"Down, Di!" cried Fanny. "How dare you! O Mr. Ticehurst, how glad I am you're not dead! And you, too, Mr. Harmer, though no one said you were! Oh, where's father, I wonder—he'll be glad, too!"

"And Elsie, will she be glad as well, Fanny?" I asked. She looked at me slyly, and nodded.

"You'd better ask her, I think. Here comes father."

He rode up on horseback, followed by Siwash Jim, swinging the noose of a lariat in his right hand, as though he had been after horses or cattle.

"Oh, it's you, Tom, is it?" said Fleming, who was looking very well. "I'm glad you're not quite so dead as I was told. And you, Harmer, how are you? Jim, take these gentlemen's horses to the stable. You've come to stay for dinner, of course. I shan't let you go. I heard you did very well gold-gambling last fall. Come in!" For that news went down the country when we went to the Landing for grub.

I followed, wondering a little whether he would have been quite so effusive if I had done badly. But I soon forgot that when I saw Elsie, who had just come out of her room. I thought, when I saw her, that she was a little paler than when we had last met, though perhaps that was due to the unaccustomed cold and the sunless winter; but she more than ever merited the rough tribute which Dave had paid her in Conlan's bar. She was very beautiful to them; but how much more to me, as she came up, a little shyly, and shook hands softly, saying that she was glad that the bad news they had heard of me was not true. I fancied that she had thought of me often during that winter, and perhaps had seen she had been unjust. At any rate, there was a great difference between what she was then and what she was now.

We talked during dinner about the winter, which the three Australians almost cursed; in fact, the father did curse it very admirably, while Elsie hardly reproved his strong language, so much did she feel that forty degrees below zero merited all the opprobrium that could be cast on it. I described our gold-mining adventures and the winter's trapping, which, by the way, had added five hundred dollars to my other money.

I told Fleming that I was now worth, with some I still had at home, more than five thousand dollars, and I could see it gave him satisfaction.

"What do you think of the country now, Mr. Fleming?" I asked; "and how long shall you stay here?"

He shook his head.

"I don't know, my boy," he answered; "I think, in spite of the cold, we shall have to stand another winter here. This summer I must rebuild the barns and stables; there are still a lot of cattle adrift somewhere; and I won't sell out under a certain sum. That's business, you know; and I have just a little about me, though I am an old fool at times, when the girls want their own way."

"What would you advise me to do?" said I, hoping he would give me some advice which I could flatter him by taking. "You see, when one has so much money, it is only the correct thing to make more of it. The question is how to do it."

"That's quite right, Ticehurst—quite right!" said he energetically. "I'm glad you talk like that; your head's screwed on right; you will be well in yet" (an Australian phrase for our "well off"), "I'll bet on that. Well, you can open a store, or go lumbering, or gold-mining, or hunting, or raise cattle, like me."

I pretended to reflect, though I nearly laughed at catching Harmer's eye, for he knew quite well what I wanted to do.

"Yes, Mr. Fleming, you're right. That's nearly all one can do. But as to keeping a store, you see, I've been so accustomed to an open-air life, I don't think it would suit me. Besides, a big man like me ought to do something else than sell trousers! As to gold-mining, I've done that, and been lucky once, which, in such a gambling game, is against me. And hunting or trapping—well, there's nothing great in that. I think I should prefer cattle-raising, if I could do it. I was brought up on a farm in England, and why shouldn't I die on one in British Columbia, or" (and I looked at Elsie) "in Australia?"

"Quite right, Tom," said Fanny, laughing, for she was too cute to miss seeing what I meant.

Mr. Fleming looked at me approvingly.

"You'll die worth a lot yet, Tom Ticehurst. I like your spirit. I was just the same once. Now, I'll tell you what. Did you ever see George Nettlebury at the Forks?"

"No," I replied, "not that I know of."

