ees do good turn dat time, for
sure. Send beeg feller along all right."

The girl stood listening to Perault's dramatic tale, her face growing
white.

"Is father not hurt at all, then?" she asked.

"Non. Hees tough ole man, dat boss," said Perault. Then he added
lightly, "Oh! hees broke some small bone--what you call?--on de collar,
dere. Dat noting 'tall."

"Oh, Perault!" exclaimed the girl. "You're not telling me the truth.
You're keeping back something. My father is hurt."

"Non, for sure," said Perault, putting his hand over his heart. "Hees
broke dat bone on de collar. Dat noting 'tall. He not ride ver' well,
so hees come on beeg feller's buckboard. Dat's fine beeg feller! Mon
Dieu! hees not 'fraid noting! Beeg blam-fool jus' lak boss." No higher
commendation was possible from Perault.

"But why is father coming back then?" asked the girl anxiously.

"Mais oui! Bah! Dat leele fool pony got hisself dron on de Black Dog,
an' all hees stuff, so de ole boss he mus' come back for more pony an'
more stuff."

"When will they be here, Perault?" asked the girl quietly.

"Ver' soon. One--two hour. But," said Perault with some hesitation, "de
ole boss better go on bed leele spell, mebbe."

Then the girl knew that Perault had not told her the worst, turning
impatiently from him, she lifted little Patsy on to the saddle and,
disdaining Perault's offered help, sprang on herself and set off toward
the village about a mile away at full gallop.

"Das mighty smart girl," said Perault, scratching his head as he set
off after her as fast as his jaded pony could follow. "Can't mak fool
on her."

Half way to the village stood the old Prospector's house, almost hidden
in a bluff of poplar and spruce. A little further on was Perault's
shack. At her father's door the girl waited.

"Perault," she said quietly, "I left the key at your house. Will you
get it for me while I take Patsy home?"

"Bon," said Perault eagerly. "I get heem an' mak fire."

"Thank you, Perault," she replied kindly. "I'll be right back."

But it took some time to get Patsy persuaded to allow her to depart,
and by the time she had returned she found Perault had the fire lit and
Josie, his bright-eyed, pretty, little wife, busy airing the
bed-clothes and flitting about seeking opportunities to show her
sympathy.

"Ma pauvre enfant!" she exclaimed, running to Marion as she entered and
putting her arms about her.

"Josie," warned Perault gruffly, "sh