The impelling desire to return to her brought him to his feet and down to the pebbly shore of the lake, where the water rippled softly in the thickening gloom.

But a still more powerful force held him back, and he went to his blankets, spread over a thick couch of balsam boughs.

For hours his eyes were wide open and sleepless.
He no longer thought of Cassidy, but of Yellow Bird.

Doubt--a charitable inclination to half believe--gave way in him to a conviction which he could not fight down.

More than once in his years of wilderness life strange facts had compelled him to give some credence to the power of the Indian conjurer.