to write about that it will take years to tell all I want to. The sergeant thinks that it is all nonsense and waste of time. But he doesn’t seem to understand. He is so very practical and matter-of-fact.”
The mention of the sergeant brought an anxious expression to Marion’s face. He had seldom been out of her mind since she had bidden him good-by, and watched him as he strode away. She knew what a difficult journey lay ahead of him, and she feared that he could not accomplish it on his miserable snow-shoes. Then when the storm swept down, her fear increased. Rolfe, too, was alarmed, although he spoke hopefully.
“The sergeant is a wonderful trailsman,” he said. “Even if his snow-shoes should give out, he can plow his way through. His endurance is remarkable. Why, I have known him to cross a mountain range in a howling blizzard, and come through almost as fresh as when he started.”
“But perhaps he will lose his way,” Marion suggested.
“Not a bit of it. You can’t lose him. He can follow a trail by instinct. Say, he is a great man. I have been with him on terrible journeys, and I wouldn’t be living to-day but for him. He carried me several miles once when I played out. Don’t worry about him, Miss Brisbane. He’ll get through, all right.”
Although these words cheered Marion to a certain degree, yet she could not help feeling uneasy. As the storm increased, and the wind roared overhead, and the trees swayed like great masts at sea, she thought of the man she loved battling his way through the blinding snow and the raging tempest. She also noted that as the evening wore on the constable became unusually silent, at times, and his eyes expressed his anxiety. She
