The Honor of the Big Snows | Page 2

flashes of the aurora
were playing over the pole. There came to him the hissing, saddening
song of the northern lights--a song of vast, unending loneliness, which
they two had come to know as the music of the skies.
Beyond that mystery-music there was no sound. To the eyes of John
Cummins there was no visible movement of life. And yet he saw signs
of it--signs which drew his breath from him in choking gulps, and
which sent him out into the night, so that the woman might not hear.
It was an hour past midnight at the post, which had the Barren Lands at
its back door. It was the hour of deep slumber for its people; but
to-night there was no sleep for any of them. Lights burned dimly in the
few rough log homes. The company's store was aglow, and the factor's
office, a haven for the men of the wilderness, shot one gleaming yellow
eye out into the white gloom. The post was awake. It was waiting. It
was listening. It was watching.
As the woman's door opened, wide and brimful of light, a door of one
of the log houses opened, and then another, and out into the night, like

dim shadows, trod the moccasined men from the factor's office, and
stood there waiting for the word of life or death from John Cummins.
In their own fashion these men, who, without knowing it, lived very
near to the ways of God, sent mute prayers into the starry heavens that
the most beautiful thing in the world might yet be spared to them.
It was just two summers before that this beautiful thing had come into
Cummins' life, and into the life of the post. Cummins, red-headed, lithe
as a cat, big-souled as the eternal mountain of the Crees, and the best of
the company's hunters, had brought Mélisse thither as his bride.
Seventeen rough hearts had welcomed her. They had assembled about
that little cabin in which the light was shining now, speechless in their
adoration of this woman who had come among them, their caps in their
hands, their faces shining, their eyes shifting before the glorious ones
that looked at them and smiled at them as the woman shook their hands,
one by one.
Perhaps she was not strictly beautiful, as most people judge; but she
was beautiful here, four hundred miles beyond civilization. Mukee, the
half-Cree, had never seen a white woman, for even the factor's wife
was part Chippewayan; and no one of the others went down to the edge
of the southern wilderness more than once each twelvemonth or so.
Melisse's hair was brown and soft, and it shone with a sunny glory that
reached far back into their conception of things dreamed of but never
seen. Her eyes were as blue as the early wild flowers that came after the
spring floods, and her voice was the sweetest sound that had ever fallen
upon their ears. So these men thought when Cummins first brought
home his wife, and the masterpiece which each had painted in his soul
and brain was never changed. Each week and month added to the
deep-toned value of that picture, as the passing of a century might add
to a Raphael or a Vandyke.
The woman became more human, and less an angel, of course, but that
only made her more real, and allowed them to become acquainted with
her, to talk with her, and to love her more. There was no thought of
wrong, for the devotion of these men was a great, passionless love
unhinting of sin. Cummins and his wife accepted it, and added to it

when they could, and were the happiest pair in all that vast Northland.
The girl--she was scarce more than budding into womanhood--fell
happily into the ways of her new life. She did nothing that was
elementally unusual, nothing more than any pure woman reared in the
love of God and of a home would have done. In her spare hours she
began to teach the half-dozen wild little children about the post, and
every Sunday she told them wonderful stories out of the Bible. She
ministered to the sick, for that was a part of her code of life.
Everywhere she carried her glad smile, her cheery greeting, her wistful
earnestness, to brighten what seemed to her the sad and lonely lives of
these silent men of the North.
And she succeeded, not because she was unlike other millions of her
kind, but because of the difference between the fortieth degree and the
sixtieth--the difference in the viewpoint of men who fought themselves
into moral shreds in the big game of life and those who lived a
thousand miles nearer to the dome of the earth.
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