"Is that all?"

Connie glanced away. "No'm, he answered, "that is not all," and plunged into the bush.

He forded the river opposite the mouth of the valley that had contained the cabin, but so changed was it that he scarcely recognized the place. No green thing was visible along the whole south bank of the river. Mountain slopes covered with blackened stubs and grey ashes reared skyward, and long naked ridges showed where, the day before, all was the rich dark green of the timber. The whole landscape spoke desolation and ruin. He passed on up the creek and halted suddenly. Two men were digging frantically among the ruins of the cabin, which still smouldered sullenly. Near-by a rifle leaned against a rock. One of the men looked up. It was the "prospector," and Connie saw that his face was seamed by deep lines of suffering.

"I can't find even a trace of them," said the man, in a dull, toneless voice. "My poor wife—and the babies——"

"Not there, you can't!" smiled Connie.

"What do you mean?" The man leaped toward him, his eyes alight with a sudden hope. "Tell me! Speak, can't you!"