s editor was quite right. Not a word
of the disgraceful attempt to pervert justice appeared in either the
local or any other paper. MacDonald's death was briefly recorded as
accidental and the coroner's verdict given in a four line paragraph.
Do not ask me the _why_ of this, dear reader; or I shall ask you the
why of a hundred other equally mysterious silences. Don't forget, as
Wayland has already informed you, there are other countries besides
Russia where everything is not given out to the press. And do not
curse the press! It is not the fault of the press in Russia. Is it
here?

[1] I can find no authority for the old frontiersman's use of the word
but in a certain Elizabethan dramatist; and as he uses the word "scut"
for the bobtail of a fleeing rabbit or sheep, perhaps the meanings of
the word as used are identical.--_Author_.

[2] It need scarcely be explained these are the old frontiersman's
sentiments, not the writer's; but on investigation I found his
statement of facts as to what transformed little Wandering Spirit into
a blood-thirsty monster was absolutely true. This, of course, did not
justify the Rebellion, but helps to explain it, to explain why a
worthless scamp like Riel could rouse the peaceful natives to blood
thirst and rapine.--_Author_.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE AWAKENING CONTINUED

It was all over, the inquest, the coroner's finding, the reading of the
will, the revelation of the real errand on which the old frontiersman
had come from Saskatchewan. The parting of the ways had come to her,
as it comes to us all. The death of her father had shut the door on
opportunity in the Valley; and the little old lady, waiting for
Matthews up in Prince Albert, Canada, to take her back to the
inheritance of her father's family in Scotland, opened elsewhere
another door of opportunity. As one door had swung shut, another had
swung open. Were we creatures of circumstances, as the fatalists
declared; or could we master and bend circumstances to human will? Was
her feeling of rebellion but the kicking of ructious heels against the
closed door of fate? Would time teach the futility of barking one's
shins in such fashion? Eleanor sat in the parlor of the suite of rooms
reserved by the Williams and herself. The Williams and Matthews had
gone out for the evening to some women's club meeting on missions.
Eleanor's nerves were too tension-strung for people to-night. They had
read her father's wil