CHAPTER XI He bent over to pick up his revolver from the ground. His movement was followed by a low sob of pain. Jean was swaying as though about to faint. She fell in a crumpled heap before he could reach her side. "'You are hurt!' he exclaimed. "'Jean! Jean!' He was upon his knees beside her, crying out her name, half holding her in his arms. "'No, no, I am not hurt much,' she replied, trying to recover herself. "'It is my ankle. I sprained it on the cliff. Now!' she became heavier against his arm. Her eyes were limpid with pain. Rising Philip caught her in his arms. The crashing of brush was within pistol-shot distance of them, but in that moment he felt no fear. Life leaped back into his veins. He wanted to shout back his defiance as he ran with Jean along the path to the river. He could feel her pulsing against him. His lips were in her hair. Her heart was beating wildly against his own. One of her arms was about his shoulder, her hand against his neck. Life, love, the joy of possession, swept through him in burning floods, and it seemed in these first moments of his contact with Jean, in the first sound of her voice speaking to him, that the passionate language of his soul must escape through his lips. For this moment he had risked his life, had taken a hundred chances. He had anticipated, and yet he had not dreamed, beyond a hundredth part of what it would mean for him. He looked down into the white face of the girl as he ran. Her beautiful eyes were open to him. Her lips were parted. Her cheek lay against his breast. He did not realize how close he was holding her until, at last, he stopped where he had hidden the canoe. Then he felt her beating and throbbing against him as he had felt the quivering life of a frightened bird imprisoned in his hands. She drew a deep breath when he opened his arms and lifted her head. Her loose hair swept over his breast and hands. He spoke no word as he placed her in the canoe. Not a whisper passed between them as the canoe sped swiftly from the shore. A hundred yards down the stream Philip headed straight across the river and plunged into the shadows along the opposite bank. Jean was close to him. He could hear her breathing. Suddenly he felt the touch of her hand. Monsieur, I must ask about Pierre. There was the thrill of fear in the low words.  Quickly he whispered what had happened. He told her that Pierre was hurt, but not badly, and that he had promised to take her on to fort a god. It is up the Churchill, he questioned. Yes, she whispered. They heard voices now, and almost opposite them, they saw shadowy figures running out to the canoes upon the sandbar. They will think that we are escaping toward Churchill, said Philip gloatingly. It is the nearest refuge, see? One of the canoes was launched and shot swiftly down the river. A moment later the second followed. The dip of paddles died away, and Philip laughed softly and joyously. They will hunt for us from now until morning between here and the bay, and then they will look for you again in Churchill. Philip was conscious, almost without seeing, that Jean had bowed her head in her arms, and that she was giving way now to the terrific strain which she had been under. Not until he heard a low sob, which she strove hard to choke back in her throat, did he dare to lean over again and touch her. Whatever was throbbing in his heart he knew that he must hide it now. You read the letter, he asked softly. Yes, monsieur. Then you know that you are safe with me. There was pride and strength, the ring of triumph in his voice. It was the voice of a man thrilled by his own strength, by the warmth of a great love, by the knowledge that he was the protector of a creature dearer to him than all else on earth. The truth of it set Jean quivering. She reached out until, in the darkness, her two hands found one of Philip's, and for a moment she held his paddle motionless in mid-air. Thank you, monsieur, she whispered. I trust you as I would trust Pierre. All the words that women had ever spoken to him were as nothing to those few that fell softly from Jean's lips. In the clinging pressure of her fingers as she uttered them were the concentrated joys of all that he had dreamed of in the touch of women. He knelt silent, motionless, until her hands left his own. I am to take you to Fort Agade, he said, fighting to keep the tremble of joy out of his voice. And you, you must guide me. It is far up the Churchill, she replied, understanding the question he intended. It is two hundred miles from the bay. He put his strength into his paddle for ten minutes, and then ran the canoe into shore fully half a mile above the sandbar. He stepped out into water up to his knees. We must risk a little time here to attend to your injured ankle, he explained. Then you can arrange yourself comfortably among these robes in the bow. Shall I carry you? You can help, said Jean. She gave him her hand and made an effort to rise. Instantly she sank back with a sob of pain. It was strange that her pain should fill him with a wonderful joy. He knew that she was suffering, that she could not walk or stand alone. And yet, back at the camp, she had risen in her torture and had come to his rescue. She could not bear her own weight now, but then she had run to him and had fought for him. The knowledge that she had done this, and for him, filled him with an exquisite sensation. I must carry you, he said, speaking to her with the calm decision that he might have voiced to a little child. His tone reassured her, and she made no remonstrance when he lifted her in his arms. For a brief moment she lay against him again, and when he lowered her upon the bank, his hand accidentally touched the soft warmth of her face. My specialty is sprains, he said, speaking a little lightly to raise her spirits for the instance or deal through which she must pass. I have doctored half a dozen during the last three months.  He drew a big handkerchief from his pocket and dipped it in the water. Then he searched along the shore for a dozen paces until he found an Indian willow. With his knife he scraped off a handful of bark, soaked it in water, crushed it between his hands, and returned to her.  It will hurt just a moment, he said gently, but it is the only cure. Tomorrow it will be strong enough for you to stand upon. Can you bear a little hurt? He knelt before her and looked up, scarce daring to touch her foot before she spoke. I may cry, she said. Her voice fluttered, but it gave him permission. He folded the wet handkerchief in the form of a bandage with the willow bark spread over it. Then, very gently, he seized her foot in one hand and her ankle in the other. It will hurt just a little, he soothed. Only a moment. His fingers tightened. He put into them the whole strength of his grip, pulling downward on the foot and upward on the ankle until, with a low cry, Jean flung her hands over his. There it is done! he laughed nervously. He wrapped the bandage around so tightly that Jean could not move her foot and tied it with strips of cloth. Then he turned to the canoe while she drew on her stocking into moccasin. He was trembling, a maddening joy pounded in his brain. Jean's voice came to him sweetly, with a shyness in it that made him feel like a boy. He was glad that the night concealed his face. He would have given words to have seen Jean's. I am ready, she said. He carried her to the bow of the canoe and fixed her among the robes, arranging a place for her head so that she might sleep if she wished. For the first time the light was so that he could see her plainly as she nestled back in the place made for her. Their eyes met for a moment. You must sleep, he urged. I shall paddle all night. You are sure that Pierre is not badly hurt? she asked tremulously. You would not keep the truth from me? He was not more than stunned, assured Philip. It is impossible that his wound should prove serious. Only there was no time to lose, and I came without him. He will follow us soon. He took his position in the stern, and Jean lay back among the bearskins. For a long time after that Philip paddled in silence. He had hoped that Jean would give him an opportunity to continue their conversation in spite of his advice to her to secure what rest she could. But there came no promise from the bow of the canoe. After half an hour he guessed that Jean had taken him at his word and was asleep. It was disappointing, and yet there came a pleasurable throb with his disappointment. Jean trusted him. She was sleeping under his protection as sweetly as a child. Fear of her enemies no longer kept her awake or filled her with terror. This night, under these stars, with the wilderness all about them, she had given herself into his keeping. His cheeks burned. He dipped his paddle noiselessly so that he might not interrupt her slumber. Each moment added to the fullness of his joy, and he wished that he might only see her face hidden in the darkness of her hair and the bare robes. The silence no longer seemed a silence to him.  It was a silence that pulsated with the voiceless and intoxicating life for him, and he was happy. In these moments, when even their voices were stilled, Jean belonged to him and to him alone. He could feel the warmth of her presence. He felt still the thrill of her breast against his own, the touch of her hair upon his lips, the gentle clinging of her arms. The spirit of her moved and sat awake and talked with him, just as the old spirit of his dreams had communed with him a thousand times in his loneliness. Dreams were at an end. Now had come reality. He looked up into the sky. The moon had dropped below the southwestern forests, and there were only the stars above him, filling a gray-blue vault in which there was not even the lingering mist of a cloud. It was a beautifully clear night, and he wondered how the light fell so that it did not reveal Jean in her nest. The thought that came to him then set his heart tingling and made his face radiant. Even the stars were guarding Jean, and refused to disclose the mystery of her slumber. He laughed within himself. His being throbbed, and suddenly a voice seemed to cry softly, trembling in its joy. Jean, Jean, my beloved Jean! With horror Philip caught himself too late. He had spoken the words aloud. For an instant reality had transformed itself into the old dream, and his dream-spirit had called to its mate for the first time in words. Appalled at what he had said, Philip bent over and listened. He heard Jean's breathing. It was deeper than before. She was surely asleep. He straightened himself and resumed his paddling. He was in a state of sleep. Just glad now that he had spoken, Jean seemed nearer to him after those words. Before this night he never realized how beautiful the wilderness was, how complete it could be. It had offered him visions of new life, but these visions had never quite shut out the memories of old pain. He watched and listened. The water rippled behind his canoe. It trickled in a soothing cadence after each dip of his paddle. He heard the gentle murmur of it among the reeds and grasses, and now and then the gurgling laughter of it, like the faintest tinkling of dainty bells. He had never understood it before. He had never joined in its happiness. The night sounds came to him with a different meaning, filled him with different sensations. As he slipped quietly around a bend in the river, he heard a splashing ahead of him, and knew that a moose was feeding, belly deep in the water. At other times the sound would have set his fingers itching for a rifle, but now it was a part of the music of the night. Later he heard the crashing of a heavy body along the shore, and in the distance the lonely howl of a wolf. He listened to the sounds with a quiet pleasure, instead of creeping thrills which they once sent through him. Every sound spoke of Jean, of Jean and her world, into which each stroke of his paddle carried them a little deeper. And yet the truth could not but come to him that Jean was but a stranger. She was a creature of mystery, as she lay there asleep in the bow of the canoe. He loved her and yet he did not know her. He confessed to himself, as the night lengthened, that he would be glad when morning came. Jean would clear up a half of his perplexities then, perhaps all of them. He would at least learn more about herself and the reason for the attack at Fort Churchill. He paddled for another hour and then looked at his watch by the