“It might have been,” he said at last, “that if you and Kaniska had refused to do what Jake wanted, he would have found some one who would, some one who did not care so much and who would never have helped us in the end, as you have done. So perhaps the brown bear’s skin has saved us all.”
She seemed to go over his words laboriously, as though their meaning came very slowly. Then, when she had caught what he meant, she gave a quick little cry and turned away. The stoical Indians never weep; if Hugh had not known that well, he would have sworn that there was a glint of tears in her eyes.
So intently had he been listening, pondering and putting together the story from her fragments of information, that he had paid no heed to the passage of time. He saw now, as he got up from his seat, that the flame in the smoky lantern was burning very dim, that faint moonlight was coming in at the little windows and that the night was far advanced. He went over to stand by the helpless man.
“Is there nothing you want, is there nothing I can do for you?” he asked.
He felt a strange wave of pity for this broken being who had lived his life so hopelessly wrong and who was so near the end. Nothing he could do? What could be done, thought Hugh, so late as this? Plainly the man was of the same opinion, for his eyes looked only dull and weary hatred and, although his lips moved a little, he did not speak.
“Do you want to rest?” Hugh asked Laughing Mary, but she shook her head. “Then watch for me a little, for I am dead for sleep.”
It was bright morning when he opened his eyes and started up in dismay at having slept so long. Laughing Mary, sitting beside Jake’s bunk, looked up at him and gave him a smile, a smile of relief and gratitude this time, not the queer empty one that had given her the name. There seemed to be little change in Jake, his pulse was a trifle weaker, perhaps, and his eyes stayed shut for longer and longer at a time. Hugh went into the storeroom to see what food would be best for him; he looked carefully through every box and canister to make certain what was there. So occupied was he that he did not hear the swishing of snowshoes over the frozen slopes outside nor even heed a quiet knock at the door. It was not until some one came into the room and laid a hand upon his arm that he turned quickly to see Oscar Dansk.
That their greeting was a joyful one need hardly be said, but the first words of Hugh’s eager welcome were broken off by his shout of delight when he saw what Oscar was pulling from his pocket, a great handful of letters addressed in his father’s handwriting.
“Miss Christina, at the postoffice, has been much worried about the way your mail was piling up,” said Oscar. “She said I was to give these to you before I said a word, for she was sure I would forget them if we once got to talking.”
Hugh snatched the letters, sat down upon a box and then and there read them all through to the end. They told of the voyage, of Dr. Arnold’s arrival at the base hospital, of his work and his associates and the war. One of the letters, the last, made Hugh exclaim aloud in delighted happiness. It said: