his mind became somewhat affected. He would rave long and vehemently about his hard luck, the country, and the hopelessness of the future. Martin had visited him once before, and had received such a cold reception that he had been by no means anxious to return. But as the severity of the winter increased he found it difficult to get Tim out of his mind. He knew that he must be hard up for food, and he could not allow the man to starve to death without making an effort to relieve his wants.

It was late in the afternoon as Martin at last halted before Tim's cabin. It was bitterly cold, and a volume of smoke was curling up into the frosty air from the miserable stove-pipe sticking out through the roof. He knocked, but received no reply. Thinking this strange, he pushed open the door, and cautiously entered. All was dark within, but very warm. Feeling in his pocket, he found a piece of a candle, which he at once lighted. By means of this he saw the form of a man huddled on the floor, with some blankets wrapped around him. It was Tim with beard almost to his waist, and long, matted hair streaming over his shoulders. He hardly resembled a human being as he crouched there, working his jaws, and swaying his body to and fro.

"Tim, Tim, what's the matter?" Martin cried as he strode forward and stood by the side of the poor creature.

The latter lifted his shaggy head at the sound of these words, and turned his blood-shot eyes upon Martin's face.

"Leg broke," he feebly wailed. "Starving! Dying!"

Martin lost no more time in asking questions. He hurried outside, freed the dogs, and drew the sled with its load into the wretched cabin. He set to work at once to prepare some food for the afflicted man, and then fed him like a baby. All through the night he tended him, doing everything in his power to relieve his sufferings, which were very great. He knew, however, that he needed more aid than he could give. To remain there meant death for Tim. The only hope was to get him into the hospital at Quaska, where he could receive proper care, and attention.

Martin had no intention of going straight to the hospital with the suffering man, for there he would meet Beryl. He would take him to his own house, and let the missionary do the rest.

At the first faint streak of dawn Martin began to make preparations for the run to Quaska. The injured man groaned and cursed as he was wrapped up as comfortably as possible in his blankets, and placed upon the sled. This latter was made in the form of a toboggan, and it would accordingly travel where an ordinary sled with runners could not be taken. Martin was most thankful that such was the case, for he could make a short cut to Quaska over a mountain-pass, and down a long valley instead of going by the much longer circuitous route he had taken on his outward trip. He believed that he could save a whole day by crossing the mountain, which would mean very much to the sufferer.

The air was clear and cold when at last the two huskies, with short, sharp yelps, pulled away from the cabin on their stern run to save the life of Tim Ralston. Martin strode on ahead, breaking down a trail with his long, narrow snow-shoes. All day they pressed forward, and when night shut down Martin was satisfied with the progress they had made during the day. Selecting a sheltered spot among a thick clump of fir trees, he dug away the snow, built a fire, and prepared camp.

Little sleep came to his eyes this night. Tim was more restless than ever, and he had to be watched constantly lest he should toss aside his blankets, and thus perish. Notwithstanding the fire which Martin kept going, he found it very cold, for, while his face was burning, his back was freezing. Only twice did he doze off, overcome by fatigue and want of sleep. But he always aroused with a start, fearful lest he had slept too long.

All through the next day he plodded on ahead of the dogs, at times helping them by means of a rope around his shoulders, for the snow over the mountain was deep, and the sled dragged hard with its heavy burden. That night they camped upon the brow of the range facing Quaska. Far down below stretched a long valley, with towering hills on both sides. Again Martin was well pleased with the progress they had made, and he expected that with one day more of such travelling they would not be far from Quaska, if not there.

In the morning when they once more drew away from camp the sky was cloudless, and as they descended the mountain side the air became warmer. The short winter sun lifted its shining face into view, and rode along for a while close to the horizon. But toward noon a perceptible change became apparent in the atmospheric conditions. The sky grew cloudy, and the sun disappeared behind a thick haze. Ere long a stiff breeze was swinging down the valley, telling Martin only too plainly that a storm was rapidly brewing.

The region through which they were now travelling was desolate in the extreme. Fires had swept over the land years before, and nothing remained but gaunt fir trees and jack-pines, dead and devoid of every vestige of life. Through their naked branches swept the ever-increasing wind, piercing the bodies of both men and dogs. No shelter was anywhere to be seen, and Martin's only hope was to push on as rapidly as possible and reach the unburnt forest miles down the valley. He knew only too well what it would mean to be caught in a storm on that bleak mountain slope where everything would be blotted out from view, and where the tempest might rage all day and far on into the night.

Calling encouragingly to the dogs, and with the lead rope about his shoulders, Martin started forward as speedily as the deep snow would permit. The huskies strained at their traces, yelped, lowered their heads, and surged onward close at their master's heels. An hour thus passed, and the wind, increasing in strength every moment, was roaring down the valley, while particles of driving snow began to fleck the bodies of the hurrying wayfarers. In another half-hour the air was filled with blinding snow, which drove down lashingly upon them, completely blotting out everything from view except the swaying, spectre-like forms of the nearest trees.

As the wind was full astern, Martin believed that by running straight before it he could keep his course, and at length gain the shelter beyond. He nerved himself to the task, and strained hard upon the rope. But ere long the dogs began to lag, whine, and surge back in their harness. Coaxing and whipping did no good, for with the tempest upon them they refused to advance, and cowered upon the snow. Hastily unhitching the discouraged animals, Martin made his rope fast to the sled, and thus alone endeavoured to drag it forward. It was a hard pull, and slow progress did he make. The helpless man cursed and groaned as he felt the fierceness of the storm beating upon him, and the snow drifting in through every opening of his blankets. Martin could not waste time and breath in trying to soothe him. There was too much at stake, for unless he reached the forest beyond they must both surely perish.

For another hour Martin tugged at the rope, with bent head, and feet shuffling the snow-shoes through the newly-fallen snow. At last Tim cried aloud, saying that he was freezing. Then Martin paused, stripped off his own jacket, and wrapped it around the sufferer's body. He then carefully replaced the blankets which he had removed, and once again took up his weary task.

The wind now pierced him cruelly, and chilled him to the bone. His hands became numb, although he pounded them together in an effort to keep the blood in circulation. At times his brain reeled, and he felt that he could go no farther. But each time he thought of Nance. How could she get along without him? he asked himself. Beryl, too, came to his mind. She seemed to come to him through the storm, and he saw her, not at the hospital, but as he used to see her in the happy days of old. The sight of her had always inspired him then, as it did now in his fight with death. He must not give up, he said to himself. Anyway, if he was to die, it should be with his face to the front, and shoulders to his task. Then if Beryl should ever learn of the struggle he had made, it might do something to atone for the past. She might not think of him so bitterly, as no doubt she had done ever since his fall.

And still the storm continued to wrap around him its cold winding-sheet, entangling his feet, and endeavouring to win him for a victim. Martin was a stern antagonist, however, and fought off his relentless foe with the courage of desperation. He would fight; he would win; he would not give up. But slower and slower now he moved; fiercer and fiercer roared the tempest about him. Peculiar noises sounded in his ears, and weird voices of demons mocked at his futile efforts to stand upright, and to press forward. He saw them leering before him, reaching out their horrible hands to clutch him. Then his brain reeled, a fearful blackness shrouded his eyes, and with a despairing cry he fell forward full length upon the snow.