light of a match. It was three o'clock. Jean had not moved, but as the match burned out between his fingers she startled him by speaking. Is it nearly morning, Monsieur? An hour until dawn, said Philip. You have been sleeping a long time. Her name was on his lips, but he found it a little more difficult to speak now. And yet there was a gentleness in Jean's Monsieur which encouraged him. Are you getting hungry? He asked. Pierre and my father always asked me that when they are starving, replied Jean, sitting erect in her nest so that Philip saw her face and the shimmer of her hair. There is everything to eat in the pack, Monsieur Philip, even to a bottle of olives. Good! cried Philip, delighted. But won't you please cut out that, Monsieur? My greatest weakness is a desire to be called by my first name. Will you? If it pleases you, said Jean. There is everything there to eat, and I will make you a cup of coffee, Monsieur. What? Philip! There was a ripple of laughter in the girl's voice. Philip fairly troubled. You were prepared for this journey, he said. You were going to leave after you saw me on the rock. I have been wondering why. Why you took enough interest in me. He knew that he was blundering, and in the darkness his face turned red. Jean's tact was delightful. We were curious about you, she said, with bewitching candor. Pierre is the most inquisitive creature in the world, and I wanted to thank you for returning my handkerchief. I'm sorry you didn't find a bit of lace which I lost at the same time. I did, exclaimed Philip. He bit his tongue and cursed himself at this frown. Jean was silent. After a moment she said, Shall I make you some coffee? Will you be able to do it? Your foot? I had forgotten that, she said. It doesn't hurt any more, but I can show you how. Her unaffected ingenuousness, the sweetness of her voice, the simplicity and ease of her mannerism, and her voice, the simplicity and ease of her manner, delighted Philip, and at the same time filled him with amazement. He had never met a forest girl like Jean. Her beauty, her queen-like bearing when she had stood with Pierre on the rock, had puzzled him and filled him with admiration. But now her voice, the music of her words, her quickness of perception, added tenfold to those impressions. It might have been Miss Brocaw who was sitting there in the bow talking to him. Only Jean's voice was sweeter than Miss Brocaw's, and even in the lightest of the words she had spoken there was a tone of sincerity and truth. It flashed upon Philip that Jean might have stepped from a convent school where gentle voices had taught her and language was formed in the right fullness of music. In a moment he believed that something like this had happened. We will go ashore, he said, searching for an open space. This must be tedious to you if you are not accustomed to it. Accustomed to it, Monsieur Philip, exclaimed Jean, catching herself, I was born here. In the wilderness? At Fort Agade. You have not always lived there? For a brief space Jean was silent. Yes, always, Monsieur.  It is my first visit to Fort Churchill. It is the first time I have ever been away from Fort Agade. Jean's voice was low and subdued. It rang with truth. In it there was something that was almost tragedy. For a breath or two Philip's heart seemed to stop its beating, and he leaned far over, looking straight and questioningly into the beautiful face that met his own. In that moment the world had opened and engulfed him in a wonder which at first his mind could not comprehend. End of Chapter 11 RECORDING BY RODGER MALINE A little while ago you asked me if I would tell you anything but the truth, he stammered, trying to find words to express himself. And this is the truth, interrupted Jean, a little cooling. Why should I tell you an untruth, Monsieur? Philip had asked himself that same question shortly after their first meeting on the cliff.  I did not mean that, he cried quickly. Please forgive me. Only it is so wonderful, so almost impossible to believe. Do you know what I thought of for three quarters of the night after I left you and Pierre in the rock? It was of years, centuries ago. I put you and Pierre back there. It seemed as though you had come to me from out of another world, that you had strayed from the chivalry and beauty of some royal court, that a queen's painter might have known and made a picture of you, as I saw you there. But that to me you were only the vision of a dream. And now you say that you have always lived here. He saw Jean's eyes glowing. She had lifted herself from among the bearskins and was leaning toward him. Her face was quivering with emotion. Her whole being seemed concentrated on his words. Monsieur Philip, did we seem like that? she asked tremulously. Yes, or I would not have written the letter, replied Philip. He leaned forward over the pack, and his face was close to Jean's. I had just passed over the place where men and women of a century or two ago were buried. And when I saw you and Pierre, I thought of them, of Mademoiselle Darkon, who left a prince to follow her lover to a grave back there at Churchill. And I wondered if Grossellier… Grossellier, cried the girl. She was breathing quickly, excitedly. Suddenly she drew back with a little nervous laugh. I am glad you thought of us like that, she added. It was Grossellier, Le Grand Chevalier, who first lived at Fort Agade. Philip could no longer restrain himself. He forgot that the canoe was lying motionless among the reeds and that they were to go ashore. In a voice that trembled with his eagerness to be understood, to win her confidence, he told her fully of what had happened that night in the cliff. He repeated Pierre's instructions to him, described his terrible fear for her, and in it all withheld but one thing, the name of Lord Fitzhugh Lee. Jean listened to him without a word. She sat as erect as one of the slender reeds among which the canoe was hidden. Her dark eyes never left his face. They seemed to have grown darker when he finished. May the great God reward you for what you have done, she said in a low voice, quivering with a suppressed passion. You are brave, Monsieur Philip, as brave as I have dreamed of men being. Philip's heart throbbed with delight, and yet he said quickly, It isn't that. I have done nothing. Nothing more than Pierre would have done for me.  If there is to be a reward for the little I have given, I could ask for nothing greater than your confidence and Pierre's. There are reasons, and perhaps if I told you those you would understand. I do understand, without further explanation, and, Sir Jean, in the same low strained voice, you fought for Pierre on the cliff, and you have saved me.  I understand, Monsieur Philip, she said, more softly, leaning still nearer to him. But I can tell you nothing. You prefer to leave that to Pierre, he said a little hurt. I beg your pardon. No, no, I don't mean that, she cried quickly. You misunderstand me. I mean that you know as much of this whole affair as I do. That you know what I know, and perhaps more. The emotion which she had suppressed burst forth now in a choking sob. She recovered herself in an instant, her eyes still upon Philip. It was only a whim of mine that took us to Churchill, she went on, before he could find words to say. It is Pierre's secret why we lived in our own camp and went down into Churchill but once, when the ship came in. I do not know the reason for the attack. I can only guess. And your guess? Jean drew back. For a moment she did not speak. Then she said, without a note of harshness in her voice, but with the finality of a queen, father may tell you that when we reach for to God. And then she suddenly leaned toward him again and held out both her hands. If you only could know how I thank you, she exclaimed impulsively. For a moment Philip held her hands. He felt them trembling. In Jean's eyes he saw the glisten of tears. Circumstances have come about so strangely, he said, his heart palpitating at the warm pressure of her fingers, that if I believed you and Pierre could help me in an affair of my own, I would give a great deal to find a certain person, and after the attack on the cliff and what Pierre said, I thought, he hesitated, and Jean gently drew her hands from him. I thought that you might know him, he finished. His name is Lord Fitzhule. Jean gave no sign that she had heard the name before. The question in her eyes remained unchanged. We have never heard of him at Fort Agade, she said. Philip shoved the canoe more firmly upon the shore and stepped over the side. This Fort Agade must be a wonderful place, he said, as he bent over to help her. You have aroused something in me I never thought I possessed before, a tremendous curiosity. It is a wonderful place, Monsieur Philip, replied the girl, holding up her hands to him. But why should you guess it? Because of you, laughed Philip, I am half convinced that you take a wicked delight in bewildering me. He found Jean a comfortable spot in the bank, brought her one of the bearskins, and began collecting a pile of dry reeds and wood. I am sure of it, he went on. He struck a match and the reeds flared into flame, lighting up his face. Jean gave a startled cry. You are hurt, she exclaimed.  Philip jumped back. I had forgotten that. I'll wash my face. He waded into the edge of the water and began scrubbing himself. When he returned Jean looked at him closely. The fire illumined her pale face. She had gathered her beautiful hair in a thick braid which fell over her shoulder. She appeared lovelier to him now than when he had first seen her in the night glow on the cliff. She was dressed the same. He observed that the filmy bit of lace about her slender throat was torn, and that one side of her short buckskin skirt was covered with half-dried splashes of mud. His blood rose at these signs of the rough treatment of those who had attacked her. It reached fever heat when, coming nearer, he saw a livid bruise on her forehead close up under her hair. They struck you, he demanded. He stood with his hands clenched. She smiled up at him. It was my fault, she explained. I'm afraid I gave them a good deal of trouble on the cliff. She laughed out right at the fierceness in Philip's face, and so sweet was the sound of it to him that his hands relaxed, and he laughed with her.  There are pots and kettles and coffee and things to eat in the pack, Monsieur Philip, reminded Jean softly as he still remained staring down upon her.  He threw the pack at Jean's feet and unstrapped it. Together they sorted out the things they wanted, and Philip cut crotch sticks on which he suspended two pots of water over the fire. He found himself whistling as he gathered an armful of wood along the shore. When he came back, Jean had opened a bottle of olives and was nibbling at one, while she held out another to him on the end of a fork. I love olives! she said. Won't you have one? He accepted the thing and ate it joyously, though he hated olives. Where did you acquire the taste? he asked. I thought it took a course at college to make one like him. I've been to college, answered Jean quietly.  