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T HX tffogant tun bad stalked away Into the evening, trailing behind him banners of gold and crimson, ant* a swift twilight was JL streaming over the land. As the sun passed, the eyes of two men on a high hill fol lowed it, and the look of one was like a light In a window to a lost traveller. It had In ft the sense of home and the tale of a journey done. * Such a journey this man had made as few have ever attempted, and fewer accomplished. To the farther most regions of snow and ice, where the shoulder of a continent juts out into the northwestern Arctic seas* he had travelled on foot and alone, save for his dogs, and for Indian guides, who, now and then, shepherded him frt>m point to point. The vast ice-hummocks had been his housing, pcmmican, the raw flesh of fish, and even the fat and oil of seals had been his food. Ever and ever through long months the everlasting white glitter of the snow and Ice, ever and ever the cold stars, the cloudless sky, the moon at full, or like a white sickle set to warn him that his life must be mown like grass- Where he had gone none other had been of white men from the Western lands, though from across the wide Pacific, from the Eastern world, adventurers ind exiles had once visited what is now known as the Yukon Valley. So this man, browsing in the library of his grandfather, an Eastern scholar, had come to know, and for love of adventure, and because of the tale of a valley of gold and treasure to be had, and because he had been ruined by bad investments, had made a journey likd none any one man had essayed before. And on his way up to those regions, where the veil before the^face of God is very thin and fine, and men’s hearts glow within them, though all the world of herb and flower and flowing water is con gealed about them, and never a bird floats in the air or a tree in loneliness stretches out gaunt arafs to the Spring-on his way to the desert of white, where no oasis was save the' unguessed deposit of a great hu man dream that his soul could feel but his eyes could ' not behold, he had seen the face of a girl which had haunted him on his austere pilgrimage. Her voice— so sweet a voice that It rang like muffled, silver In his ears, till in the arena of the everlasting theatre of the Pole, the stars seeemed to repeat it through millions of echoing hills, growing softer and softer as the frost hushed it to his ears—it had said to him late and early, so that he was cheered when he would have wept In misery, and raised when he would have fallen, “You must come back with the swallows." It had been but an acquaintance of five days while he fitted out for his expedition, but in this brief time It had sunk deep Into his mind that life was now a thing to cherish and that he must indeed come back; though he had left England caring little if, in the peril and danger of his quest, he ever returned. He had been Indifferent to his fate till he came to the Valley of the Saskatchewan, to the town lying at the foot of the maple hill beside the great northern stream, and saw the girl whose life was knit with the far north, whose mother's heart was buried in the great wastes where Sir John Franklin’s expedition was lost; for her husband had been one of the ill-fated if not unhappy band of lovers of their kind and of that civili sation for which they had risked all and lost all save immortality. Hither they had come after Tie had been cast away on the icy plains, and as the settlement had crept north, had gone north with it, always on the outer edge of house and field, ever stepping northward. Here, with small income but high hearts and quiet souls, they had lived and labored, angels of mercy and kindness among pioneers, as he whom they mourned had been before them. And when the man, who now again looked down In safety upon the little town, set his faee northward to an unknown destination, she and her daughter had prayed-as the mother did In the old days when the daughter was but a babe at her knee, and it was not yet certain that Franklin and his men had been cast away forever. And he had returned. He was now looking down into the valley where the village lay. Far, far over, two days’ march away,, he could see the cluster of houses, and the glow of the sun on the tin spire of the little Mission Church where he had heard the girl and her mother sing till the hearts of all were swept by feeling and ravished by the desire for “the peace of the Holy Grail.” The village was, in truth, but a day’s march away, from him, but he was not alone, and the journey coul^ not be hastened. Beside him, his eyes also upon the sunset and the village, was a man in a costume half-trapper, half-Indian, with bushy gray heard and massive frame, and a distant, sorrowful look, like that of one whose soul was tuned to past suffering. As he sat, his head sunk on hik breast, his elbow resting on a stump of pine—the token of a progressive civilization—his chin upon his hand, he looked like the figure of Moses made immortal by Michael Angelo. But his strength was not like that of the young man beside him, who was