ken by the girl's mother.

"Murder? Hervey?"

And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be
groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck
her most forcibly.

"Yes, 'murder' and 'Hervey,'" Prudence retorted. "Hervey has accused
George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my
explanation?"

Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was
returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the
basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its
contents.

"Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil's work my Hervey's
been up to. La sakes! an' George Iredale a murderer!"

And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother's, told
the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her
to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the
story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim,
he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him
to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how
she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go
and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her
his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how
impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing
himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these
two, who were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she
understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George's danger, she
had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother's assistance,
pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest
fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time
to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means
of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk's
wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her
journey to the farm.

It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the
girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience,
born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point
that puzzled her audience.

When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest.
The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother's intensest
feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown
stern, and h