n she
held out her hand to the fire, but suddenly she gave a little cry and put
her hand to her head. There was Ba'tiste!

What was Ba'tiste to her? Nothing--nothing at all. She had saved his
life--even if she wronged Ba'tiste, her debt would be paid. No, she would
not think of Ba'tiste. Yet she did not put the paper in the fire, but in
the pocket of her dress. Then she went to her room, leaving the door open.
The bed was opposite the fire, and, as she lay there--she did not take off
her clothes, she knew not why--she could see the flames. She closed her
eyes but could not sleep, and more than once when she opened them she
thought she saw Ba'tiste sitting there as he had sat hours before. Why did
Ba'tiste haunt her so? What was it he had said in his broken English as he
went away?--that he would come back; that she was "beautibul."

All at once as she lay still, her head throbbing, her feet and hands icy
cold, she sat up listening.

"Ah--again!" she cried. She sprang from her bed, rushed to the door, and
strained her eyes into the silver night. She called into the icy void,
"_Qui va la?_ Who goes?"

She leaned forward, her hand at her ear, but no sound came in reply. Once
more she called, but nothing answered. The night was all light and frost
and silence.

She had only heard, in her own brain, the iteration of Ba'tiste's calling.
Would he reach Askatoon in time? she wondered, as she shut the door. Why
had she not gone with him and attempted the shorter way--the quick way, he
had called it? All at once the truth came back upon her, stirring her now.
It would do no good for Ba'tiste to arrive in time. He might plead to them
all and tell the truth about the reprieve, but it would not avail--Rube
Haman would hang. That did not matter--even though he was innocent; but
Ba'tiste's brother would be so long in purgatory. And even that would not
matter; but she would hurt Ba'tiste--Ba'tiste--Ba'tiste! And Ba'tiste he
would know that she--and he had called her "beautibul"--that she had--

With a cry she suddenly clothed herself for travel. She put some food and
drink in a leather bag and slung them over her shoulder. Then she dropped
on a knee and wrote a note to her father, tears falling from her eyes. She
heaped wood on the fire and moved toward the door. All at once she turned
to the crucifix on the wall which had belonged to her mother, and, though
she had followed her father's Protestant religion, she kissed the feet of