thirty years younger. When he walked, it was as one who had no destination, who had no haven toward which tp travel, who journeyed as one to whom the world is a wilder ness, and one tent or one hut is the same as another, and none Is home. Like two ships meeting hull to hull on the wide seas, where a few miles of water will hide them from each other, whose ports are thousands of miles apart, whose courses are not the same, they two had met, the elder man, sick and worn, and near to death, in the poor hospitality of an Indian’s tepee. John- Bickersteth had nursed-him back to strength, ahd had brought him southward with him, a silent companion who spoke In monosyllables, who had no conversation at all of the ■*st, and little of the present; but who was a woods man and an Arctic traveller cf the most expert kind, who knew by instinct where the best places for shelter ?**d for sleeping might be found, who never com bined, was wonderful with the dogs, of whom only one was left of the original team younger man had started. What did Bickersteth know of him? Little or noth ing. Bickersteth knew a little of the Chinook lan guage, which is known to most Indian tribes, a kind o! Volapilk the lingua franca of the north, and he had learned that the Indians knew, nothing exact concern ing the old man; but there were rumors which had passed from tribe to tribe that this white man had lived forever in the farthest north among the Arctic woros were, out happiness and pity in him at once, and talking as one talks to a child that cannot under stand, "you shall never want while I have a penny or have head or hands to world But is there no one that you care for or that cares for you? That you remember, or that remembers you?" The old man shook his head though not with under standing, for he appeared rapt in reverie as he lodked out on the green valley, the sweet verdure far away, and the shining skies. But he laid a hand on the Help look afetf you, too. Neithet* of us would Have been here without the other, dear old man, and we shall not be separated. Whoever vou are, you are a gentleman, and you might have been my father or hers—or hers I” He stopped suddenly. A thought had flashed through his mind, a thought which stunned him, which passed like some powerful current through his veins, shocked him, then gave him a palpitating life. It was a wild thought, but yet why not—why not? There was the chance, the faint, far-off chance. He caught the old man by the shoulders and looked him in the eyes, scanned his features, pushed back the hsir from the rugged forehead. ‘ Dear old man," he said, his voice shaking, "do you know what I’m thinking? I’m thinking that you may be of those who went out to the Arctic Sea with Sir John Franklin—-with Sir John Franklin, you under stand. Did you know Sir John Franklin—is it true, dear old boy, is it true? Are you one that has lived to tell the tale? Did you know. Sir John Franklin— is it true—oh, is It true?" He let go the old man’s shoulders, for over the face of the other there had passed a change—it was strained rv x , TytiTflEMlm—? v- g /■'MlUFMIffflBVVlH * n d ten,e » the* hands were outstretched, the eyes now *1 - {fif®'•‘j'vfljifcL I XwWwMw'ltSrjll Staring straight Into the west and the coming night. !%..• » \ \ Mflfear VS&Sr . ^71 m miWwlM "Dear God I It Is—it is—that's it I" cried Bicker- steth. “Thst’s it—oh, love of Christ, that’s it I Sir John Franklin—Sir John Franklin, and all the brave lads that died up there—you remember the ship—the Arctic Sea—the ice-fields, and Franklin—you remember him l Dear old man, say you remember Franklin 1" The thing had seized him. Conviction was upon him, and he watched the other's anguished face with anguish and excitement in his own. "But—but it might be—it might be her father—the eyes, the eyes, the forehead are like hers, the hands, the long hands, the pointed fingers, the eyes—if it should be so f if I am not mad, and It is only so—Dear old man, did you have a wife and child, and were they both called Alice—do you remember? Alice, and they both had faces like angels I Franklin—Alice I Do you remember?" The old man got slowly to* his feet, his arms out stretched, the look in his face changing, understanding struggling for its place, memory fighting for its own, the soul contending for its mastery. "Franklin—Alice—the snow," he said, confusedly, and sank down. "God have mercy I" cried Bickersteth, as he caught the swayiug body and laid it upon the ground. "He was there—almost." • He settled the old man against the great pine stump ,and chafed his hands. “Man, dear man, if you belong to her, if you do, can’t you sec what it will mean to me-i-she can’t say no to me then. But If It’s true, you'll belong to England and to all the world, too, ana you’ll have fame everlasting. I’ll have gold for her and for you, and for your Alice, too, dear old man. Wake up now, you’re coming home, and remember— you must remember everything, or it will be so awful —if you are Dyke Alllngham who went with Franklin to the silent seas of the Pole. If it’s you, really you, what wonder you lost your memory I You saw things that