to it. There he laid
the girl upon an old chintz-covered settee, so that her wet clothes
might be removed before she was placed into the neat white bed waiting
for her. And the clacking tongue of Ma Ransford pursued his every
movement.

"It's an insult," she cried angrily. "An insult to me an' mine, as you
might say. Me, who's raised two daughters an' one son, all of 'em
dead, more's the pity. First you drown the gal an' her baggage, an'
then you git carryin' her around, an' walkin' into her virgin bedroom
without no by your leave, nor nuthin'."

But Buck quite ignored her protests. He felt it was useless to
explain. So he turned back and gave his final instructions from the
doorway.

"You jest get her right to bed, ma'm, an' dose her," he said amiably.
"I'd guess you best give her hot flannels an' poultices an' things
while I go fetch her trunks. After that I'll send off to Bay Creek fer
the doctor. He ain't much, but he's better than the hoss doctor fer
womenfolk. Guess I'll git back right away."

But the irate farm-wife, her round eyes blazing, slammed the door in
his face as she flung her final word after him.

"You'll git back nuthin'," she cried furiously. "You let me git you
back here agin an' you'll sure find a sort o' first-class hell runnin'
around, an' you won't need no hot flannels nor poultices to ke'p you
from freezin' stone cold."

Then, with perfect calmness and astonishing skill, she flung herself
to the task of caring for her mistress in that practical, feminine
fashion which, though he may appreciate, no man has ever yet quite
understood.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SECRET OF THE HILL

It was the morning following the great storm, a perfect day of
cloudless sunshine, and the Padre and Buck were on their way from the
fur fort to the camp. Their mission was to learn the decision of its
inhabitants as to their abandonment of the valley; and in the Padre's
pocket was a large amount of money for distribution.

The elder man's spirits were quietly buoyant. Nor did there seem to be
much reason why they should be. But the Padre's moods, even to his
friends, were difficult to account for. Buck, on the contrary, seemed
lost in a reverie which held him closely, and even tended to make his
manner brusque.

But his friend, in the midst of his own cheerful feelings, would not
allow this to disturb him. Besides, he was a far shrewder man than his
simple manner suggested.

"It's well to be doing, lad