I have been a student, a Teneris Annus, she added, and he stood stupefied. That's Latin, he gasped. Oui, Monsieur. Volensi nocre una olivhaben? Laughed or rippled in her throat, she held out another olive to him, her face aglow. Firelight danced in her hair, flooding its darker shadows with lights of red and gold. I was sure of it, he exclaimed, convinced. That's postgraduate Latin and senior German, or I'm as mad as a March Hare. Where—where did you go to school? At Fort Agade! Quick, Monsieur Philip, the water is boiling over. Philip sprang to the fire. Jean handed him coffee and set out cold meat and bread. For the first time that night he pulled out his pipe and filled it with tobacco. You don't mind if I smoke, do you, Miss Jean? he groaned. Under some circumstances tobacco is the only thing that will hold me up. Do you know that you are shaking my confidence in you? I have told you nothing but the truth, retorted Jean innocently. She was still busying herself over the pack, but Philip caught the slightest gleam of her laughing teeth. You are making fun of me, he remonstrated. Tell me, where is this Fort Agade, and what is it? It is far up the Churchill, Monsieur Philip. It is a logchateau, built hundreds and hundreds of years ago, I guess. My father, Pierre, and I, with one other, live there alone among the savages. I have never been so far away from home before. I suppose, said Philip, that the savages up your way converse in Latin, Greek, and German. Latin, French, and German, corrected Jean. We haven't added a Greek course yet. I know of a girl, mused Philip, as though speaking to himself, who spent five years in a girl's college, and she can talk nothing but light English. Her name is Eileen Brocaw. Jean looked up, but only to point to the coffee. It is done, she advised, unless you like it bitter. End of Chapter 12, Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 13 of Flower of the North This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 13 Philip knew that Jean was watching him as he lifted the coffee from the fire and placed the pot in the ground to cool. His mind was in a hopeless tangle. A riot of things he would like to say, throbbing with a hundred questions he would like to ask, one after another. And yet Jean seemed bewitchingly unconscious of his uneasiness. Not one of his references to names and events so vital to himself had in any way produced a change in her. Was she, after all, innocent of all knowledge in the things he wished to know? Was it possible that she was entirely ignorant as to the identity of the men who had attacked Pierre and herself on the cliff? Was it true that she did not know Eileen Broca that she had never heard of Lord Fitzhugh Lee, and that she had always lived among the wild people of the North? By what miracle performed here in the heart of a savage world could this girl talk to him in German and Latin? Was she making fun of him? He turned to look at her and found her dark, clear eyes upon him.  In an instant every suspicion was swept away. He felt like a criminal for having doubted her, and for a moment he was on the point of confessing to her what had been in his thoughts. He restrained himself and went to the river to wash the pot-black from his hands. Jean was a mystery to him, a mystery that delighted him and filled him each moment with a deeper love. He saw the life and freedom of the forests in her every movement, in the gesture of her hands, the bird-like poise of her pretty head, the lithe grace of her slender body. She breathed the forests, it glowed in her eyes, in the rich red of her lips, and revealed its beauty and strength in the unconfined wealth of her gold-brown hair. In a dozen ways he could see her primitiveness, her kinship to the wilderness. She had told him the truth. Her eyes smiled truth at him as he came up the bank. No other woman's eyes had ever looked at him like hers, none had he seen so beautiful. And yet in them he saw nothing that she would not have expressed in words, companionship, trust, thankfulness that he was there to care for her. Such eyes as those belonged only to the wilderness, brimming with the flawless beauty of an undefiled nature. He had seen them, but not so beautiful, in Cree women. He thought of Eileen Broca's eyes as he looked at Jean's. They were very beautiful, but they were different. Jean's could not lie. On a white napkin Jean had spread out cold meat, bread, pickles, and cheese, and Philip brought her the coffee. He noticed that she was resting a little of her weight upon her injured ankle. Better, he asked, indicating the bandaged ankle with a knot of his head. Much replied Jean as tersely. I'm going to try standing upon it in a few minutes, but not now. I'm starved. She gave him his coffee and began eating with a relish that made him want to sit back and watch her. Instead he joined her, and they ate like two hungry children. It was when she turned him out a second cup of coffee that Philip noticed her hand tremble a little. If Pierre was here he would be quite happy, Monsieur Philip, she said uneasily. I can't understand why he asked you to run away with me to fort a god. If he is not badly hurt, as you have told me, why do we not hide and wait for him? He would overtake us tomorrow. There was no time to talk over plans, answered Philip, inwardly embarrassed for a moment by the unexpectedness of Jean's question. A vision of Pierre, bleeding and unconscious on the cliff, leaped into his mind, and the thought that he had lied to Jean and must still make her believe what was half-false sickened him. There was, after all, a chance that Pierre would never again come up the Churchill. Perhaps Pierre thought we would be hotly pursued, he went on, seeing no escape from the demand in the girl's eyes. In that event it would be best for me to get you to fort a god as quickly as possible. You must remember that Pierre was thinking of you. He can care for himself. It may take him two or three days to get back the strength of his arm, he finished blindly. He was wounded in the arm and on the head, said Philip. It was only a scalp wound, however, nothing at all, except that it dazed him a little at the time. Jean pointed to the reflection of the fire on the river. If we should be pursued, she suggested. There is no danger, assured Philip, though he had left the flap of his revolver holster unbuttoned. They will search for us between their camp and Churchill.  She was pale, but Philip saw that she was making a tremendous effort to appear brave and cheerful. Perhaps you are right, laughed Philip, but I swear that I don't know what you mean. I suppose you picked that lingo up among the Indians.  I have a tutor at home, she explained softly. You shall meet him when we reach Forte-God. He is the most wonderful man in the world. Her words set a strange chill through Philip. They were filled with an exquisite tenderness, a pride that sent her eyes back to his, glowing. The questions that he had meant to ask died and faded away. He thought of her words of a few minutes before, when he had asked about Forte-God. She had said, My father, Pierre, and I, with one other, live there alone. The other was the tutor, the man who had come from civilization to teach this beautiful girl those things which had amazed him, and this man was the most wonderful man in the world. He had no excuse for the feelings which were aroused in him. Only he knew, as he rose to his feet, that a part of his old burden seemed suddenly to have returned to his shoulders, and the old loneliness was beating at the door of his heart. He rearranged the pack in silence, and the strength and joy of life were gone from his arms, when he helped Jean back to her place among the bearskins. He did not notice that her eyes were watching him curiously, or that her lips trembled once or twice, as if about to speak words which never came. Jean, as well as he, seemed to have discovered something which neither dared to reveal in that last five minutes on the shore. There is one thing that I must know, said Philip, when they were about to start. And that is where to find Forda God. Is it on the Churchill? It is on the little Churchill, monsieur, near Wascayawaka Lake. Darkness concealed the effect of her words upon Philip. For a moment he stared like one struck dumb. He stifled the exclamation that rose to his lips. He felt himself trembling. He knew that if he spoke his voice would betray him. Near Wascayawaka Lake, and Wascayawaka was within thirty miles of his own camp on the blind Indian. If a bomb had burst under his feet, he could not have been more amazed than at this information given to him in Jean's quiet voice. Forda God, within thirty miles of the scene, were very soon he was to fight the great battle of his life. He dug his paddle into the water, and sent the canoe hissing up the river. His blood pounded like that of a race-horse in the home stretch. Of all the things that had happened, of all he had learned, this was the most significant. Every thought ran like a separate powder flash to a single idea, to one great overpowering question. Were Forda God and its people the key to the plot against himself and his company? Was it the rendezvous of those who were striving to work his ruin? Doubt, suspicion, almost belief came to him in those few moments in spite of himself. He looked at Jean. The gray dawn was breaking, and now light followed swiftly and dissolved the last mist. In the chill of early morning, when with the approach of the sun a cold uncomfortable sweat rises heavily from the earth and water, Jean had drawn one of the bearskins closely about her. Her head was bare. Her hair, glistening with damp, clung and heavy mass is about her face.  Every energy in him leaped up in defiance of the revolution which, for a few moments, had stirred within him, and Jean, as though she had read the working of his mind, looked straight at him and smiled, with a little purring note in her throat that took the place of a thousand words. It was such a smile, and yet not one of love which puts the strength of ten men in one man's arms. And Philip laughed back at her every quarter in his body responding in joyous vibration to the delicate note that had come with it. No matter what events might find their birth at Forta God, Jean was innocent of all knowledge of plot or wrongdoing. Once for all Philip convinced himself of this. The thought that came to him, as he looked at Jean, found voice through his lips. Do you know, he said, if I never saw you again I would always have three pictures of you in my memory. I would never forget how you looked when I first saw you on the cliff, or as I see you now wrapped in your bearskins. Only I would think of you as you smiled.  When I doctored your foot, he finished, rather unshiverously, chuckling in his delight at her pretty discomforture. No, that wouldn't be the third, Miss Jean. The other scene which I shall never forget was that on the stone pier at Churchill, when you met a beautiful girl who was coming off the ship. The blood leaped to Jean's face. Her soft lips tightened.   That was a mistake, she said. There was no sign of passion in her voice. It trembled a little, but that was all. It was a mistake, Monsieur Philip. I thought that I knew her, and I was wrong. You, you must not remember that. I am no better than a wild beast, groaned Philip, hating himself.  I never miss a chance. I didn't mean to say anything that would hurt. You haven't, interrupted the girl quickly, seeing the distress on his face. You haven't said a thing that's wrong. Only, I don't want you to remember that picture. I want you to think of me as, as I burned the bad man's neck.  Will you, she entreated. Until I die, he exclaimed. She was fumbling under the luggage and dragged forth a second paddle. I've had an easy time with you, Monsieur Philip, she said, turning so that she was kneeling with her back to him. Pierre makes me work. Always I kneel here in the bow and paddle. I am ashamed of myself. You have worked all night. And I feel as fresh as though I had slept for a week, declared Philip, his eyes devouring the slim figure of paddle's length in front of him. For an hour they continued up the river, with scarcely a word between them to break the silence. Their paddles rose and fell with a rhythmic motion. The water rippled like low music under their canoe. The spell of the silent shores, of voiceless beauty, of the wilderness awakening in today, appealed to them both and held them quiet. The sun broke faintly through the drawn mists behind. Its first rays lighted up Jean's rumpled hair, so that her heavy braid, partly undone and falling upon the luggage behind her, shone in rich and changing colors that fascinated Philip. He had thought that Jean's hair was very dark, but he saw now that it was filled with the rare life of a Titian head, running from red to gold and dark brown, with changing shadows and flashes of light. It was beautiful. And Jean, as he looked at her, he thought to be the most beautiful thing on earth. The movement of her arms, the graceful, sinuous twists of her slender body, as she put her strength upon the paddle, the poise of her head, the peck and tilt to her chin whenever she turned, so that he caught a half-profile of her flushed, eager face, all filled his cup of admiration to overflowing. And he found himself wondering, suddenly, how this girl could be a sister to Pierre Couchet. He saw in her no sign of French or of half-breed blood. Her hair was fine and soft, and waved about her ears, and where it fell loose upon the back. The color in her cheeks was as delicate as the tints of the Baknish flower. She had rolled up her broad cuffs to give her greater freedom in paddling, and her arms shone white and firm, glistening with the wet drip of the paddle. He was marvelling at a relationship to Pierre when she looked back at him, her face aglow with exercise, and the spice of the morning. And he saw the sunlight as blue as the sky above him in her eyes. If he had not known, he would have sworn that there was not a drop of Pierre's blood in her veins. We are coming to the first rapids, Monsieur Philippe, she announced. It is just beyond that ugly mountain of rock ahead of us, and we will have a quarter-mile portage. It is filled with great stones, and so swift that Pierre and I nearly wrecked ourselves coming down. It was the most that had been said since the beginning of that wonderful hour that had come before the first gleam of sunrise, and Philippe, laying his paddle a thwart the canoe, stretched himself and yawned as though he had just awakened. Poor boy, said Jean, and it struck him that her words were strangely like those which Eileen might have spoken had she been there, only an artless comradeship replaced what would have been Miss Broca's tone of intimacy.  