no other man has seen—saw them all die but you, Franklin and all, die there In the snow, with afl the white world round them. If you were there, dear old man, what a travel you have had, what strange things I ou have seen I Where the world Is loneliest—there. suppose, God is most, and you got near the heart of it all. If you did, if you have seen things closer than the rest of us, it's no marvel you forgot what you were, or where you came from, because It didn’t mutter —you knew that you were only one of thousands of millions who have come and gone that make up the soul of things, that make the pulses of the universe ‘ beat. That's it, dear old traveller, the universe would die if it weren't for the souls that leave this world and fill it with life. Wake up I Wake up, Allingiiam. and tell us where you’ve been and what you've seen." He did not labor in vain. Slowly consciousness came r back, and the gray eyes opened wide, the lips smiled faintly under the bushy beard, but Bickersteth saw that the look in the face was much the same as it had keen before. The struggle had bfen too great, the fight for the other lost self had exhaustea him mind and body, and only a deep obliquity and a great weariness filled the countenance. He had come back to the verge, he had almost again discovered himself, but the door which was opening had shut fast again suddenly, and he was back again in the night, the in- companionable night of forgetfulness. Bkkeriteth saw that the travail and strife had drained life and energy, and that he must not press the mind and vitality pf this exile of time and the unknown too far. He felt that when the next test came the old man would either break completely, and 6ink down into another and everlasting forgetfulness, or tear away forever the veil between himself and his past, and emerge into a long-lost life. He must shepherd his strength and keep him quiet and undisturbed until Esquimaux, and the least-known tribes, and that he young man’s shoulder, and whispered: * they came to the town yonder in the valley over which passed from people to people, disappearing into the un- "Once it Was always snow, but now, it Is green, tffe the night was slowly settling down, and where two tenanted wilderness, but reappearing again among land. I have seen it—I have seen it once." Iiis shaggy women waited. The two Alices, from both of whom had stranger tribes, never resting; but as one always seeking what he could not find. One thing had helped the man In all his travels and sojourning. He had, as it seemed to the native peo ple, a gift of the hands, for when they were sick, a few moments’ manipulation of his huge, quiet fingers and pain vanished. A few herbs he gave in tincture, and these alio were praised; but it was a legend that when he was persuaded to lay on his hands, and close his eyes, and with his fingers to "search for the pain - and find it, and kill it," he always prevailed. These lonely aborigines had the belief, as the Egyptians have, that though his body was on earth his soul was with Manitou, ana that it was his soul which came fntc him again, and gave # the Great Spirit’s healing to the fingers. * It was only visible things, or sounds, that appeared to open the door* of memory of the most recent happenings. Happenings if not varied were of the most critical moment, since, passing down from the land of unchanging ice and snow, they had come into March and April storms, and the perils of the rapids and the swollen floods of May. Now, in June, two years and a month since Bickersteih had gone into the wilds, they looked down upon the goal of one at least —of the younger man who had triumphed in his quest up-in these wilds abandoned four centuries ago, and whose face now was shining in what was to him—he had said it so often to himself—the light of home; of love and home. With this Joyoai thooght In Mi heart, thit he hid tucceeded, that he hid ditcovered anew one.of the greatest gold-fields of the world, and that t journey unparalleled had been accomplished, and all that was dear.it to h!> life wai beneath hl» e/ea, he turned toward his ancient companion and a great feeling of pity and human lore enlarged within him. He, John Bickersteth, was going into t world again, where his . , . . fate, at he believed a happy fate, awaited him; but eyebrow, gathered over, hit ejrtl tearehed, learched what of Util old man? He had brought him out of U>e face of John Bickeriteth. 'Once, 10 loo* ago-l the wildi, out of the unknown—w,i he only taking cannot think, he added helpleaaly. Mm into the unknown again? Were there friendi, any “Dear old man" Blckerit«h laid, gently, knowing friendi anywhere in the world awaiting him? He he would not wholly comprehend, ' I am going to ask called bimielf by no name, he laid he had no name, her—Allco-to marry me, and if ihe doca, aha wtU COPYRIGHT ntt mhi \ i ..