"I dare say you have," said he; "he's mostly drunk; and Indian Alice, who is always with him, usually has a black eye, as a gentle reminder that she belongs to an inferior race, if she is his wife. Now, he lives about two miles from here, over yonder" (he pointed over the valley). "He has a house—a very dirty one now, it is true; a stable, and a piece of meadow, fenced in, where he could raise good hay if he would mend the fence and keep other folks' cattle out. He told me the other day that he was sick to death of this place, and he wants just enough to go East with, and return to his old trade of shipbuilding. He says he will take $300 for the whole place, with what is on it. That don't amount to much—two cows, one old steer, and a cayuse he rides round on. If you like, we'll go over and see him. You can buy it, and buy some more cattle, and if you have more next winter than you can feed, I'll let you have the hay cheap. What do you say?"

My heart leapt up, but I pretended I wanted time to think about it.

"Then let's ride over now, and you can look at the place," said he; rising.

Harmer would not come, so I left him with the sisters. When we returned I was the owner of the house, stable, two cows, etc., and George Nettlebury was fighting with Indian Alice, to whom he had announced his intention of going East at once, and without her.

"I'm tired of this life; it's quite disgusting!" said George, as we departed. "I'm glad you came, Mr. Ticehurst, for I'm off too quick."

As we rode back to Thomson Forks, Harmer asked pathetically what he was to do.

"We must see, Jack," I answered kindly. "We'll get you something in town."

"I'd rather be with you," he answered dolorously.

"Well, you can't yet, that's certain," said I. "I can't afford to pay you wages, when there will be no more than I can get through myself; when there is, I'll let you know. In the meantime you must make money, Jack. There's a sawmill in town. I know the man that runs it—Bill Custer, and I'll go and see him for you."

Jack sighed, and we rode on in silence until we reached the Forks.

After we had had supper Jack and I were standing in the barroom, not near the stove, which was surrounded by a small crowd of men, who smoked and chewed and chattered, but close by the door for the sake of the fresher air, when we saw Siwash Jim ride up. After tying his horse to the rail in front of the house, to which half a dozen other animals in various stages of equine despondency or irritation were already attached, he swaggered into the bar, brushing against me rather rudely as he did so. Harmer's eyes flashed with indignation, as if it was he who had been insulted. But I am a very peaceable man, and don't always fight at the first chance. Besides, being so much bigger than Jim, I could, I considered, afford to take no notice of what an ill-conditioned little ruffian like that did when he was probably drunk. Presently Jack spoke to me.

"That beastly fellow keeps looking at you, Mr. Ticehurst, as if he would like to cut your throat. What's wrong with him? Is he jealous of you, do you think?"

It was almost blasphemy to dream of such a thing, and I looked at Mr. John Harmer so sternly that he apologized; yet I believe it must to some extent have been that which caused the trouble that ensued almost directly, and added afterward to the danger in which I already stood. I turned round and looked at Jim, who returned my glance furiously. He ordered another drink, and then another. It seemed as if he was desirous of making himself drunk. Presently Dave, who was, as usual, behind the bar, spoke to him.

"Going back to the ranch to-night, Jim?"

Jim struck the bar hard with his fist.

"No, I'm not! Never, unless I go to set the damned place on fire!"

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Dave, smiling, while Harmer and I pricked up our ears.

"Ah! I had some trouble with old Fleming just now," said Jim, in a hoarse voice of passion. "He's like the rest, wants too much; the more one does, the more one may do. He's a dirty coyote, and his girls are——" And the gentle-minded Jim used an epithet which made both our ears tingle.

Jack made a spring, but I caught him by the shoulder and sent him spinning back, and walked up alongside the men. I saw my own face in the glass at the back of the bar; it was very white, and I could hardly recognize it.

"Mind what you say, you infernal ruffian!" I said, in a low voice, "or I'll break your neck for you! Don't you dare to speak about ladies, you dog, or I'll strangle you!" He sprang back like lightning. If he had had a six-shooter on him I think my story would have ended here, for I had none myself. But Jim had no weapon. Yet he was no coward, and did not "take water," or "back down," as they say there. He steadied himself one moment, and then threw the water-bottle at me with all his force. Though I ducked, I did not quite escape it, for the handle caught me on the forehead near the hair, and, in breaking, cut a gash which sent the blood down into my left eye. But I caught hold of him before he could do anything else. In a moment the room was in an uproar; some of the men climbed on to the tables in order to get a view, while those outside crowded to the door. They roared, "Leave 'em alone!" when Dave attempted to approach, and one big fellow caught hold of Harmer and held him, saying at the same time, as Jack told me afterward, "You stay right here, sonny, and see 'em fight. Mebbe you'll larn something!"