If you were Pierre, I should insist upon you. If you were Pierre, I should insist upon going ashore for a number of hours. Pierre obeys me when we are together. He calls me his captain. Won't you let me command you? If you will let me call you, my captain, replied Philippe. Only there is one thing, one reservation. We must go on. Command me and everything else, but we must go on. For time. Tonight I will sleep. I will sleep like the dead. So, my captain, he laughed, may I have your permission to work today? Jean was turning the bow shoreward. Her back was turned to him again. You have no pity on me, she pouted. Pierre would be good to me, and we would fish all day in that pretty pool over there. I'll bet it's full of trout. Her words, her manner of speaking them, was a new revelation to Philippe. She was delightful. He laughed, and his voice rang out on the clear morning like a schoolboy's. Jean pretended that she saw nothing to laugh at, and no sooner had the canoe touched shore than she sprang lightly out, not waiting for his assistance.  Philippe was at her side in an instant. You shouldn't have done that, he objected. I am your doctor, and I insist that your foot is not well. But it is, cried Jean, and he saw that there was laughter instead of pain in her eyes. It's the bandage. My right foot feels like that of a Chinese debutante. Oh, I'm going to undo it. You've been to China, too, mused Philip, half to himself. I know that it's filled with yellow girls, and that they squeeze their feet like this, said Jean, unlacing her moccasin. My tutor and I have just finished a delightful trip along the Great Wall. We'd go to Peking, in an automobile, if I wasn't afraid. Philippe's groan was audible. He went to the canoe, and Jean's red lips curled in a merriment which was hard for her to suppress. Philip did not see. When he had unloaded the canoe and turned, Jean was walking slowly back and forth, limping a little. It's all right, she said, answering the question on his lips. I don't feel any pain at all, but my foot's asleep. Won't you please unstrap the small pack?  Half an hour later, Philip unshouldered the canoe at the upper end of the rapids. His own toilet articles were back in the cabin with Gregson, but he took a wash in the river and combed his hair with his fingers. When he returned there was a transformation in Jean. Her beautiful hair was done up in shining coils. She had changed her bedraggled skirt for another of soft yellow buckskin. At her throat she wore a fluffy mass of crimson stuff, which seemed to reflect a richer rose flush in her cheeks. A curious thought came to Philip as he looked at her. Like a flash the memory of a certain night came to him, when it had taken Miss Broca and her maid two hours to make a toilet for a ball. And Jean, in the heart of a wilderness, had made herself more beautiful than Eileen. He imagined, as she stood before him, a little embarrassed by the admiration in his eyes, the sensation Jean would create in a ballroom at home. And then he laughed, laughed joyously at thoughts which he could not reveal to Jean, and which she, by some quick intuition, knew that she should not ask him to express. Twice again Philip made the portage, accompanied the second time by Jean, who insisted on carrying a small pack and two paddles. In spite of his determination and splendid physique, Philip began to feel the effects of the tremendous strain which he had been under for so long. He counted back and found that he had slept but six hours in the last forty-eight. There was a warning ache in his shoulders and a gnawing pain in the bones of his forearms. But he knew that he had not yet made sufficient headway up the Churchill. It would not be difficult for him to make a camp far enough back in the bush to avoid discovery. But, at the same time, if he and Jean were pursued, the stop would give their enemies a chance to get ahead of them. This danger he wished to escape. He flattered himself that Jean saw no signs of his weakening. He did not know that Jean put more and more effort into her paddle, until her arms and body ached, because she saw the truth. The Churchill narrowed, and its currents became swifter as they progressed. Five portages were made between sunrise and eleven o'clock. They ate dinner at the fifth, and rested for two hours. Then the journey was resumed. It was three o'clock when Jean dropped her paddle and turned to Philip. There were deep lines in his face. He smiled, but there was more of haggard misery than cheer in the smile.  For a full half-minute Jean looked at him without speaking. Philip, she said, and it was the first time she had spoken his name in this way. I insist upon going ashore immediately. If you do not land now in that opening ahead, I shall jump out, and you can go on alone. As you say, my Captain Jean, surrendered Philip a little dizzily. Jean guided the canoe to the shore, and was the first to spring out, while Philip steadied the light-craft with his paddle. She pointed to the luggage. We will want the tent, everything, she said, because we are going to camp here until tomorrow. Once on shore Philip's dizziness left him. He pulled the canoe high up on the bank, and then Jean and he set off, side by side, to explore the high wooded ground back from the river. They followed a well-worn moose trail, and two or three hundred yards from the stream came upon a small opening, cluttered by great rocks, and surrounded by clumps of birch, spruce, and bangchen pine. The moose trail crossed this rough open space, and following it to the opposite side, Philip and Jean came upon a clear, rippling little stream, scarcely two yards in width, hidden in places under thick caribou moss and jungles of seedling pines. It was an ideal camping spot, and Jean gave a little cry of delight when they found the cold water of the creek. Philip then returned to the river, concealed the canoe, covered up all traces of their landing, and began to carry the camping outfit back to the open. The small, silk tent for Jean's use he set up in a little grassy corner of the clearing, and built their fire a dozen paces from it. With a sort of thrilling pleasure he began cutting balsam boughs for Jean's bed. He cut armful after armful, and it was growing dusk in the forest by the time he was done. In the glow and the heat of the fire Jean's cheeks were as pink as an apple. She had turned a big flat rock into a table, and as she busied herself about this she burst suddenly into a soft ripple of song, then remembering that it was not Pierre who was near her, she stopped. Philip, with his last armful of bedding, was directly behind her, and he laughed happily at her over the green mass of balsam when she turned and saw him looking at her. You like this? he asked. It is glorious! cried Jean, her eyes flashing. She seemed to grow taller before him, and stood with her head thrown back, lips parted, gazing upon the wilderness about her. It is glorious! she repeated, breathing deeply. There is nothing in the whole world that could make me give this up, Mr. Philip. I was born in it. I want to die in it.  Your civilization is coming north to spoil it all, she added, and turned to the rock table. Philip dropped his load. Supper is ready, she said, and the cloud had passed. It was Jean's first reference to his own people, to the invasion of civilization into the north, and there recurred to Philip the words in which she had cried out her hatred against Churchill. But Jean did not betray herself again. She was quiet while they were eating, and Philip saw that she was very tired. When they had finished they sat for a few minutes watching the lowered flames of the fire. Darkness had gathered about them. Their faces and the rock were illumined more and more faintly as the embers died down. A silence fell upon them. In the banksions close behind them an owl hooted softly, a cautious drumming note, as though the night bird possessed still a fear of the newly dead day. The brush gave out sound, voices infinitesimally small, strange quiverings, rustlings that might have been made by wind, by breath, by shadows almost. Overhead the tips of the spruce and tall pines whispered among themselves, as they never communed by day. Spirit seemed to move among them, sending down to Jean and Philip's listening ears a restful sleepy murmur. Farther back there sounded a deep sniff, where a moose, traveling the well-worn trail, stopped in a sudden fear and wonder at the strange man sent which came to its nostrils. And still farther, from some little lake, nameless and undiscovered in the black depths of the forest to the south, a great northern loon sent out its cowardly cry of defiance to all night things and then plunged deep under water as though frightened into the depths by its own mad jargon. The fire died lower. Philip moved a little nearer to the girl whose breathing he could hear. Jean, he said softly, fighting to keep himself from touching her hand. I know what you mean. I understand. Two years ago I gave up civilization for this. I am glad that I wrote to you as I did. For now you will believe me and know that I understand. I love this world up here as you love it. I am never going back again. Jean was silent. But there is one thing, at least one, which I cannot understand in you, he went on, nerving himself for what might come a moment later.   And yet you have brought a man into the north to teach you its ways. I mean this man who you say is the most wonderful man in the world. He waited, trembling. It seemed an eternity before Jean answered. And then she said, He is my father, Monsieur Philip. Philip could not speak. Darkness hid him from Jean. She did not see that which leaped into his face, and that for a moment he was on the point of flinging himself at her feet. You spoke of yourself, of Pierre, of your father, and of one other at Fort Agade, said Philip. I thought that he, the other, was your tutor. No, it is Pierre's sister, replied Jean. Your sister? You have a sister? He could hear Jean catch her breath. Listen, Monsieur, she said after a moment. I must tell you a little about Pierre, a story of something that happened a long, long time ago. It was in the middle of a terrible winter, and Pierre was then a boy. One day he was out hunting, and he came upon a trail, the trail of a woman who had dragged herself through the snow in her moccasin feet. It was far out upon the barren. Where there was no life, and he followed. He found her, Monsieur, and she was dead. She had died from cold and starvation. An hour sooner he might have saved her, for wrapped up close against her breast he found a little child, a baby girl, and she was alive. He brought her to Fort Agade, Monsieur, to a noble man who lived there almost alone. And there, through all these years, she has lived and grown up. And no one knows who her mother was, or who her father was. And so it happens that Pierre, who found her, is her brother, and the man who has loved her and cared for her is her father. And she is the other at Fort Agade. Pierre's sister, said Philip. Jean rose from the rock and moved toward the tent, glimmering indistinctly in the night. Her voice came back chokingly. No, Monsieur. Pierre's real sister is at Fort Agade. I am the one whom he found out in the barren. To the night's sounds there was added a heartbroken sob, and Jean disappeared in the tent. End of Chapter 13 