a long hard day's work, and before it was over the
village was ringing with the news of all this change. The minister had
already called on Ann and Christa, saying suitable things concerning
their father's terrible crime and their own sad position. When he was
gone Christa laughed.

CHAPTER XII.

The sweet-scented smoke of the distant forest fires had diffused itself
all day in the atmosphere more and more palpably. It was not a gloomy
effect, and familiar to eyes accustomed to the Canadian August. All the
sunbeams were very pink, and they fell flickering among the shadows of
the pear tree upon Markham's grey wooden house, upon the path and the
ragged green in front. Ann had pleasant associations with these pink
beams because they told of fine weather. Smoke will not lie thus in an
atmosphere that is molested with any currents of wind that might bring
cloud or storm. On the whole Ann had spent the day happily, for fair
weather has much to do with happiness; but when that unusual flood of
blood-red light came at sunset, giving an unearthly look to a land which
was well enough accustomed to bright sunsets of a more ordinary sort,
Ann's courage and good humour failed her; she yielded to the common
influence of marvels and felt afraid.

What had she done, and what was she going to do? She was playing with
religion; and religion, if it was nothing more, was something which had
made Bart Toyner look at her with such a strange smile of selfless hope
and desire--hope that she would be something different from what she had
been, desire that the best should come to her whatever was going to
happen to him. That was the explanation of what had seemed inexplicable
in his look (she felt glad to have worked it out at last); and if
anything so strange as that were possible in Bart, what was the force
with which she was playing? Would some judgment befall her?

The evening closed in. Christa went to bed to finish a yellow-backed
novel. As it was the last she was to read for a long time, she thought
she might as well enjoy it. Ann sat alone in the outer room. The night
was very still. Christa went to sleep, but Ann continued to sit,
stitching at the very plain garb that Christa was to don on the morrow,
not so much because she needed to work as because she felt no need of
sleep. The night being close and warm, her window, a small French
casement, stood open. At a late hour, when passers upon the road were
few, arrested by so