shoes, and was always glad to get back on the trail again.
That day they were able to make only a few miles, and camped early, greatly fatigued. Once more little brush shelters were made, their meat supper eaten, after which they gathered close to the fire for warmth. The sergeant was anxious about Marion. She looked more weary than he had ever seen her before. But she assured him that she was feeling fine, only tired, that was all. In the morning she would be once more ready for the trail.
“I have been trying Mr. Rolfe’s plan all day,” she said, “and have been repeating verses which I learned years ago, especially old familiar hymns. It was certainly a great help. I thought of what the Bishop of the Yukon once told me. You remember how he and another man nearly lost their lives in crossing the mountains from Fort McPherson. When they were in terrible straits, not knowing where they were, worn to shadows, and forced to eat their muck-lucks to keep life in their bodies, the Bishop was greatly encouraged by the words of the hymn ‘Go labour on, spend and be spent.’ You can add the Bishop’s testimony and mine, Mr. Rolfe, to support your claim of the influence of poetry.”
“Indeed I shall, Miss Brisbane,” the constable declared. “When I go outside, if I ever live to get there, I am going to give a lecture on the influence of poetry. As examples, I shall relate the experiences of you, the Bishop, and General Wolfe, as well as my own.”
“What about you, John?” Marion asked, turning to the sergeant, who was seated by her side. “Haven’t you something to add to such imposing witnesses?”
“I am afraid not,” was the quiet reply. “The only