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 14 Of Flower of the North This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 14 Philip sat where Jean had left him. He was powerless to move or to say a word that might have recalled her. Her own grief, quivering in that one piteous sob, overwhelmed him. It held him mute and listening, with the hope that each instant the tent flap might open and Jean reappear. And yet if she came he had no words to say. Unwittingly he had probed deep into one of those wounds that never heal, and he realized that to ask forgiveness would be but another blunder. He almost groaned as he thought of what he had done. In his desire to understand, to know more about Jean, he had driven her into a corner. What he had forced from her he might have learned a little later from Pierre or from the father at Fort Agade. He thought that Jean must despise him now, for he had taken advantage of her helplessness and his own position. He had saved her from her enemies, and in return she had opened her heart, naked and bleeding, to his eyes. What she had told him was not a voluntary confidence. It was a confession rung from her by the rack of his questionings. The confession that she was a waif child, that Pierre was not her brother, and that the man at Fort Agade was not her father. He had gone to the very depths of that which was sacred to herself and those whom she loved. He rose and stirred the fire, and stray ends of birch leaped into flame, lighting his pale face. He wanted to go to the tent, kneel there where Jean could hear him, and tell her that it was all a mistake. Yet he knew that this could not be neither the next day nor the next, for to plead extenuation for himself would be to reveal his love. Two or three times he had been on the point of revealing that love. Only now, after what had happened, did it occur to him that to disclose his heart to Jean would be the greatest crime he could commit. She was alone with him in the heart of the wilderness, dependent upon him, upon his honour. He shivered when he thought how narrow had been his escape, how short a time he had known her, and how in that brief spell he had given himself up to an almost insane hope. To him Jean was not a stranger. She was the embodiment in flesh and blood of the spirit which had been his companion for so long. He loved her more than ever now, for Jean, the lost child of the snows was more the earthly revelation of his beloved spirit than Jean the sister of Pierre. But what was he to Jean? He left the fire and went to the pile of balsam which he had spread out between two rocks for his bed. He lay down and pulled Pierre's blanket over him, but his fatigue and his desire for sleep seemed to have left him. And it was a long time before slumber finally drove from him the thought of what he had done. After that he did not move. He heard none of the sounds of the night.  But Philip slept. Long afterward something warm awakened him, and he opened his eyes, thinking that it was the glow of the fire in his face. It was the sun. He heard a sound which brought him quickly into consciousness of day. It was Jean singing softly over beyond the rocks. He had dreaded the coming of morning when he would have to face Jean. His guilt hung heavily upon him. But the sound of her voice, low and sweet, filled with the caroling happiness of a bird, brought a glad smile to his lips. After all, Jean had understood him. She had forgiven him, if she had not forgotten. For the first time he noticed the height of the sun, and he sat bolt upright. Jean saw his head and shoulders pop over the top of the rocks, and she laughed at him. I've been keeping breakfast for over an hour, Mr. Philip. She cried. Hurry down to the creek and wash yourself, or I shall eat all alone. Philip rose stupidly and looked at his watch. Eight o'clock, he gasped. We should have been ten miles on the way by this time. Jean was still laughing at him. Like a child, he had no idea what was going on. He was still laughing at him. Like sunlight she dispelled his gloom of the night before. A glance around the camp showed him that she must have been awake for at least two hours. The packs were filled and strapped. The silk intent was down and folded. She had gathered wood, built the fire, and cooked breakfast while he slept. And now she stood a dozen paces from him, blushing a little at his amazed stare, waiting for him. It's doost good of you, Miss Jean, he exclaimed. I don't deserve such kindness from you. Oh, said Jean, and that was all. She bent over the fire and Philip went to the creek. He was determined now to maintain a more certain hold upon himself. As he doused his face in the cold water, his resolutions formed themselves. For the next few days he would forget everything but the one fact that Jean was in his care. He would not hurt her again or compel her confidence. It was after nine o'clock before they were upon the river. They paddled without a rest until twelve. After lunch Philip confiscated Jean's paddle and made her sit facing him in the canoe. The afternoon passed like a dream to Philip. He did not refer again to Fort Agade or the people there. He did not speak again of Eileen Broca, of Lord Fitzhugh, or of Pierre. He talked of himself and of those things which had once been his life.  He bared his loneliness to her as he would have told them to the sister had she lived. And Jean's soft blue eyes were filled with tenderness and sympathy. And then he talked of Gregson's world. Within himself he called it no longer his own. It was Jean who questioned now. She asked about cities and great people, about books and women. Her knowledge amazed Philip. She might have visited the Louvre. One would have guessed that she had walked in the streets of Paris, Berlin, and London. She spoke of Johnson, of Dickens, and of Balzac as though they had died but yesterday. She was like one who had been everywhere and yet saw everything through a veil that bewildered her. In her simplicity she unfolded herself to Philip, leaf by leaf, petal by petal, like the morning apiose that surrenders its mysteries to the sun. She knew the world which he had come from, its people, its cities, its greatness, and yet her knowledge was like that of the blind. She knew but she had never seen, and in her wistfulness to see as he could see, there was a sweetness and a pathos which made every fiber in his body sing with a quiet and thrilling joy. He knew now that the man who was at four to God must indeed be the most wonderful man in the world. For out of a child of the snows, of the forest, of a savage desolation he had made jean, and jean was glorious. The afternoon passed and they made thirty miles before they camped for the night. They traveled the next day and the one that followed. On the afternoon of the fourth they were approaching big thunder rapids, close to the influx of the little Churchill, sixty miles from four to God. These days too passed for Philip with joyous swiftness, swiftly because they were too short for him. His life now was jean. Each day she became a more vital part of him. She crept into his soul until there was no longer left room for any other thought than of her. And yet his happiness was tampered by a thing which, if not grief, depressed and saddened him at times. Two days more and they would be at four to God, and there jean would be no longer his own as she was now. Even the wilderness has its conventionality, and at four to God their comradeship would end. A day of rest, two at the most, and he would leave for the camp on Blind Indian Lake. As the time drew nearer when they would be but friends and no longer comrades, Philip could not always hide the signs of gloom which weighed upon him. He revealed nothing in words, but now and then jean had caught him when the fears at his heart betrayed themselves in his face. Jean became happier as their journey approached its end. She was alive every moment, joyous, expectant, looking ahead to four to God. And this in itself was a bitterness to Philip, though he knew that he was a fool for allowing it to be so. He reasoned, with dull masculine wit, that if jean cared for him at all she would not be so anxious for their comradeship to end. But these moods, when they came, passed quickly, and on this afternoon of the fourth day they passed away entirely, for in an instant there came a solution to it all. They had known each other but four days, yet that brief time had encompassed what might not have been in as many years. Life, smooth, uneventful, develops friendship so that uneventful develops friendship slowly. An hour of the unusual may lay bare a soul. Philip thought of Eileen Brokaw, whose heart was still a closed mystery to him, who was a stranger in spite of the years he had known her. In four days he had known jean a lifetime. In those four days jean had learned more of him than Eileen Brokaw could ever know. So he arrived at the resolution which made him, too, look eagerly ahead to the end of the journey. At four to God he would tell jean of his love. Jean was looking at him when the determination came. She saw the gloom pass, a flush mount into his face, and when he saw her eyes upon him he laughed, without knowing why. If it is so funny, she said, please tell me. It was a temptation, but he resisted it. It is a secret, he said, which I shall keep until we reach four to God. Jean turned her face upstream to listen. A dozen times she had done this during the last half hour, and Philip had listened with her. At first they had heard a distant murmur rising as they advanced, like an autumn wind that grows stronger each moment in the treetops. The murmur was steady now, without the variations of a wind. It was the distant roaring of the rocks and rushing floods of big thunder rapids. It grew steadily from a murmur to a moan, from a moan to rumbling thunder. The current became so swift that Philip was compelled to use all his strength to force the canoe ahead. A few moments later he turned into shore. From where they landed a worn trail led up to one of the precipitous walls of rock and shut in the big thunder rapids. Everything about them was rock. The trail was over rock, worn smooth by the countless feet of centuries. Clawed feet, naked feet, moccasin feet, the feet of white men. It was the great portage for animal as well as man. Philip went up with the pack, and Jean followed behind him. The thunder increased. It roared in their ears until they could no longer hear their own voices. Directly above the rapids the trail was narrow, scarcely eight feet in width, shut in on the landside by a mountain wall, on the other by the precipice. Philip looked behind and saw Jean hugging close to the wall.  He spoke to her, but she saw only the movement of his lips. Then he put down his pack and went close to the edge of the precipice. Sixty feet below him was the big thunder, a chaos of lashing foam, of slippery, black-capped rocks bobbing and grimacing amid the rushing torrents, like monsters playing at hide and seek. Now one rose high, as though thrust up out of chaos by giant hands, then it sank back and milk-white foam swirled softly over the place where it had been. There seemed to be life in the chaos, a grim, terrible life whose voice was a thunder that never died. For a few moments Philip stood fascinated by the scene below him. Then he felt a touch upon his arm. It was Jean. She stood beside him, quivering, dead white, almost daring to take the final step. Philip caught her hands firmly in his own, and Jean looked over. Then she darted back and hovered, shuddering near the wall. The portage was a short one, scarce two hundred yards in length, and at the upper end was a small green meadow in which river-boyagers camped. It still lacked two hours of dusk when Philip carried over the last of the luggage. We will not camp here," he said to Jean, pointing to the remains of numerous fires and remembering Pierre's exhortation. It is too public, as you might say. Besides, that noise makes me deaf. Jean shuddered. Let us hurry," she said. I'm afraid of that. Philip carried the canoe down to the river, and Jean fought with the bearskins. The current was soft and sluggish, with tiny maelstroms gurgling up here and there, like air bubbles in boiling syrup. He only half launched the canoe, and Jean remained while he went for another load. The dip, kept green by the water of a spring, was a pistol shot from the river. Philip looked back from the crest, and he saw the Jean leaning over the canoe. Then he descended into the meadow, whistling. He had reached the pacts when, to his ears, there seemed to come a sound that rose faintly above the roar of the water in the chasm. He straightened himself and listened. Philip! Philip! The cry came twice, his own name, piercing, agonizing, rising above the thunder of the floods. He heard no more, but raced up the slope of the dip. From the crest he stared down to where Jean had been. She was gone. The canoe was gone. A terrible fear swept upon him, and for an instant he turned faint. Jean's cry came to him again. Philip! Philip! Like a madman, he dashed up the rocky trail to the chasm, calling to Jean, shrieking to her, telling her that he was coming. He reached the edge of the precipice and looked down. Below him was the canoe and Jean. She was fighting futilely against the resistless flood. He saw her paddle wrenched suddenly from her hand. She had no idea what was going on. He saw her paddle wrenched suddenly from her hand. And as it went swirling beyond her reach, she cried out his name again. Philip shouted, and the girl's white face was turned up to him. Fifty yards ahead of her were the first of the rocks. In another minute, even less, Jean would be dashed to pieces before his eyes. Thoughts swifter than light flashed through his mind. He could do nothing for her, for it seemed impossible that any living creature could exist amid the maelstroms and rocks ahead. And yet she was calling to him. She was reaching up her arms to him. She had faith in him, even in the face of death. Philip! Philip!  