I found Jim a much tougher customer than I should have imagined, although I might have handled him more easily if I had not been for the time blind in one eye. But he was like a bunch of muscle; his arms, though slender, were as tough and hard as his stock-whip handle, and his quickness was surprising. He struck me once or twice as we grappled, and then we fell, rolling over and over, and scattering the onlookers, as we went, until we came against the legs of the table, which gave way and sent three men to the floor with a shock that shook the house. Finally, Jim got his hand in my hair and tried to gouge out my eyes. Fortunately, it was not long enough for him to get a good hold, but when I felt his thumbs feeling for my eyes, all the strength and rage I ever had seemed to come to me, and I rose suddenly with him clinging to me. For a moment we swayed about, and then I caught his throat, pushed him at arm's length from me, and, catching hold of his belt, I threw him right over my head. I was standing with my back to the door, and he went through it, fell on the sidewalk, and rolled off into the road, where he lay insensible.

"Very good!" said Dave; "very well done indeed! Pick him up, some of you fellows, and see if he's dead. The son of a gun, I'll make him pay for that bottle, and for the table! Come, have a drink, Mr. Ticehurst. You look rather warm."

I should think I did, besides being smothered with blood and dust. I was glad to accept his invitation.

"Is he dead?" I asked of Harmer, who came in just then.

"Not he," said Jack, "he's coming to already, but I guess he'll fight no more for a few days. That must have been a sickener. By Jove! how strong you must be—he went out of the door like a stone out of a sling. Lucky he didn't hit the post." And Harmer chuckled loudly, and then went off with me to wash away the blood, and bandage the cut in my forehead.

When I left town in the morning I heard that Jim was still in bed and likely to stay there for some time. And Harmer, who was going to work with Bill Custer, promised to let me know if he heard anything which was of importance to me.

On my way out to my new property I met its late owner and his Indian wife in their ricketty wagon, drawn by the horse I had not thought worth buying. Nettlebury was more than half drunk, although it was early in the morning, and when he saw me coming he rose up, waved his hand to me, bellowed, "I'm a-goin' East, I am!" and, falling over the seat backward, disappeared from view. Alice reached out her hand and helped her husband to regain his former position. I came up alongside and reined in my horse.

He looked at me.

"Been fightin' already, hev you; or did you get chucked off? More likely you got chucked—it takes an American to ride these cay uses!" said he half scornfully.

"No," said I, "I wasn't chucked, and I have been fighting. Did you hear why Siwash Jim left Fleming!"

"No, not exactly," he returned; "but he was sassy with Miss Elsie, and—oh, I dunno—but you hev been fightin', eh? Did you lick him—and who was it?"

"The man himself, Mr. Nettlebury," said I—"Jim; and I reckon I did whip him."

He laughed.

"Good on you, old man! He's been wanting it this long while past; but look out he don't put a knife in your ribs. Now then," said he ferociously, turning to his wife, "why don't you drive on? Here, catch hold!" and giving her the reins, he lifted his hand to strike her. But just then the old horse started up, he fell over the seat again, and lay there on a pile of sacking. I hardly thought he would get East with his money, and I was right, for I hired him to work for me soon afterward.

When I came to the Flemings' there was no one about but the old man.

"Busy!" said he, "you may bet I'm busy. I sent that black ruffian off yesterday, and I've got no one to help me. What's the matter with your head?"

When I told him, he laughed heartily, and then shook my hand.

"I'm glad you thrashed him, Tom," said he; "I'd have done it myself yesterday if I had been ten years younger. When Elsie wanted him to get some water, he growled and said all klootchmen, as he calls 'em—women, you know—were alike, Indian or white, and no good. I told him to get out. Is he badly hurt?"

"Not very," I answered.

"I hoped he was," said the old man. "It's a pity you didn't break his neck! I would as soon trust a black snake! Are you going over yonder?"

"I guess so," I answered; "I must get the place cleaned up a bit—it's like a pigsty, or what they call a hog-pen in this country,"

"Well, I guess it is," he replied; "but come over in the evening, if you like."

