But now, his life was gray. His heart was not his own. His life was at best only a grim, drab thing of ugly memories and angered determinations. If a home should ever come to him, it must be in company with some one to whom he owed the gratitude of friendship in time of need; not love not affection, but the paying of a debt of deepest honor. Which Barry would do, and faithfully and honestly and truthfully. As for the other—
He leaned against the bark slabs of the cabin. He closed his eyes. He grinned cheerily.
"Well," came at last, "there's no harm in thinking about it!"
CHAPTER VI
It was thus that Ba'tiste found him, still dreaming. The big voice of the Canadian boomed, and he reached forward to nudge Barry on his injured shoulder.
"And who has been bringing you flowers?" he asked.
"Medaine. That is—Miss Robinette."
"Medaine? Oh, ho! You hear, Golemar?" he turned to the fawning wolf-dog. "He calls her Medaine! Oh, ho! And he say he will marry, not for love. Peuff! We shall see, by gar, we shall see! Eh, Golemar?" Then to Barry, "You have sit out here too long."
"I? Nothing of the kind. Where's the axe? I'll do some fancy one-handed woodchopping."