I'm coming, Jean! he shouted. I'm coming! Hold fast to the canoe! He ran ahead, stripping off his coat. A little below the first rocks, a stunted banction grew out of an earthly fissure in the cliff, with its lower branches dipping within a dozen feet of the stream. He climbed out on this with the quickness of a squirrel, and hung to a limb with both hands, ready to drop alongside the canoe. There was one chance, and only one, of saving Jean. It was a chance out of a thousand, ten thousand. If he could drop at the right moment, seize the stern of the canoe, and make a rudder of himself, he could keep the craft from turning broadside, and might possibly guide it between the rocks below. This one hope was destroyed as quickly as it was born. The canoe crashed against the first rock. A smother of foam rose about it, and he saw Jean suddenly engulfed and lost. Then she reappeared, almost under him, and he launched himself downward, clutching at her dress with his hands. By a supreme effort he caught her around the waist with his left arm, so that his right was free. Ahead of them was a boiling sea of white, even more terrible than when they had looked down upon it from above. The rocks were hidden by mist and foam. Their roar was deafening. Between Philip and the awful maelstrom of death there was a quieter space of water, black, sullen, and swift. The power itself rushing on to whip itself into ribbons among the taunting rocks that barred its way to the sea. In that space Philip looked at Jean. Her face was against his breast. Her eyes met his own, and in that last moment, face to face with death, love leaped above all fear.  She was his now, forever. His hold tightened. Her face came nearer. He wanted a shout to let her know what he had meant to say it for to God, but his voice would have been like a whisper in a hurricane. Could Jean understand? The wall of foam was almost in their faces. Suddenly he bent down, crushed his face to hers, and kissed her again and again. Then as the maelstrom engulfed them he swung his own body to take the brunt of the shock. He no longer reasoned beyond one thing. He must keep his body between Jean and the rocks. He would be crushed, beaten to pieces, made unrecognizable, but Jean would be only drowned. He fought to keep himself half under her, with his head and shoulders in advance. When he felt the flood sucking him under, he thrust her upward. He fought and did not know what happened. Only there was the crashing of a thousand cannons in his ears, and he seemed to live through an eternity. They thundered about him, against him, ahead of him, and then more and more behind. He felt no pain, no shock. It was the sound that he seemed to be fighting. In the buffeting of his body against the rocks there was the painlessness of a knife thrust delivered amid the roar of battle. And the sound receded. It was thundering and retreat, and a curious thought came to him. Providence had delivered him through the maelstrom. He had not struck the rocks. He was saved. And in his arms he held Jean. It was day when he began the fight, broad day. And now it was night. He felt earth under his feet, and he knew that he had brought Jean ashore. He heard her voice speaking his name.  It was dark, and he was tired. He sank down, and he could feel Jean's arms striving to hold him up, and he could still hear her voice. But nothing could keep him from sleeping. And during that sleep he had visions. Now it was day, and he saw Jean's face over him. Again it was night, and he heard only the roaring of the flood. Again he heard voices, Jean's voice, and a man's. And he wondered who the man could be. It was a strange sleep filled with strange dreams. But at last the dreams seemed to go. He lost himself. He awoke, and the night had turned into day. He was in a tent, and the sun was gleaming on the outside. It had been a curious dream, and he sat up astonished. There was a man sitting beside him. It was Pierre. Thank God, monsieur, he heard. We have been waiting for this. You are saved. Pierre, he gasped. Memory returned to him. He was awake. He felt weak, but he knew that what he saw was not the vision of a dream. I came the day after you went through the rapids, explained Pierre, seeing his amazement. You saved Jean. She was not hurt. But you were badly bruised, monsieur, and you have been in a fever. Jean was not hurt? No. She cared for you until I came. She is sleeping now. I have not been this way very long, have I Pierre? I came yesterday, said Pierre. He bent over Philip and added, You must remain quiet for a little longer, monsieur. I have brought you a letter from Monsieur Gregson, and when you read that I will have some broth made for you. Philip took the letter and opened it as Pierre went quietly out of the tent. Gregson had written him but a few lines, he wrote, My dear Phil, I hope you'll forgive me, but I'm tired of this mess. I was never cut out for the woods, and so I'm going to dismiss myself, leaving all best wishes behind for you. Go in and fight. You're a devil for fighting and will surely win. I'll only be in the way, so I'm going back with the ship which leaves in three or four days.  I'm sorry I couldn't shake hands with you before I left. Right, and let me know how things come out. As ever, Tom. Stunned Philip dropped the letter. He lifted his eyes and a strange cry burst from his lips. Nothing that Gregson had written could have wrung that cry from him. It was Jean. She stood in the open door of the tent. But it was not the Jean he had known.  Her lips were bloodless, her eyes lusterless. Deep suffering seemed to have put hollows in her cheeks. In a moment she had fallen upon her knees beside him and clasped one of his hands in both of her own. I am so glad! she whispered, chokingly. For an instant she pressed his hands to her face. I am so glad! She rose to her feet, swaying slightly. She turned to the door and Philip could hear her sobbing as she left him. End of Chapter 14 Recording by Roger Maline Chapter 15 of Flower of the North This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Roger Maline Flower of the North by James Oliver Kerwood Chapter 15 Not until the silken flap of the tent had fallen behind Jean did power of movement and speech return to Philip. He called her name and straggled to a sitting posture. Then he staggered to his feet. He could scarcely stand. Shooting pains passed like flashes of electricity through his body. His right arm was numb and stiff, and he found that it was thickly bandaged. His head ached, his legs could hardly support him.  It was swollen and covered with livid bruises. He wondered if his body looked that way, and sank down exhausted upon his balsam bed. A minute later Pierre returned with a cup of broth in his hand. Philip looked at him with less feverish eyes now. There was an unaccountable change in the half-breeds appearance as there had been in jeans. His face seemed thinner. There was a deep gloom in his eyes, a dejected droop to his shoulders. Philip accepted the broth and drank it slowly without speaking. He felt strengthened. Then he looked steadily at Pierre. The old pride had fallen from Pierre like a mask. His eyes dropped under Philip's gaze. Philip held up a hand. Pierre! The half-breed grasped it and waited. His lips tightened. What is the matter? demanded Philip. What has happened to Jean? You say she was not hurt. By the rocks, monsieur! interrupted Pierre quickly, kneeling beside Philip. Listen, it is best that I tell you. You are a man. You will understand without being told all. From Churchill I brought news which it was necessary for me to tell Jean. It was terrible news and she is distressed under its weight. Your honour will not allow you to inquire further, monsieur. I can tell you no more than this, that it is a grief which belongs to but one person on earth, herself. I ask you to help me. Be blind to her unhappiness, monsieur. Believe that it is the distress of the peril through which she has passed.  But it is impossible now. I confide this much in you. I ask you this because Pierre's eyes were half closed and he looked as though unseeing over Philip's head. I ask you this, he repeated softly, because I have guessed that you love her. A cry of joy burst from Philip's lips. I do, Pierre. I do. I do. I have guessed it, said Pierre. You will help me to save her. Until death, then you will go with us to Fort Agade, and from there you will go at once to your camp on Blind Indian Lake. Philip felt the sweat breaking out over his face. He was still weak. His voice was unnatural and trembled. You know, he guessed. Yes, I know, monsieur, replied Pierre. I know that you are in charge there, and Jean knows. We knew who you were before we appointed to meet you on the cliff. You must return to your men. Philip was silent. For the moment every hope was crushed within him. He looked at Pierre. The half-breed's eyes were glowing. His haggard cheeks were flushed. And this is necessary? It is absolutely necessary, monsieur. Then I will go. But first, Pierre, I must know a little more. I cannot go entirely blind. Do they fear my men at Fort Agade? No, monsieur. One more question, Pierre. Who is Lord Fitzhugh Lee? For an instant Pierre's eyes widened. They grew black and burned with a strange, threatening fire. He rose slowly to his feet and placed both hands upon Philip's shoulders. For a full minute the two men stared into each other's face. Then Pierre spoke. His voice was soft and low, scarcely above a murmur. But it was filled with something that struck a chill to Philip's heart.  No other person has ever done for Jean and I what you have done. We owe you more than we can ever repay. Yet if you insist upon an answer to that question, you make of me an enemy. If you breathe that name to Jean, you turn her away from you forever. Without another word he left the tent. For many minutes Philip sat motionless where Pierre had left him. The earth seemed suddenly to have dropped from under his feet, leaving him in an illimitable chaos of mind. Gregson had deserted him with almost no word of explanation, and he would have staked his life upon Gregson's loyalty. Under other circumstances his unaccountable action would have been a serious blow. But now it was overshadowed by the mysterious change that had come over Jean. A few hours before she had been happy, laughing and singing as they drew nearer to Fort Agade. Each hour had added to the brightness of her eyes, the gladness in her voice. The change had come with Pierre, and at the bottom of it all was Lord Fitzhule. Pierre had warned him not to mention Lord Fitzhule's name to Jean, and yet only a short time before he had spoken the name boldly before Jean, and she had betrayed no sign of recognition or of fear. More than that she had assured him that she had never heard the name before, that it was not known at Fort Agade.  