young man had come and was trying to wake him, he asked what was wanted. In reply, he felt a cold touch on his hand, and turned in his bunk as quickly as he could.

There sat Dane beside his bunk, shaggier than ever, looking appealingly at him. The dog seemed timid, even embarrassed, as the old man put it. Encouraged by a smile, he touched his nose to the master's cheek, just as he used to do; then he fell eagerly to caressing the outstretched hand. My friend tried repeatedly to rise from his bunk to close the cabin door, but could not, and whenever he tried to get hold of the dog's collar, which had become deeply imbedded in the shaggy mane, he gently but firmly nosed the frail hand away from his neck, pushing it back on the bunk and laying his head across it. Several times the dog left his master's side and walked inquiringly round the inside of the cabin, inspecting everything minutely, garments on the walls as well as things on the floor, each time returning to caress again and again the beckoning hand that reached out toward him. Though Dane was at home, he was not finding everything he sought.

The old miner said he talked to his pet just as he used to do, but he seemed less responsive. Twice he turned his head toward the door and gave a sharp, throaty growl. It could not have been at some prowling dog, for there were no dogs in the neighborhood. My friend found those growls interesting speculations. Perhaps he was forbidding some wild companion to enter the sacred precincts. Once he was sure he heard animal footsteps on the cabin porch, but Dane paid no heed to them. Then rising suddenly and bristling with anger, the dog hurriedly left the cabin. Each of the following nights, till I came back, my friend said he watched for his old pal to come again, but he was always disappointed. By the time he had finished telling me his story or dream, he was again tired out and ready to rest. This left me free to look after other things. While he slept, I took observations 'round the place. Like himself, I wasn't sure he had not been detailing merely a pleasant dream; but when I discovered a clear-cut footprint of enormous size, in the dust on the cabin floor, I knew it was not a dream that had so refreshed the lonely heart. That was the footprint of a giant wolf-such a print as Dane's great paw would make. Further search revealed the same print in several places outside the cabin, and close beside it the tracks of two other wolves of smaller size. Dane had evidently brought company with him.

When my friend awoke I told him about my discoveries. How he listened to the description of the large footprint! I had dispelled his fear that he had had only a dream. Now he knew that Dane had come to see him. The caresses he feared were only the impressions of a vivid dream, were the real caresses of his old pet. Dane, his own Dane had come home to see his old master!

When the old-timer's excitement had subsided, I set about the usual preparations for evening and night. His symptoms clearly pointed to an early change. Having made him as Having made him as comfortable as I could, I prepared my own bunk and was soon settled. I. had left the door open, just as I knew my friend would have me do. I laid fresh billets on the open fire, that the cabin might have the cheer of a flickering light, and felt quite satisfied with the long day that had closed. My last look at my friend disclosed the fact that he had carefully withdrawn his right hand from the covers and had laid it on the edge of his bunk. The meaning, of course, was clear enough.

It was two in the morning when I was roused from a dreamless sleep. There was no mistaking the cause. In the dim light I could see the shaggy figure of a giant wolf, sitting beside my friend's bunk. The animal's head lay across his hand, motionless, dejectedly. The pungent odor from the shaggy wolf coat was filling the cabin. For once in my life I wished I could draw so that I could catch in clear detail this lonely cabin scene.

Of course I knew it was Dane who sat there beside my old friend's bunk. But he looked so uncanny. He was bigger than ever, and not the cleanlooking wolf-dog of two years back. His food, his wild life, all-had left their mark on him. Beneath his neck, showing dimly in the fire's faint glow, I saw the silver dollar his master had fastened to his collar. In the one place where the collar itself was visible, a frayed portion was hanging down. I reckoned that the collar would not stay where it was much longer. Suddenly he lifted his head and turned with a jerk toward the door.

Looking quickly in the same direction, I saw the heads of two wolves hastily withdraw from the open door. Like a haughty lord of ancient days, who would not tolerate interruption of siestas or devotions, Dane refused admittance of wilderness folk to the presence of his gentler moods. The peremptory challenge and quick obedience showed that both he and his followers knew who was master there.

Occasionally Dane would raise his

big head, rub its sides against the master's motionless hand, then draw his tongue slowly, gently across it, as if in tender, pathetic caressing. I marveled that the master did not show signs of waking, yet I hesitated to call to him.

Then something occurred which set me wondering. From the forest came the long-drawn howl of a wolf. Dane instantly raised his head, bristled angrily, and walked to the open door. In less than three seconds he returned to the master's bunk, set his paws on its edge, and sniffed lightly at his master's face, whining ever so softly, as if puzzled and disappointed. The next moment he was gone. I called to the old miner, but there was no reply. I hurried across to his bunkthen I understood.

When we buried him over on a little hill where he had said he hoped to be laid, I placed by the grave a large box that had once been Dane's house. I put into the box a worn-out coat of his master's; also some food. You see, I still hoped that Dane might be won back to civilized life. I would have been more than happy to keep my promise concerning him. Some neighbors took a kindly interest, too.

Several days after the burial, we discovered animal signs 'round the grave. But those unusually large footprints could not be mistaken. Dane had at last found the place, and other wolves had come with him. There were signs of battle close to that little mound, too. The food was gone, and the old coat had been torn to ribbons. Maybe Dane had come upon one of his less devoted followers inhabiting his old box and lying on his beloved master's coat. Who can tell? The disarranged affairs round the grave fitted nicely into such an explanation, anyway.

Here my host rose and took from his mantel a photograph of the handsomest pair of half-breeds I had ever seen.

Handing it to me, he sat down and looked steadily into the blazing fire, as if forgetful of my presence. But I waited in silence. I knew from his look that he was living over some uncommon experience and should not be disturbed by question or comment.

IT was in dead of winter and that winter was a severe one, even for the far North. Not often does the snow become deep in extremely cold weather, up there. But it broke all records. The thermometer registered seventy-four below, one night, and was often down in the sixties-but, even that has its charm. Dwellers in the North delight in rugged winters, quite as much as in the golden summers that make their beloved North

The children said he didn't understand good English at all; that he was not only their uncle, but a witchdoctor and a very bad man. If looks can signify anything, then I'll say he was a very bad man. Though his features were true to the tribe of that locality, the man's height and bulk suggested a strong strain of some larger race. I was soon to learn that everybody in the village feared him, and whatever he ordered was done.

The children's mother had died the year before, and their father had continued his small-scale mining in hope of some day being able to take the children to the States, entirely away from all their northern kinsfolk. This had been the mother's dying wish. She had clearly foreseen the fate of the girl, at least, if they should ever fall into the hands of her brother, the witch doctor.

However, before a year passed, the father felt the same dread sickness creeping upon him that had taken away his wife, and he immediately packed their small belongings and set out for the south. His isolated home was a hundred miles north of the village, and he must pass through the village on his way out. The heavy snows that had hindered our journey northward had impeded their southward journey quite as much, and the children had arrived in the village only two days before my lieutenant and me.

About thirty miles back on their trail, their father had seen moose signs. He was sure he could locate the animal, and knew the meat would be a welcome gift with which to approach the village relatives. So he left the children and all the outfit beside a good fire, taking only his gun and snow-shoes. He made his kill quicker than he had expected, getting back to camp near noon. He was soon gone again with the dog-team and empty sled, to bring in as much of the meat as he thought he could haul on south to the village, assuring the children he would be back in camp before a late hour, though it would be after nightfall and they must keep the campfire burning constantly.

The early darkness did not disturb them, for they were accustomed to such hours alone; but when deep night had fallen round them they began to grow uneasy. They walked out along the trail their father had left in the snow, as far as they felt safe in going, but still no sound of team or driver.

Then the children called loudly, one after the other. To their dismay their call was answered by the longdrawn howl of a wolf. They did not repeat their shouting, but the wolf repeated its cry, till the forest seemed

full of wolves. Familiar with the voices of the wilderness, the children knew that a large pack was in that vicinity, and that first answering cry was the hunt-cry.

Quickly they built up the fire to a great blaze, and felt a bit cheered by its warmth and illumination. The wolves did not come down upon them in a mad rush, as the fearful young hearts had pictured. There was much howling deep in the forest, but only occasionally did they see any of the dreaded prowlers. One very big wolf showed himself at intervals, on all sides of the circle cast by the bonfire, and the children said they referred to him as the watchman. They felt sure he feared their big fire, and was keeping the other wolves posted on all things they were doing.

