The new mission room proved a great boon to the miners at Quaska. When it was first opened very few visited the place, and the missionary felt somewhat discouraged. But Tom told him not to worry, as they would be sure to come later.

"Jist wait, pard," he said, "until the nights git long an' cold, then ye'll see 'em come, an' mighty glad they'll be to have a spot to drop into instid of sittin' in their lonely shacks."

"But perhaps they'll go to the saloons instead," Dick replied. "Won't they feel more at home there?"

"Not a bit of it. Some will go, to be sure. But all can't go, an' all won't want to go. Jist ye wait, an' see."

In due time Tom's words came true, and every night saw the mission room filled with men. Some came at first rather doubtfully, thinking, perhaps, that they were to get a sermon before they left. But when they found the room warm, bright, and filled with such genial company they were delighted. All they were asked to do was to obey certain rules which Dick had posted up in several places. Tom was the presiding genius, even though the missionary was present, and always made every man thoroughly at home by his hearty greeting.

"Ye're as welcome as the night is long," he would exclaim to each newcomer. "This is Liberty Hall, with only a few exceptions," and he would nod toward the rules. "Ye're not to use any cuss words, ye mustn't fight nor gamble, nor come here with a reekin' whiskey breath."

Only once did a bumptious young miner attempt to ignore such instructions. His stay was brief, for as many men as could lay hands upon him hustled him out of the building, with the warning not to return until he could behave in a proper manner.

Dick was not only pleased at the success of the mission room, but he was very thankful to see how the men attended service every Sunday evening. But there was one thing lacking. More reading matter was needed, and though he had placed his few books at the disposal of the men, they still craved for more. The papers and magazines he had expected from the Mission down river, for some reason, did not arrive. He spoke about it to Nance the morning after the storm.

"The room would be complete if we only had something more for the men to read. They are about wild for books and magazines. They have already devoured everything in my small library, and some of the men are reading the books all over again."

Nance glanced at Dick's worried face, and her eyes dropped as they met his. An idea came into her mind, and she was on the point of speaking when she checked herself. No, she would surprise Dick, and that would make it all the more interesting.

They were standing close to each other, and as Dick looked upon Nance he thought that she never seemed so beautiful. There was such a simplicity about her manner, combined with a deep interest in any of his undertakings. Her hands were clasped before her as she stood there looking around the room. How he longed to take those hands in his, and tell her of all that was in his heart. It was not the first time that he had desired to do so, but he had always desisted. He believed that she cared for him, but he wanted her to do more than that. He wished to be sure that she loved him. He was so happy in her presence that he feared if he told her all that his heart prompted him to tell it might break the spell, and cause her to avoid him.

Dick Russell was not much acquainted with the ways of women. Hitherto little time or opportunity had been his to devote to the tender affections. And in truth he had but slight inclination to do so until he met Nance. He could not, therefore, read the look of love in her eyes, nor comprehend the flush which suffused her face whenever he approached. Could he have done so he would not have hesitated about telling her of his over-mastering love.

All that afternoon Nance remained with Nurse Marion at the hospital. She thought much about her father, and wondered if he was safely sheltered in some miner's cabin. He was in her mind more than usual, and during the night as she listened to the storm she felt uneasy as to his welfare. Even after she had fallen asleep she awoke with a start, thinking that he was holding out his hands to her, and calling to her for aid.

Such an impression did the vision make upon her that she could not free herself from the idea that something had happened to her father. During the morning she was more quiet than the nurse had ever seen her.

The storm had cleared in the night, and after dinner Nance put on her snow-shoes, and left the hospital. It was Saturday, the day her father always came home, and it was her custom to have a cheerful fire awaiting him, and supper ready. She found the house more cold and desolate than it had ever appeared to her before. But when she had a bright fire blazing up, the room looked more comfortable and homelike.

Nance sat near the fire warming herself, for she was cold. She thought of the many times she had sat there with Martin by her side. Then for the first time the sense of loneliness came upon her. She felt home-sick, and longed for Martin. She wanted to have him near her, and listen to his voice. She wished to be a child once again, and to sit upon his knee while he told her stories. She had fondly imagined that she would be supremely happy to be away from the log house, and out into the great world beyond. But now she realised that no matter where she might go, no place could ever be so dear to her as this rude home where she had spent so many happy years.

She looked about the room upon all that Martin had done, and the various things that he had made for her comfort. She had always appreciated his efforts on her behalf, but now a different feeling stole into her heart, and tears came into her eyes. How she longed to see him again, that she might tell him what he was to her, and to thank him for so much kindness.