I thanked him and rode off, happy in one thing at least—I was near Elsie. I felt as if Harmer's suspicions about Mat were a mere chimera, and that the lad in some excitement had mistaken the dark face of some harmless Indian for that of the revengeful Malay. And as to Siwash Jim, why, I shrugged my shoulders; I did not suppose he was so murderously inclined as Nettlebury imagined. It would be hard lines on me to have two men so ill disposed toward me, through no fault of my own, as to wish to kill me.

I went back to the Flemings' after a hard day's work, in which I burnt, or otherwise disposed of, an almost unparalleled collection of rubbish, including old crockery and bottles, dirty shirts and worn-out boots, which had been accumulating indoors and out for some ten years. After being nearly smothered, I was glad to go down to the creek and take a bath in the clear, cold water which ran into the main watercourse issuing, some two miles away, from the Black Cañon at the back of the valley, concerning which Fleming had once spoken to me. That evening at his ranch was the pleasantest I ever spent in my life up to that time, in spite of the black cloud which hung over me, for Fanny was as bright and happy as a bird, while Elsie, who seemed to have come to her senses, spoke almost freely, displaying no more disinclination to me, even apparently, than might naturally be set down to her instinctive modesty, and her knowledge that I was courting her, and desired to be received as her lover.

I spoke to her late that evening when Fleming went out to throw down the night's hay to his horses. For Fanny vanished discreetly at the same moment, and continued to make just enough noise in the kitchen to assure us she was there, while it was not sufficient to drown even the softest conversation. Good girl she was, and is—I love her yet, though—well, perhaps I had better leave that unsaid at present.

"Elsie," I said, when we were alone, "do you remember what I said when we parted on the steamer?"

She cast her eyes down, but did not answer.

"I think you do, Elsie," I went on; "I said I should never forget. Do you think I have? Don't you know why I left my ship, why I came to this country, why I went mining, and why I have worked so hard and patiently for long, long months without seeing you? Answer me; do you know why?"

She hesitated a moment, lifted up her blue eyes, dropped them at the sight of the passion in mine, and said gently, "I suppose so, Mr. Ticehurst."

"Yes, you know, Elsie; it was that I might be near you, that I might get rich enough to be able to claim you. How fortunate I have been in that! But am I fortunate in other things, too, Elsie? Will you answer me that, Elsie?"

I approached her, but she held up her hand.

"Stay, Mr. Ticehurst!—if I must speak. I may have judged you wrongly, but I am not wholly sure that I have. If I have not, I should only be preparing misery for myself and for you, if I answered your questions as you would have me. I want time, and I must have it, or some other assurance; for how can I wholly trust you when you will not speak as you might do?"

Ah! how could I? But this was far better than I had expected—far better.

"Elsie," I answered quietly, "I am ready to give you time, all the time you need to prove me, and my love for you, though there is no need. My heart is yours, and yours only, ever from the time I saw you. I have never even wavered in my faith and hope. But I do not care so long as I may be near you—so long as I may see you sometimes, and speak to you. For without you I shall be wretched, and would be glad even if that wretched Malay were to kill me, as he threatened."

I thought I was cunning to bring in Matthias, and indeed she lifted her eyes then. But she showed no signs of fear for me. Perhaps she looked at me, saying to herself there was no need of such a strong man being afraid of such a visionary danger. She spoke after a little silence.

"Then let it be so, Mr. Ticehurst. If what you say be true, there at least is nothing for you to fear."

She looked at me straight then with her glorious blue eyes, and I would have given worlds to catch her in my arms and press her to my heart. She went on:

"And if you never give me cause, why—" She was silent, but held out her hand.

I took it, pressed it, and would have raised it to my lips, only she drew it gently away. But I went to rest happy that night. Give her cause!—indeed, what cause could I give her? That is what I asked myself, without knowing what was coming, without feeling my ignorance, my blindness, and my helplessness in the strange web of fate and fated crime which was being woven around me—without being conscious, as an animal is in the prairie, of that storm, so ready to burst on my head, whose first faint clouds had risen on the horizon of my life, even before I had seen her, in the very hour that I had joined the Vancouver under my own brother's command. I went to sleep, wondering vaguely what had become of him. But we are blind, all of us, and see nothing until the curtain rises on act after act; being ignorant still, whether the end shall be sweet or bitter to us, whether it shall justify our smiles in happiness, or our tears in some bitter tragedy.

