m. Was there not
some means by which she could join in the work of rescue? She would talk
to Father Adam. She felt he would help her. She wanted nothing for
herself. If only the rest of her life could be translated into some
small imitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, she felt her
atonement might be counted as something commensurate.

It was not until her decision had been taken that she permitted herself
to seek beyond it. But once it was taken the crushing sense of added
desolation well-nigh paralysed her. Somehow, never before had she
understood. But now--now the sacrifice of it all swept upon her with an
overwhelming rush. Bull Sternford. Bull Sternford, the man whom with all
her power she had striven to defeat, the man whose strength and force of
character had so appealed to her, the man who must hate her as any
clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile, she would never see him
again.

Oh, she knew now. She made no attempt at denial. It would have been
quite useless. She loved him. From the moment she had looked into his
honest eyes, and realised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their
first meeting, she had loved him. She must cut him out of her life. It
was the penalty she must pay for her crimes.

And now the moment had arrived when she must put her plans into
operation. Time was pressing. The season was advancing. So she had
chosen the hour at which she served tea to Father Adam as the best in
which to seek his advice and support.

* * * * *

The light tap on Father Adam's door was answered instantly. Nancy passed
into the room with trepidation in her heart, but the hand bearing the
tea tray was without a tremor.

The man whose life belonged to the twilight of the northern forests was
seated in a deep rocker-chair under the window through which the setting
sun was pouring its pleasant spring light. He had been reading. But his
book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up and smiled the thanks
which his words hastily poured forth.

"You know, Nancy, you're completely spoiling me," he said. "I'm going to
hate my forest coffee out of a rusty pannikin. I don't know how I'm
going on when I pull my freight out of here."

The girl's responsive smile faded abruptly as she set the tray on the
table beside the chair.

"When are you going to--pull your freight?" she asked, with a curious,
nervous abruptness.

For a moment the man's eyes were averted. The