get, at least, that
is"--for he saw the horrified pain of her eyes--"that is, to be happy
again. Yes'm. Happiness--that's got to be your middle name. Now, Miss
Sheila, as a favor to me!"

Sheila put up both her hands and pushed his from her shoulder. She ran
from him past Babe into the dining-room, where, as she would have sped
by, "Momma" caught her by the arm.

"If you're not aimin' to please _him_," said "Momma" harshly, "wot are
you here for?"

Sheila looked at her unseeingly, pulled herself away, and went upstairs
on wings. In her room the tumult, held down all through the ugly,
cluttered, drudging day, broke out and had its violent course. She flew
about the room or tossed on the bed, sobbing and whispering to herself.
Her wound bled freely for the first time since it had been given her by
death. She called to her father, and her heart writhed in the grim
talons of its loneliness. That was her first agony and then came the
lesser stings of "Momma's" insults, and at last, a fear. An
incomprehensible fear. She began to doubt the wisdom of her Western
venture. She began to be terrified at her situation. All about her lay a
frozen world, a wilderness, so many thousand miles from anything that
she and her father had ever known. And in her pocket there was no penny
for rescue or escape. Over her life brooded powerfully Sylvester Hudson,
with his sallow face and gentle, contemplative eyes. He had brought her
to his home. Surely that was an honorable and generous deed. He had
given her over to the care and protection of his wife and daughters. But
why didn't Mrs. Hudson like it? Why did she tighten her lips and pull
her nostrils when she looked at her helper? And what was the sinister,
inner meaning of those two speeches ... about the purpose of her being
in the house at all? "An ornament on the parlor mantel" ... "aiming to
please him...." Of the existence of a sinister, inner meaning, "Momma's"
voice and look left no doubt.

Something was wrong. Something was hideously wrong. And to whom might she
go for help or for advice? As though to answer her question came a
foot-step on the stair. It was a slow, not very heavy step. It came to
her door and there followed a sharp but gentle rap.

"Who is it?" asked Sheila. And suddenly she felt very weak.

"It's Pap. Open your door, girl."

She hesitated. Her head seemed to go round. Then she obeyed his
gentle request.

Pap walked into the room.

CHAPTER VIII

A