For two days I worked in and about my house, putting things in some order, and on the third I rode over to the Flemings' early in the morning, as it had been arranged that I was to go out with Mr. Fleming to look after some cattle of his, which a neighbor had complained of. I never felt in better spirits than when I rode over the short two miles which separated us, for the morning was calm and bright, with a touch of that glorious freshness known only among mountains or on high plateaus lifted up from the common level of the under world. I even sang softly to myself, for the black cloud of doubt, which but a few days ago had obscured all my light, was driven away by a new dawning of hope, and I was content and without fear. I shouted cheerfully for Fleming as I rode up, and he came to the door with his whip over his arm, followed by the two girls. I alighted, and shook hands all round.

"Then you are ready, Mr. Fleming?" I asked.

"When I have put the saddle on the black horse," he replied, as he went toward the stable, leaving me standing there, for I was little inclined to offer to assist him while Elsie remained outside the house. Fanny was quite as mischievous as ever, and whether her sister had told her anything of what had passed between us two days before or not, she was evidently conscious that the relations between Elsie and myself had somehow altered for the better.

"How do you find yourself these days, Tom?" she asked, with a merry twinkle in her eye.

"Very well, Fanny," I answered. "Thanks for your inquiry."

"Does the climate suit you, then? Or is it the surroundings?"

"Both, my dear girl, as long as the sun shines on us!" I replied, laughing, while Elsie turned away with a smile.

Fanny almost winked at me, and then looked up the road toward Thomson Forks, which ran close by the ranch and led toward an Indian settlement on the Lake about ten miles away.

"There's someone coming," she said, "and he's in a hurry. Isn't he galloping, Mr. Ticehurst?"

I looked up the road and saw somebody who certainly was coming down the long slope from the crest of the hill with more than reasonable rapidity. I looked, and then turned away carelessly. What was the horseman to me? I leant against the post of the veranda, which some former occupant of the house had ornamented by whittling with his knife, until it was almost too thin to do its duty, and began to speak to Fanny again, when I saw her blush and start.

"Why, Mr. Ticehurst," she said, "it's Mr. Harmer!"

Then the horseman was something to me, after all. For what but some urgent need would bring Jack, who was entirely ignorant of horses and riding, at that breakneck gallop over the mountain road? My carelessness went suddenly, and I felt my heart begin to beat with unaccustomed violence. I turned pale, I know, as I watched him coming nearer. I was quite unconscious that Elsie had rejoined her sister, and stood behind me.

Harmer came closer and closer, and when he saw us waved his hat. In a moment he was at the gate, while I stood still at the house, and did not move to go toward him. He alighted, opened the gate, and, with his bridle over his aim, came up to us. He said good-morning to the girls hurriedly, and turned to me.

"You must come to Thomson Forks directly, Mr. Ticehurst!" he said, gasping, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "Something's happened, I don't know what, and I can't tell; but she wants to see you at once, and sent me off to fetch you—and so I came, and, oh! how sore I am," and he wriggled suggestively, and in a way that would have been comic under other circumstances.

I caught hold of his arm.

"What do you mean," I roared, "you young fool? What's happened, and who wants to see me? Who's she?"

He looked up in astonishment.

"Why, didn't I say Mrs. Ticehurst, of course?"

I let him go and fell against the post, making it crack as I did so. I looked at Elsie, and she was white and stern. But she did not avoid my eye.

"Well, what is it—what's happened?" I said at last.

"I don't know, I tell you, sir," said he almost piteously; "all I know is that I was sent for to the sawmill by Dave, and when I came I saw Mrs. Ticehurst; and she's dressed in black, sir, and she looked dreadfully bad, and she just shook hands with me, and told me to fetch you at once. And when I asked what for, she just stamped, sir, and told me to go. And so I came, and that's all!"