At length, brushing away her tears, she rose to her feet, and crossed the room to the book-shelves. Standing there, she looked for a while upon the volumes which Martin had read with such enjoyment through the long winter evenings. He had said that she might take them over to the reading-room when the miners needed them most. Surely now was the time, and when her father came home she would speak to him about them. How surprised and delighted Dick would be when she carried an armful over the next day.

Reaching up her hand, she brought down a volume which was lying on top of several others. As she looked at the title, she believed that the miners would like it. It had been years since she had read it, but she remembered how delighted she had been with it at the time. The hero in the book had appealed to her very strongly. She had not met Dick Russell then, and she mused for a while about the difference between her present idea of a hero to that of years ago. Then Martin was the only white man she knew, and she had never looked upon him as a hero. Her heroes were like those mentioned in books, men of war and action, who had accomplished great things.

Going back to the fire, Nance ensconced herself in Martin's big chair, and opened the book. As she did so a newspaper clipping lying between the leaves attracted her attention. Wondering what it could be, she laid the book upon her lap, unfolded the paper, and began to read. She had not proceeded far when her face went white as death, and her hand trembled violently. She rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not dreaming. The printed columns fascinated her, and she read on and on until she came to the end of the sad tale of shame and disgrace.

The whole truth now flashed into Nance's mind with a startling intensity. Her brain reeled, her heart seemed numbed at the shock, and the light of life, with all its joy, went out. She stared long and hard at the heading of the article. "Deposed by his Bishop." How terrible seemed those words. And there was the name of the man who had fallen, "The Rev. Martin Rutland." Again she read through the entire story, every word of criticism, scorn, and condemnation searing her heart like red-hot iron. Could it be possible that this was some one else? she asked herself. She knew very well that it could not be, for why then should her father have the clipping in his possession? A groan escaped her parched lips as she endeavoured to view calmly the whole situation.

Many things which had hitherto puzzled her were instantly cleared up, and she understood for the first time the reason of Martin's peculiar actions since the arrival of the miners. She knew why he had fled away from the ways of civilisation to live alone in the wilderness. He did not wish to meet people who knew of his disgrace. This, too, was why he would not go to service on Sunday. And to think that for years he had been deceiving her. While she believed him to be so true and noble, he was in reality a man utterly disgraced, an outcast from the Church and society.

A feeling of bitter resentment rushed into her heart. Why had he treated her thus? Why had he pretended to be so good when all the time he was evil, and his whole life a sham? How could she ever face him again, knowing everything, and what he really was? He might return at any moment, and find her sitting there with the clipping in her hand. She did not want to meet him, for she felt that she could not bear to do so. She must get away, and hurry back to the hospital.

Carefully replacing the paper in the book, Nance went back to the shelf from which she had taken it. She paused and looked around the room, thinking that perhaps this would be the last time that she should ever see it again. Everywhere she beheld the work of Martin's hands: the tables, chairs, and decorations on the walls. She turned and walked to her own little room, which she entered. There, too, she saw how he had fitted up everything for her comfort. Then in an instant there came to her a great reversal of feeling. Martin, the outcast, disappeared, and in his stead she beheld a man strong, patient, and gentle, who had been to her both a father and a mother during her whole life. She thought of what he had done for her, how he had striven for her welfare, and cared for her when she would have been left to the uncertain mercy of the Indians. A love deep and strong filled her heart for this man. She pictured to herself how he must have suffered during his exile in the wilderness, knowing that nothing could ever undo the past, and that he would never be forgiven by the Church which had cast him out. If she turned against him would it not break his heart entirely? No, she would be faithful, and he should never know that she had seen the paper, or had the least idea of his past life. It would remain a secret with her, and she would never breathe a word to any one, not even to Dick.

Nance was standing erect in her room as this resolve firmly fixed itself upon her mind. Her face became radiant with a new light, and her eyes shone with the intensity of her great purpose. For a while she stood there, thinking deep, earnest thoughts. A new sense of responsibility came to her. She now saw that life was not all joy and happiness. There was a tragic depth beneath into which for the first time she had been permitted a brief glimpse.

And while standing there she heard some one calling her by name. Hurrying forth from her room, she saw Dick coming to meet her. There was no smile upon his face, but instead an expression of deep concern was depicted there, such as Nance had never seen before. Something had happened, she felt certain, for what else could make Dick look at her in that way?

"What is it?" she gasped. "There's something the matter, I'm sure."

"You are wanted at the hospital, Nance," was the reply.

"Is Nurse Marion ill?"

"No. It's your father."