if Jennifer had loved and trusted him as Andree did he would not be here. Who was she to interfere with him now? Then he suddenly realised that she did not interfere. She seemed very far-off and dim. The sound of her voice, the personality of her, the very features of her face eluded him when, with a start of half-alarm, he tried to fix them in his mind as clearly as they had always lived there. At each effort they evaded him more completely. He knew how common such lapses of memory are. He knew that the strain of his mind and the weariness of his body were partly accountable. And yet, with that elusive superstition which moves more or less in every man's blood, he felt that it was a final thing. He had denied and defied her, and she had left him.
He got up, walking out of the tent to take the snow on his face. The huskies, curled nose to tail, glanced up, bright-eyed. But he did not see them.
"Jennifer!" he cried, and the word fell dead without meaning. "Jennifer!" he said again. And then he stood still with hands clenched up.
Ever since he had left her he had fought the hold which she had on him. He had cursed it and defied it, mad with himself because he loved her still. And now she had gone. She had gone. His tired, half-dizzy brain fumbled with the thought. He flung his hands out. "By God," he said. "I have got to go back to you again. I have got to go back to you, Jennifer!"
In the yellow morning the snow fell still. The trail by which they had come would be half obliterated already. But it never would be obliterated in his mind. There was feverish haste in him now to turn back. And then, as he came from the tent, Andree met him brilliant-eyed and brilliant-cheeked.
"Ah, Dick. I did dream you were away," she cried, and flung her arms close round his neck. "I do love you. I do love you," she whispered. For a moment Dick stood still, with eyes set and face white. Then he freed himself, stepping back with a little smile.
"I wonder what you would think if you knew what it is that you love, Grange's Andree," he said. "Supposing that you could ever think or ever know—or ever love, per-