What did it all mean? He went back to the scene in the cliff, when Pierre had roused himself at the sound of the name. He thought of all that had happened since Gregson had come to Churchill, and the result was a delirium of thought that made his temples throb. He was sure, now, of but few things. He loved Jean, loved her more than he had ever dreamed that he could love a woman, and he believed that it would be impossible for her to tell him a falsehood. He was confident that she had never heard of Lord Fitzhule until Pierre overtook them in their flight from Churchill. He could see but one thing to do, and that was to follow Pierre's advice, accepting his promise that in the end everything would come out right. He had faith in Pierre. He rose to his feet and went to the tent flap. An embarrassing thought came to him, and he stopped, a flush of feverish color suddenly mounting into his pale cheeks. He had kissed Jean in the chasm when death thundered in their faces. He had kissed her again and again, and in those kisses he had declared his love. He was glad and yet sorry. The knowledge that she must know of his love filled him with happiness, and yet with it there was the feeling that it would place a distance between him and Jean. Jean was the first to see him when he came out of the tent. She was sitting beside a small, balsam shelter, and Pierre was busy over a fire, with his back turned to them. For a moment the two looked at each other in silence, and then Jean came toward him, holding out one of her hands. He saw that she was making a strong effort to appear natural, but there was something in his own face that made her attempt a poor one. The hand that she gave him trembled. Her lips quivered. For the first time her eyes failed to meet his own in their limpid frankness. Pierre has told you what happened, she said.  I have had my punishment for being so careless. She tried to laugh at him now and drew her hand away. I wasn't beaten against the rocks like you, but it was terrible, interrupted Philip, remembering Pierre's words and eager to put her at ease. You have stood up under it beautifully. I am afraid of after-effects. You must not collapse under the strain now. Pierre heard his last words, and a smile flashed over his dark face as he encountered Philip's glance. It is true, monsieur, he said. I know of no other woman who would have stood up under such a thing as Jean has done. Mon Dieu, when I found a part of the canoe wreckage far below, I thought that both of you were dead. Philip began to feel that he had foolishly overestimated his strength. There was a weakness in his limbs that surprised him, and a sudden chill replaced the fever in his blood.  You must not exert yourself, she said, watching the pallor in his face. You must be quiet until after dinner. He obeyed the pressure over her hand. Pierre followed into the tent, and for a moment he was compelled to lean heavily upon the half-breed. It is the reaction, monsieur, said Pierre. You are weak after the fever. If you could sleep. I can, murmured Philip, dizzily, dropping upon his balsam. But Pierre— Yes, monsieur? I have something to say to you. No questions. Not now, monsieur. Philip heard the rustling of the flap, and Pierre was gone. He felt more comfortable lying down. Dizziness and nausea left him, and he slept. It was the deep refreshing sleep that always follows the awakening from fever. When he awoke he felt like his old self and went outside. Pierre was alone, a blanket was drawn across the front of the balsam shelter, and the half-breed nodded toward it in response to Philip's inquiring glance. Philip ate lightly of the food which Pierre had ready for him. When he had finished he leaned close to him and said, You have warned me to ask no questions, and I am going to ask none. But you have not forbidden me to tell you things which I know. I am going to talk to you about Lord Fitzhugh Lee. Pierre's dark eyes flashed. Monsieur. Listen, demanded Philip. I seek your confidence no further. But I shall tell you what I know of Lord Fitzhugh Lee if it makes us fight.  I insist upon this, because you have as good as told me that this man is your enemy, and that he is at the bottom of Jean's trouble. He is also my enemy. And after I have told you why, you may change your determination to keep me a stranger to your trouble. If not, well, you can hold your tongue then as well as now. Quickly, without moving his eyes from Pierre's face, Philip told his own story of Lord Fitzhugh Lee. And as he continued a strange change came over the half-breed. When he came to the letters revealing the plot to turn the Northerners against his company a low cry escaped Pierre's lips.  Drops of sweat burst out upon his face. His fingers worked convulsively, something rose in his throat and choked him.  For a few moments he remained thus, and then suddenly looked up. Livid spots burned in his cheeks, and he fairly hissed at Philip. Monsieur, if this is not the truth, if this is a lie, he stopped. Something in Philip's eyes told him to go no further. He was fearless, and he saw more than fearlessness in Philip's face. Such men believe when they come together. It is the truth, said Philip.  I believe in you, Monsieur, he said, and it seemed an effort for him to speak. Do you know what I would have thought if you had told this to Jean before I came? No. I would have thought, Monsieur, that she threw herself purposely into the death of the big thunder rocks. My God, you mean— That is all, Monsieur. I can say no more. Ah, there is Jean! he cried more loudly. Now we will take down the tent and go. Jean stood a dozen steps behind them when Philip turned. She greeted him with a smile and hastened to assist Pierre in gathering up the things about the camp. Philip was not blind to her efforts to evade him. He could see that it was a relief to her when they were at last in Pierre's canoe and headed up the river. They travelled till late in the evening and set up Jean's tent by starlight. The journey was continued at dawn. Late the following afternoon the little Churchill swept through a low, woodless country called the White Fox Baron. It was a narrow barren and across it lay the forest and the ridge mountains. Behind these mountains and the forest the sun was setting. Above all else there rose out of the gathering gloom of evening a single ridge, a towering mass of rock which caught the last glow of the sun and blazed like a signal fire. The canoe stopped. Jean and Pierre both gazed toward the great rock. Then Jean, who was in the bow, turned her face to Philip and the glow of the rock itself suffused her cheeks as she pointed over the barren. Monsieur Philip, she said, There is for to God. End of Chapter 15 Recording by Roger Maline


Yeah, we on boss talk one-on-one. So, and I hate to say that, but no, no, no, let me talk to OG Percy. We all got homeboy, you got murder cases, all of my homeboys got two. All of us, but not one or two of them. When I look at OG Percy and I like to say I looked at that documenter and all the people that's in those boxes that you were talking about, different people who died for different causes and things that pretty much caused you to be there making these speeches, man. Does that have an effect on you in the way you live your life? I'll put it like that. The only thing that has an effect on me the way I live my life, shout out to Tookie, man. Okay. That's the effect on how I live my life in Crippin. When I found out what it was really about. When I found out what it was really about. The black redemption part. The blue rage, you can have that. I went through that. I didn't been through the blue rage. When I found out I am part of that book for my life story goes and to get to the end of the book and find out it is a pot of gold at the rainbow. All you got to do is try to keep watching, keep going for it. Tookie taught me that. He taught me just through that book, Bob. I call it the Cripp Bob. You can call it what you want to, but when I read it for the first time in prison and I read it and that Bible, that book, I couldn't read. I'm not a reader. I told you I'm not good on reading, it was just something I better learn. I'm going to learn this book. I learned about Buddha. I learned about all. I read that book. I couldn't even read, but I'm going to read this one. The first book I ever read to the end. The first book I ever read all the way to the end. Hold on, hold on. But I learned. The thing was I learned what it meant. I learned what it meant.  That's all over me.  But the thing I learned was what it meant. When you get the meaning, the black rage part, when you get there, I wouldn't spend a minute of time about trying to convince you what I know about Crippin. I cut for you. You're a good man. But wasting 10 minutes with time about kind of you can't convince me or nobody else. You might convince somebody else. I believe what you said it's the first time. The reading is going to say it once, not twice. But anyway, you're a good man. It took you one at the end in a good way. He didn't get the message that people didn't get the memo. They wouldn't let the youngsters get the memo. They wouldn't let the black men get the memo. They wouldn't let them pass it out to the youngsters. They killed them. Melvin being a friend of Tookie and being that you guys started off young together or he was a little older than you, but you started off understanding and walking and dealing with him to beat unseen this guy who's affected way in Texas. And all, like I said, this didn't just start. It ain't just a Texas thing either. It's each state. You can go to Louisiana and find it. You can go to Mississippi and find it. You can go to New Orleans and find it. Did you ever think that it would be that effective as pretty much pulling people into that situation? When you guys started, when this thing first started off. We went through this earlier and I'm going to get the same answer. I want to hear it because I just, I didn't hear it all of these guys. No, we didn't think nothing about this.  You know, it was three things going on late 70s, late 60s, early 70s. So trying gang banging and pop locking. And all those three things are staples day across America from back then. But it's not nothing really to be proud of about this life. And that's real talk because at the end of the day, you're guilt by association. You think you, the camaraderie when you're going up, going back and forth to jail.  When you're in silence, your voice.  You see family members to where you don't see the wrinkles. And you think about all the time you could have been with your mother instead of running around niggas. And you know, you can't paint a picture with canvas with one stroke. So I've been privileged and blessed to see five generations because every 10 years should change in this game. So I know where Texas at in its 30 year, 40 year history. I know where New Jersey I can know about from previous experience when it come to that. So at the end of the day, man, I don't put no titles on nothing. And as far as people, I try to be a unbiased urban analyst when I look at any situation and always try to be fair. But I know this is a time now where we want to make these youths tax payers as opposed to tax burdens. And you know this Crip and Blood, we're not a gang. We're a brand now. And we have to start letting the entertainment world, Nike that make the hats the color of whatever sets you from when you're like the Texas Rangers hats. That's one of the biggest hats selling in all of America because it represents the gangster crimes. So you're talking about global. And so we have to look at how they're exploiting us to where we need to address them like when Jesse Jackson used to go back and do it for Coca-Cola and discrimination. And we need to have people such as us or people that are rooted in this community that have a vested interest in the community where we speak up to help eradicate some of these adverse conditions that exist. And all they come with us with being unity in the community. If we can't get that, we segregate in ourselves. We've had Martin Luther King die, gets brave. We don't want from water hose to choke hose. Nothing's changed. But we can have to ask that some people have to stand up and do every other race get along together. We try because we isolate ourselves to where it's the crab over the bucket, everybody trying to hold it still.  Thank you.