-' Til* OLD MAH SHOOK HIS HEAD, THOUGH HOT WITH UNDERSTANDING, FOX nE APPEARED RAPT IN REVERIE AS HE LOOKED OUT ON THE GREEN VALLEY the man loved her { while her mother had had for t few unequalled happiness and love and comradeship, years since Bickersteth had gone, and not a sign I Yet, if she had looked out from ner bedroom window, which faced the north this Friday night after practice of the choir, she would have seen on the far hill a sign; for there burned a fire beside whieh sat two travellers who had come from the uttermost limits of snow. But as the fire burned, a beacon to her heart if she had but known it, she went to her rest, the words of a song she had sung with tears in her voice and in her heart ringing in her ears. There was to be a con cert after the service on the coming, Sunday night at which there wss to be a collection for funds to build another mission-house a hundred miles farther north and she had practised songs she was to sing. Her mother had been an amateur singer of great power, trained under the best masters, and she was renewing her mother’s gift in a voice behind which lay a hidden sorrow, as above her smiling there was a shadow in the eyes that would not away. This night as she crifed to sleep the words of the song which had moved her kept ringing in her ears, and echoing in her hearts But her mother, looking out into the night, aaw on the hill the fire, burning like a star, where she had never eeen a tire set before, and a hope shot Into her heart for her daughter, a hone that had flamed up and died down so often during the past year. Yet she had fanned w her life-breath every such glimmer of hopo when it came, and now she went to her rest saying, "Perhaps he will come to-morrow." In her ears, too, rang the words of the song which had ravished her ears that night, the song she had sung the night before her husband. Dyke Allingham, had gone with Franklin to the Polar seas— "When the swallows homeward fly—" Next morning, as she and her daughter looked out over the valley toward the north, words flashed into her mind which she had not thought fit for many a year; since, indeed, her own mother had passed away, . with them on her lips: "Mine eyes look toward the hills from whence cometh my helps' She was happier all that day, and the next, she knew not, or thought not, why. As she and her daughter entered the little church on this Sunday evening, two men came slowly toward the town with a solitary dog, and both raised their heads to the sound of the church bell calling to prayer. In the eyes of the younger man there was a look which has come to many in this world returning from hard enterprise and great dangers, to the familiar streets, the friendly faces of men of their kin and clan, to the lights of home. An hour later the two walked slowly toward the church from the little tavern where they had put their things. They were cleared of the dust of travel, and Bickersteth, who knew that the two whom he most wanted to see on earth would be at evening service, drew the old man thither. The service was over, but the concert had begun. The church was full, and there were people in the porch, but these made way for the two strange figures, and, as Bickersteth was recog nized by two or three men, place was found for them inside. The old man stared round him in a confused ami troubled way, but his motions were quiet and patient, and he looked like some old viking, bis work- a-day life done, come to pray ere he went hence. They had entered In a pause in the concert, but now two ladies came forward to the chancel step, and one with her hands clasped before her, began to sing— "When the swallows homeward fly, And the roses' bloom Is o’er, And the nightingale’s sweet song In the woods is heard po more—" It was Alico—Alice the daughter—and presently the mother, the other Alice, joined in the refrain. At Bight of them Bickersteth’s eyes had filled, not with tears, but with a cloud of feeling, so that he went blind. There she was, the girl he loved. .Her voice was ringing In his ears. In hii own joy for one in stant he had forgotten the old man beside him, and the great test that was now upon him. He turned quickly as the old man got to nis feet. For an in- .slant. the 1<*st exile »»f the north stood as though trans fixed. Tile blood slowly drained from his face, and in his eyes was an agony of struggle and desire. For a moment an awful confusion had the mastery, and then «uddrnly a dear light hr.ike into his ryes, his face flushed healthily and shone, his arm went up, and there rang in his cars tho words: ’Then I think with bitter pain, Shall we ever meet again ? When the swallows homeward fly"-* "Alice—Alice,” he called. "0 my God I" He tottered forward up the aisle, followed by John Bickersteth. gone two lovers Into the north, who hid not returned; the daughter living over again in her yctang love the pangs of suspense through which her mother had passed, yet who bad never told her love, who had never had more than the assurance of a fond look tad a last hand-clasp, and broken words of farewell, that -A... L. *AHee, I fiave comrfJockPtfi cited again. "Alloa my wife.” a One that had died with Franklin had returned to life * and all that makes life good, and one other had re- ; turned also, and at the cnanca steps he knew his fate j and his happiness. « Next Week: Terry Connolly’s Wife By Seumas MacManus