But where was their father? Such children love their parents quite as devotedly as white children do. Besides all their worry, they had been up early that morning and soon they were struggling to keep awake. They had great confidence in firelight as a protection against wolves, so they piled on more wood, rolled themselves snugly in the fur sled-robes, and were quickly asleep.

During the night, they had been roused by feeling something heavy snuggle up against them, but they were too sleepy to ask questions. They supposed it was their father. He always lay down that way beside them when they were out on the trail, so they slept on in peace, too tired even to dream about wolves.

In the early morning, when the happy children peeped from beneath their covers, intending to surprise their father, they were frightened stiff at what they saw. There lay a great wolf beside them! They knew now it was not their father they had felt in the night, but this great beast, who had settled himself down unbidden, to share their comforts!

The children said they had always been interested in the stories their father told them about fairies and angels and how God loved all little children, so they held each other's hands and whispered about such things a long time. That gave them courage, and they began to think if this were a bad wolf he would have eaten them, instead of lying down beside them to help keep them warm. They actually decided he must be a good wolf and would do no harm. They said their father had once told them about a good wolf that had refused to eat a little girl because she had smiled at him and patted him fearlessly and called him a good wolf. But who should first pat this great wolf, lying so heavily against them?

So interested were the children in telling me their strange tale that they quite forgot their sullen uncle. They laughed merrily as they told how first one and then the other would peek out and say, "Good wolf, good wolf," and how they could hear the wolf pat the covers with his big bushy tail in response; they knew he was meaning to be kind. At last the little boy bravely thrust out his hand, and the big wolf drew his tongue gently across it, after sniffing it ever so carefully. When the hand drew back under cover, the wolf followed it with his nose. Soon his head was under the covers too, and he rooted the children round so merrily that for a few minutes they forgot their absent father. They declared the wolf acted like the jolliest of playfellows.

The girl prepared breakfast while the boy brought more wood for the camp-fire. The wolf seemed to relish the cooked food as much as the children did, and they laughed to see him watch them put it in their own mouths. When noon came and still no sign of their father, the children sorrowfully recalled something he had tenderly said to them but a day or two before, during one of his severe coughing spells. If he became too ill to travel, or if anything unusual should occur on the trail, they must keep going south as fast as possible, till they came to the village. They could not miss it, and they must not wait for him. To wait long would mean for all to perish.

To the children's delight, on leaving the camp-fire the big wolf accompanied them. He walked ahead and his huge paws made a fine trail where the snow was loose or deep. When brother grew tired of his heavy load, he laid it across the wolf's back and asked him to help carry it. amazement of both children, the wolf seemed to understand, and wagged his pleasure at being asked. Soon sister's bundle was added to the load, but he merely wagged additional pleasure. Each of the two nights as they journeyed, the great wolf lay snuggled up against the sleeping children. When distant howls were heard in the early evening, he would growl and bristle so fiercely they covered their heads to prevent seeing him. He was always there in the morning, ready to rout them out as soon as they let him know they were awake.

Imagine their sorrow when, on the last day of this strange trail experience, the great wolf refused to go farther. Noises from the village were drifting up the trail to their ears, and the big wolf stopped, whining piteously (Continued on page 334)

T

HE day had been raw and cold, with lowering clouds that threatened snow. Toward the middle of the afternoon a strong wind had come up, and with the first shadows of early dusk the snow began. The Archibald twins, Barbara and Willamine, had stayed on at Long Pond after the dozen or more of their schoolmates had given up the afternoon's skating on account of the fastfalling snow and returned to Stockbridge Hall, clinking their shining skates disappointedly. But to the twins, brought up on the California ranch, "Redlands," ice-skating was a new and absorbing sport.

There was at least a precious half hour more of daylight left, which they did not propose to waste. As for the snow, that, too, was an exhilarating novelty, and they had a worn, old broom with which they could keep a narrow track fairly clear across the pond. But at last the snow covered the track faster than they could remove it, so reluctantly slinging shoes and skates across their shoulders, and pulling on the thick, woolly gloves they had had to discard while changing skating for walking-shoes, they set out across the whitened fields at a brisk pace. Long Pond was a mile and a half from the school buildings by the road, but only half that distance if one used the short-cut across meadows, a small hill, and the numerous stone walls with which the countryside abounded. On this shorter way, they had also to cross the single trolley-track that ran to the city of Waterbury, twelve miles distant. Often, on fine days, the girls going into Waterbury with a teacher to shop, used the trolley instead of taking the train at the little village of Emmerton, a mile beyond the school.

