"Yes, you wait till daddy builds the fire an' then we'll be nice an' warm, an' daddy'll get supper."
Silently MacFarlane set about his work. He kindled a fire, put the teakettle on, and warmed some caribou gravy, stirring it slowly to prevent its scorching while he toasted some bread upon the top of the stove. Once or twice he glanced toward the bed. Margot's face was turned away from him, and all he could see was a wealth of dark hair massed upon the pillow. That—and the hand that showed at the end of the nightgown sleeve. White as snow—and cold as snow it looked against the warm red of the blanket. MacFarlane crossed and drew the blanket up over the hand and arm, covering it to the shoulder. Bending over, he looked long into the white face. The eyes were closed, MacFarlane was glad of that, and the lips were slightly parted as though in restful slumber. "Good bye—Margot—lass—" his voice broke thickly. He was conscious of a gnawing pain in his throat, and two great scalding tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped to the mass of dark hair where they glistened in the steady glow of the single candle like tiny globes of fire. He raised the blanket to cover
the still face, lowered it again and crossed to the table where he laid out a tincup for himself and a little thick yellow bowl into which he crumbled the toast and poured the gravy over it. Then he warmed a tiny blanket, wrapped the baby in it and, holding her on his lap, fed her from a spoon. Between the slowly portioned spoonfuls he drank great gulps of scalding tea. There were still several spoonfuls left in the bowl when the tiny mite in his arms snuggled warmly against him. "Tell me a 'tory," demanded the mite. MacFarlane told the "'tory"—and another, and another. And then, in response to an imperious demand, he sang a song. It was the first time MacFarlane had ever sung a song. It was a song he had often heard Margot sing, and he was surprised that he had unconsciously learned the words which fell from his lips in a wailing monotone.
MacFarlane's heart was breaking—but he finished the song.
"I sleepy," came drowsily from the blanket. "I want to kiss mamma."
"S-h-s-h, mamma's asleep. Kiss daddy, and we'll go to bed."
"I want to kiss mamma," insisted the baby.
MacFarlane hesitated with tight-pressed lips. Then he rose and carried the baby to the bedside. "See, mamma's asleep," he whispered, pointing to the mass of dark hair on the pillow. "Just kiss her hair—and we—won't—wake—her—up." He
held the baby so that the little pursed lips rested for a moment in the thick mass of hair, then he carried her to her crib and tucked her in. She was asleep when he smoothed the robe into place.
For a long time he stood looking down at the little face on the pillow. Then he crossed to the table where he sat with his head resting upon his folded arms while the minutes ticked into hours and the fire burned low. As he sat there with closed eyes MacFarlane followed the thread of his life from his earliest recollection. His childhood on the little hillside farm, the long hours that he struggled with his books under the eye of the stern-faced schoolmaster, his 'prenticeship in the shop of the harness-maker in the small Scotch town, his year of work about the docks at Liverpool, his coming to Canada and hiring out to the Hudson's Bay Company, his assignment to Lashing Water as Molaire's clerk, his meeting with Margot when she returned home from school at the mission—and the wonderful days of that first summer together. Then—his promotion to the position of trader, his marriage to Margot—step by step he lived again that long journey from Lashing Water to Ste. Anne's. For it was old Molaire's wish that his daughter should be married in the old Gothic church where, years before, he had married her mother.