Surely it was enough. Much as I liked her, I would rather have met Mat or the very devil in the way than had this happen now, when things were going so well with me. And in black?—good God! had anything happened to my brother? I turned white, I know, and almost fell.

"You had better go at once, Tom," laid Fanny, who held me by the arm. I turned, I hardly know why, to her sister. Her face was very pale, but her eyes glittered, and she looked like marble. I know my own asked hers a question, but I got no response. I turned away toward my horse, and then she spoke.

"Mr. Ticehurst, let me speak to you one moment. Fanny, go and talk to Mr. Harmer."

And Fanny and I both obeyed her like children.

She looked at me straight.

"How could I prove you, Mr. Ticehurst," she said, in a low voice, "was what I asked the other night. Now the means are in my power. What are you going to do?"

"I am going to the Forks," I said, in bewilderment. Her eyes flashed, and she looked at me scornfully.

"Then go, but don't ever speak to me again! Go!"

And she turned away. I caught her arm.

"Don't be unjust, Elsie!—don't be cruelly unjust!" I cried. What a fool I was; I knew she loved me, and yet I asked her not to be cruel and unjust. Can a woman or a man in love be anything else?

"How can I stay away?" I asked passionately, "when my brother's wife sends for me? And she is in black—poor Will must be dead!"

If he was dead, then Helen was free. I saw that and so did Elsie, and it hardened her more than ever, for she did not answer.

"Look then, Elsie, I am going, and you say I shall not speak to you again. You are cruel, very cruel—but I love you! And you shall speak to me—aye, and one day ask my pardon for doubting me. But even for you I cannot refuse this request of my own sister-in-law—who is ill, alone, in sorrow and trouble, in a strange land. For the present, good-by!"

I turned away, took my horse from the fence, and rode off rapidly, without thinking of Harmer, or of Fleming, who was standing in amazement at his stable, as I saw when I opened the swing-gate. And if Harmer had come up at a gallop, I went at one, until my horse was covered with sweat, and the foam, flying from his champed bit, hung about my knees like sea-foam that did not easily melt. In half an hour I was at Conlan's door, and was received by Dave. In two minutes I stood in Helen's presence.

When I saw her last she had that rich red complexion which showed the pure color of the blood through a delicate skin; her eyes were piercing and perhaps a little hard, and her figure was full and beautiful. She had always rejoiced, too, in bright colors, such as an Oriental might have chosen, and their richness had suited her striking appearance. But now she was woefully altered, and I barely knew her. The color had deserted her cheeks, which were wan and hollow; her eyes were sunken and ringed with dark circles, and her bust had fallen in until she looked like the ghost of her former self, a ghost that was but a mere vague memory of her whom I had first known in Melbourne.

Her dress, too, was black, which I knew she hated, and in which she looked even less like herself. Her voice, when she spoke, no longer rang out with assurance, but faltered ever and again with the tears that rose to her eyes and checked her utterance.

I took her hand, full of pity for her, and dread of what she had to tell me, for it must be something dreadful which had changed her so much and brought her so far.

"What is it, Helen?" I said, in a low voice.

"What did I come for, you mean, Tom?" she asked, though desiring no answer. "I came for your sake—and not for Will's. I thought you might never get a letter, and I wanted to see you once again. Ah! how much I desired that. Tom, you are in danger!" she spoke that suddenly—"in danger every moment! For that man who threatened your life——"

I nodded, sucking my dry lips, for I knew what she meant, and I was only afraid of what else she had to tell me.

"That man has escaped, and has not been caught. O Tom, be careful—be careful! If you were to die, too——"

"What do you mean, Helen?" I asked, though I knew full well what she meant. She looked at me.

"Can't you think? Yes, you can perhaps partly; but not all—not all the horror of it. Tom, Will is dead! And not only that, but he was murdered in San Francisco!"

I staggered, and sat down staring at her. She went on in a curiously constrained voice.

"Yes; the very first night we came ashore, and in our hotel! He was intoxicated, and came in late, and I wouldn't have him in my room. I made them put him in the next, and I heard him shouting out of his window over the veranda soon afterward, and then I fell asleep. And in the morning I found him—I myself found him dead in bed, struck right through with a stab in the heart. And he was robbed, too. Tom, it nearly killed me, it was so horrible—oh, it was horrible! I didn't know what to do. I was going to send for you, and then I read in the paper about Mat having escaped two days before, so I came away at once."

