Then he fastened the cabin door with a wooden bolt and sat himself down at the table, with the lamp close to his bent head and Tavish's confession in his hands.

He cut the _babiche_ threads with his knife, unfolded the sheets of paper and began to read, while Tavish's mice nosed slyly out of their murky corners wondering at the new and sudden stillness in the cabin and, it may be, stirred into restlessness by the absence of their master.
* * * * * The ground under the snow was discouragingly hard.

To David the digging of the grave seemed like chipping out bits of flint from a solid block, and he soon turned over the pick to Mukoki.

Alternately they worked for an hour, and each time that the Cree took his place David wondered what was keeping the Missioner so long in the cabin.

At last Mukoki intimated with a sweep of his hands and a hunch of his shoulders that their work was done.