Clambering down the steep bank that fenced in one side of the track, Barbara and Willamine were about to scurry across the road, when they both saw at the same moment the familiar, plump figure in the graysquirrel coat and small, gray felt hat standing on the other side of the track, holding a black suitcase. They stopped and stared through the white smother of swirling snow.

"That's Toby," Barbara declared positively. "What's she doing here with that bag?"

"Looks as if she were waiting for a car," Willamine returned cautiously. ut you don't think Miss Car

"Going somewhere for the night?" Barbara persisted, her voice grave. She knew, as did Willamine, that Toby's home was in Florida, and she had never heard her speak of having friends in Waterbury, or anywhere else in the North for that matter. She waited, watching the girl, who seemed to be having a bad time deciding what she should say.

Finally Toby gave up the unequal struggle of wills. "It really doesn't concern you, Barbara," she burst out resentfully, "but I suppose you'll stand there asking questions till I do tell. Well, if you've got to know, I'm going to Waterbury to get a train to New York."

"New York!" Willamine ejaculated with a little gasp. "Matilda Tobin, what for?"

Barbara made no comment, but her calm, probing gray eyes were more upsetting to the badgered Toby than Willamine's outspoken consternation.

"I'm going home," Toby said sullenly. "I hate boarding-school-I hate the cold, and the snow-and the silly rules. I've done my best, because I promised Dad I'd give it a fair trial, but I can't stand any moreHer words were coming in an angry, frightened torrent now that threatened tears were not far behind them. "I've got money enough for my ticket to Florida if I don't eat much on the way-" Sniff, sniff. Toby's tiptilted nose wriggled helplessly, like a rabbit nibbling, and Barbara had to bite her lip to keep back an all-butirrepressible giggle.

"Do you think your father'll like your running off this way?" Willamine demanded sternly. "You know, I'm afraid Miss Carmichael won't let you come back, afterward, even if you

frighten them all so, when they find out at school that you've disappeared. Didn't you leave a note, explaining this crazy plan?"

Toby shook her head, "And have them telephone ahead to Waterbury to stop me? I reckon I didn't, and what's more," she ended suspiciously, glancing from the twins on down the track to where the lights of an approaching car shone dimly through the snow, "neither you nor Barbara's going to stop me from getting on that car, and you've both got to give me your word of honor not to tell anyone at school till to-morrow."

Barbara ignored the last part of her remarks. "Look here, Toby," she said very earnestly, "come on back to school with us and give Stockbridge another trial. Take my word you'll end by liking it lots. Billy and I were just about as desperately homesick when we first came here last fall as any two girls could be. But we got over it. We're crazy about boarding-school now; though, of course," she ended honestly, "we do get a sort of an ache to see the ranch once in a while."

Toby's mouth quivered piteously, like a frightened child's, and then set in its former stubborn line. "Here's the car," she said breathlessly, and put up a shaking hand to hail it. "I'll never be happy at school, Barbara. The girls don't-don't like me. I'm fat-yes, I know I am—and I'm not clever like you and Willamine-or athletic. I'm just a—a wash-out up here. I'm going home where I fit in, and folks like me just as I am. Let go of my sleeve, Willamine! If you try to hold me, I'll scream for the conductor to help."

The trolley drew to a grinding stop directly in front of them, and the motorman leaned out of his door at the front. "This way in, ladies," he shouted jovially. "This is a one-man car to-night. Conductor fell and hurt his leg at the start of the trip and they had to let me take 'er through alone. Step lively, Miss! We're due to be late enough with all this snow, without passengers holding me up too." With clumsy gallantry he reached down and clutching at Toby's arm, fairly lifted her, suitcase and all, up to the platform.

Barbara and Willamine exchanged startled glances, in which a new, daring resolve suddenly flowered. Without explanation, Barbara set her foot