She ceased and sobbed violently; and I kept silence. God alone knows what was in my heart, and how it came there; but for a moment—yes, and for more than that—I suspected her, his wife, of my brother's murder! I was blind enough, I suppose, and so was she; but then so many times in life we wonder suddenly at our want of sight when the truth comes out. I remembered she had once said she hated him, and could kill him. And besides, she loved me. I shivered and was still silent. She looked up and caught my eye, which, I knew, was full of doubt. She rose up suddenly, came to me, fell on her knees, and cried:

"No, no, Tom—not that! For God's sake, don't look at me so!"

And I knew she saw my very heart, and I was ashamed of myself. I lifted her up and put her on a chair. Heavens! how light she was to what she had been, for her soul had wasted her body away like a strong wind fanning a fire.

"Poor Will!" I said at last, and then I asked if she had remained for the inquest. No, she had not, she answered. I started at her reply. If I could think what I had, what might others not do? For her to disappear like that after the murder of her husband was enough to make people believe her guilty of the crime, and I wondered that she had not been prevented from leaving. But on questioning her further, I learnt that the police suspected a certain man who was a frequenter of that very hotel; and, after the manner of their kind, had got him in custody, and were devoting all their attention to proving him guilty of the crime, whether there were prima facie proofs or not. Still, it seemed bitter that poor Will should be left to strangers while his wife came to see me; and though she had done it to save me, as she thought, yet, after all, the danger was hardly such as to warrant her acting as she had done. But I was not the person to blame her. She had done it, poor woman, because she yet loved me, as I knew even then. But I saw, too, that it was love without hope; and even if it had not been, she must have learnt that I was near to Elsie; and that I was "courting old Fleming's gal" was the common talk whenever my name was mentioned. I tried to convince myself that she had most likely ceased to think of me, and I preferred to believe it was only the daily and hourly irritation of poor Will's conduct which had driven her to compare me with him to his disadvantage. Well, whatever his faults were, they had been bitterly expiated; as, indeed, such faults as his usually are. It does not require statistics to convince anyone who has seen much of the world that most of the trouble in it comes directly from drink.

I was in a strange situation as I sat reflecting. I suppose strict duty required me to go to San Francisco, and yet Will would be buried before I could get there. Then what was I to do with his widow? She could not stay there, I could not allow it, nor did I think she desired it. Still she was not fit to travel in her state of nervous exhaustion; indeed, it was a marvel that she had been able to come so far, even under the stimulus of such unwonted excitement. I could not go away with her even for a part of the return journey, for I felt Elsie would be harder and harder to manage the more she knew I saw of Helen. I ended by coming to the conclusion that she must stay at the Forks for a while, and that I must go back and try to have an explanation with Elsie. Helen bowed her head in acquiescence when I told her what she had better do, for the poor woman was utterly broken down, and ready to lean on any arm that was offered her; and she, who had been so strong in her own will, was at last content to be advised like an obedient child. I left her with Mrs. Conlan, to whom I told as much as I thought desirable, and, kissing her on the forehead, I took my horse and rode slowly toward home.

As I left the town I saw Siwash Jim sitting on the sidewalk, and he looked at me with a face full of diabolical hatred. When I got to the crest of the hill above the town I turned in the saddle, and saw him still gazing after me.

When half-way home I met Harmer, who was riding even slower than I, and sitting as gingerly in the saddle as if he were very uncomfortable, as I had no doubt he was.

"Well, Mr. Ticehurst," said he eagerly, when we came near, "what was it?"

I told him, and he looked puzzled.

"Well," he remarked at last, "it seems to me I must have been mistaken after all, and that I didn't see Mat when I thought I did. Let me see, when did he escape?"

I reckoned it up, and it was only twelve days ago, for Helen had taken nine days coming from San Francisco, according to what she told me.

"Then it is impossible for me to have seen him in New Westminster," said Harmer. "But it is very strange that I should have imagined I did see him, and that he did escape after all."

