“Soon as that race is over we’re off,” he shouted, fairly beside himself with joy.
“Yes,” she agreed, “the race and then the long, long trail. Mountains, rivers, sunshine, storms, camp beneath a rocky ledge or in the midst of dark spruce trees. On and on, and then—”
“The mine,” he murmured. There was new fire in his fine old eyes.
CHAPTER XIII
A BRIGHT NEW DREAM
In the meantime, life was not dull on “Rainbow Farm,” as Mary had lovingly named their little claim in the happy Matamuska valley. As winter came blowing in from the north, some settlers, discouraged by the too frank breezes that swept through their green log cabins, sold out and sailed for home. From these Mark purchased two fine flocks of chickens. These called for a snug log cabin chicken house, more work, and added hopes for the future.
Every one settled down to the routine of winter’s work, all but Madam Chicaski. She did the most unusual things and obtained the most astonishing results. Having polished and oiled her large pile of rusty traps, she one day threw them, a full hundred pounds, over her ample back, then disappeared over the nearest hill. She remained away until long after dark. Mary was beginning to worry about her when, all bent over with fatigue, but smiling as ever, she appeared empty-handed at the door.
After consuming a prodigious amount of cornmeal mush, she sat dreaming by the fire.
“Renewing her youth,” Mary whispered.
Mark nodded and smiled.
What was their surprise when three days later she appeared with five foxes, four minks and a dozen muskrats, all prime furs.