Hello, in this lecture we will define bank reconciliation according to fundamental accounting principles while 22nd edition the definition of bank reconciliation is report that explains the difference between the book company balance of cash and the cash balance reported on the bank statement for purposes of computing the adjusted cash balance. In essence, what we are going to do here is we're going to take the bank statement usually a monthly bank statement as of the end of the month and compare that to what we have in the books why do we do that because the bank is really a second recording a third party recording of our entire cash account the cash accounts being one of our most important accounts therefore if we can tie out what the bank has reported to what we have been reported we have one of the best and most secure checks to the fact that we have been recording cash correctly. So for example we might have the bank statement in this case at the end of February showing the beginning balance showing.


There are times when you should quit your job, for your happiness, for your health and for career progress. Given the amount of time we spend at work, knowing the signs you should quit your job will make you a lot happier and will make your career a lot more successful, assuming you actually move job when one or more of these signs occur. For each of the signs, I take you through why moving is important and how to make the best of your situation.  And at the end of the video, I list out eight questions you should ask yourself before you quit your job. Going through these will improve your decision-making and your timing to quit your job. My name is Jess Coles, and I've had a 25-year management career in corporates and household names through to SMEs, from professional level through to board director level. And I quit my job and move company multiple times in my career. Looking back, each of these moves was great for my career and happiness. And if you're new to this channel, enhance.training shares business and people management expertise to help you improve your performance and that of your team and business. And if you like this video, please give it a thumbs up and subscribe. The first sign you should quit your job is when your career has stalled. If learning new skills, expanding your experience and knowledge and moving your career forward is important to you, then professional development at a pace that suits you is a must. Even in the best jobs, there are times when your career development leaps ahead and others when it slows to a crawl for periods. When you hit periods of slow development, how long do you wait for the next development spurt is a key question. Speak to your manager about what opportunities, you know, projects, activities and problems you can get involved in to further develop your skills and experience. Ask when the development opportunities are going to be available. Think about your company situation and what that means for your development. You know, mature companies with modest growth usually don't have nearly as many development opportunities as fast growing companies, for instance. And larger companies should have more opportunities than smaller companies. Find out what development opportunities will be available and when before seriously thinking about whether you should quit your job. If you think there is limited development opportunities for you or they're too far away, then start looking for jobs in other companies that will provide you with a better chance of moving your career forward. And once you get external job offers, you then have a choice.  Sign two, you should quit your job is when you have a bad boss. Your boss has a massive impact on your career within the company you're working. They decide what tasks, activities, projects and problems you'll get involved in. They can help you move your career forward or they can stop it in its tracks. If your manager doesn't support your promotion, the chances of getting promotion are very slim. If your manager doesn't like you, doesn't reach you professionally or generally thinks poorly of you for whatever reason, then you should start looking for opportunities elsewhere. When to quit your job, usually best when you have a better job to go to and a better manager to work for. You should quit your job as soon as possible when you have a bad boss. Also explore if there are opportunities to move teams within the company. This changes your boss with less effort than moving companies. Don't stick with a bad boss unless you're sure they're leaving or moving to another team soon. The third sign you should quit your job is when your work is not appreciated. You get interesting tasks, activities and projects when your current work is appreciated and valued. You get promotions when your current work is appreciated. You should quit your job if your work is not appreciated and valued after getting a job offer to move to a better job where you and your work will be appreciated. Before you quit your job, ask your manager why they don't appreciate your work. Ask what you need to do so your manager and other stakeholders will appreciate your work. Ask to set clear realistic goals, achieve them and see if they start appreciating you and your work. Good managers will praise good work. We all like to receive praise for good work done. Working hard and doing a good job and then hearing nothing is a big let down. Do not put up with no appreciation. Challenge the behaviour and if nothing changes then work out when it's time to quit your job. Sign for you should quit your job is when your salary stays below market rates. When you get a new job in another company, you typically will get a 10 to 20% pay rise. Staying in your current company rarely gets you such a large pay rise even when it comes with a promotion. Keep an eye on the market rates, what other companies are paying for your role. Having up-to-date knowledge is very useful when negotiating pay rises with your boss and HR. If your salary falls below market rates, ask for a pay rise to keep up with market rates. If your salary stays below market rates, despite pressurising for a higher salary, you should quit your job and move to a company that appreciates and values your skills and work more highly and pays you more. Salary is one of the elements that provides a fair exchange for the work you put in. Salary is not the only area you should consider. For instance, if you're getting amazing experience and skills, getting paid a lower salary in the short term will hopefully be OK. Get the skills and experience and the money, status, etc. will follow, which has been my experience time and time again throughout my career. So think about all the factors that are important to you for this point in your career. You should quit your job if your salary stays below market rates and move to a company paying more for your skills. The fifth sign you should quit your job is when you have too much work. The level of work you're able to comfortably manage depends on many individual factors. If a company is particularly in tough times, try to squeeze as much work out of each individual working for them. Your salaries are largely fixed, so getting more work done makes commercial sense for the company to a point. Too much work for individuals leads to higher levels of stress and anxiety, which in turn can lead to physical and mental health problems if you have too much work for too long. If you find yourself heading up and over the stress curve, speak to your manager and ask for less work. Explain why? It is in your manager's and company's interest to reduce your workload back to more sensible levels, particularly if you are considered an above average employee. If damaging levels of work continue and your manager is not trying to reduce it, after discussing work levels with them, you should quit your job and move to another company which has not put unrealistic pressures on its employees. When to quit your job is a very personal question to answer. It will be different for everyone depending on many individual factors and preferences. I recommend that you get a new job offer before quitting your current job whenever you can. It is much easier to get a new job when you're in a job. So eight questions to ask yourself before quitting include, firstly, how long have I been feeling like quitting?  Secondly, what job do I really want? Is it a sideways move or aiming for a promotion or something completely different? The third question, what would I give up by quitting my job? This focuses you on the positives of the job, which can be easy to forget when things are tough. Fourth question, what would I gain by quitting and moving to another role? You know, make sure the grass really is greener on the other side. Fifth, have I explored every sensible option with my employer? This can be daunting, yet a step that can result in very positive changes without moving companies. The sixth question, are my expectations realistic? Check you don't have rose-tinted glasses when thinking about new jobs and what they can provide you. Seventh question, can I afford to quit my job? If you have a big mortgage or other financial commitments, getting a new job offer before quitting may be a must for you. And then eighth, is now the right time. You know, think carefully about the pros and cons and speak to your manager about future opportunities, so you have the best realistic picture. And if you really have hit rock bottom with your current job, act quickly to get a new job offer so you are able to quit your job as quickly as possible. So in summary, staying in an unfulfilling, boring or stale job will do little for your happiness and career progress. If you have a toxic or bad boss, take action as quickly as practical to quit your job and work for a better manager. You spend so much time at work, so make that time as enjoyable and rewarding as possible for you. And as a reminder, the five signs you should quit your job we have gone through are, firstly, when your career has stalled. Secondly, when you have a bad boss. Third, when your work is not appreciated. Fourth, when your salary stays below market rates. And fifth, when you have too much work. And do take a look at how to resign professionally from a job so you can keep all of your bridges intact and keep your manager and colleagues firmly supporting you. If you have any questions on when to leave your job, please leave them in the comments section below and I'll get back to you. Thanks very much for watching and I look forward to speaking to you again soon.