Then I told him of my brother's death.

"Why, Mr. Ticehurst," he exclaimed, "Matthias must have done it himself! He must—don't you see he must?"

The thought had not entered into my head.

"No," said I; "I don't see it at all. There's a man in custody for it now, and it is hardly likely Mat would stay in San Francisco, if he escaped, for two days. Besides, it is even less likely that he would fall across my brother the very first evening he came ashore."

Harmer shook his head obstinately.

"We shall see, sir—we shall see. You know he didn't like Captain Ticehurst much better than you. Then, you say he was robbed of his papers. Was your address among them, do you think?"

I started, for Jack's suspicion seemed possible after all. The thing, looked more likely than it had done at first sight. And yet it was only my cowardice that made me think so. I shook my head, but answered "yes" to his question.

"Then pray, Mr. Ticehurst, be careful," said Jack earnestly, "and carry your revolver always. Besides, that fellow Jim is about again. You hardly hurt him at all; he must be made of iron, and I heard last night he threatened to have your life."

"Threatened men live long, Jack," said I. "I am not scared of him. That's only talk and blow. I don't care much if Mat doesn't get on my track. He would be dangerous. Did you see Miss Fleming before you left?" I said, turning the conversation.

He shook his head. She had gone to her room, and remained there when I went away.

"Well, Harmer, I shall be in town the day after to-morrow," I said at last, "and if anything happens, you can send me word; and go and see Mrs. Ticehurst meanwhile."

"I will do that," said he, "but to-morrow morning I have to go up the lake to the logging camp, and don't know when I shall be back. That's what Custer said this morning, when I asked him to let me come over here."

"Very well, it won't matter, I dare say," I answered. "Take care of yourself, Jack."

"Oh, Mr. Ticehurst," said he, turning round in the saddle, and wincing as he did so, "it is you who must be careful! Pray, do be very careful!"

I nodded, shook hands, and rode on.

When I came to the Flemings', Fanny was at the big gate, and she asked a question by her eyes before we got close enough to speak.

"Yes, Fanny," said I, "it was serious." And then I told her what had occurred. She held out her hand and pressed mine sympathetically.

"I am so sorry, Tom," was all she said; but she said it so kindly that her voice almost brought the tears to my eyes.

"Has Elsie spoken to you since I went, Fanny?" I asked, as we walked down to the house together, while my horse followed with his head hanging down.

"I haven't even seen her, Tom," she replied; "the door was locked, and when I knocked she told me to go away, which, as it's my room too, was not very polite."

In spite of my love for Elsie, I felt somewhat bitter against her injustice to me, and I was glad to see that I made her suffer a little on her part. I know I have said very little about my own feelings, for I don't care somehow to put down all that I felt, any more than I like to tell any stranger all that is near my heart; but I did feel strongly and deeply, and to see her, who was with me by day and night as the object of my fondest hope, so unjust, was enough to make me bitter. I wished to reproach her, for I was not a child—a boy, to be fooled with like this.

"Go and ask her to see me, Fanny, please," I said rather sternly, as I stood outside the door. "And don't tell her anything of what I told you, either of Will or Matthias."

Fanny started.

"You never said anything of Matthias!" she cried.

"Didn't I, Fanny? Well, then, I will. He has escaped from prison, and I suppose he is after me by this. But don't tell Elsie. Just say I want to see her."

In a few moments she came back, with tears in her eyes.

"She won't, Tom! She is in an obstinate fit, I know. And though she is crying her eyes out—the spiteful cat!—she won't come. I know her. She just told me to go away. What shall I do?" she asked.

"Nothing, Fanny," I answered; "you can tell her what you like. Will you be so cruel to your lover, little Fanny?"

She looked up saucily.

"I don't know, Tom; I shall see when I have one"—and she laughed.

"What about Jack Harmer, then?"

"Well, you see," and she looked down, "he's very young." She wasn't more than seventeen herself, and looked younger. "And, besides, I don't care for anybody but Elsie and father and you, Tom."

"Very well, Fanny," said I; "give me a kiss from Elsie, and make her give it you back."

"I will, Tom," she said quite simply, and, kissing her, I rode off quietly across the flat to my solitary home.