he did not turn up in the forenoon. He might be
in want of care, in spite of what the small boy had said. If he was
all right she would sit down and question him. The letters she had
received were in her bag; she would show them to him. Now that she
thought of it, the curious, ill-formed, hesitating character of the
writing seemed utterly out of keeping with the man's apparent nature.
He ought to have written strongly and boldly, it seemed to her.
Gradually she was becoming certain that his word of honor that he had
never penned them, or caused some one else to do it for him, would
suffice to change the belief she had held. Yes--she would go there,
even before noon. If she met him on the road they could as well speak
out in the open air. And if she could be sure that she had been
mistaken in regard to him, she would beg his pardon, because he had
tried to be good to her, with little encouragement on her part.
She--she didn't want him to think afterwards--when everything would be
ended, that she had been ungrateful and unjust. Of course, the great
effort had failed; nearly everything was ended now and there were no
steps that could be retraced. Someone had been very wicked and cruel,
that was certain. But she didn't care who it was; it could make no
difference. She really hoped it was not Hugo Ennis.

In the darkness her tense features relaxed and her body felt greater
ease. Finally her eyes closed and she slept.

CHAPTER IX

For the Good Name of Carcajou

The morning came clear and somewhat warmer. Beyond the serrated edges
of the woodlands covering far-away hills were masses of sunlit rolling
clouds that seemed as if they were utterly immovable and piled up as a
background to the purpling beauty of the mountains.

Madge awoke early. Outside the house the dogs were stirring, the two
young ones chasing one another over the snow and rolling over it while
the others nosed about more sedately. She heard a ponderous yawn from
Papineau, on the other side of the slender partition, and a general
scurrying of small feet and the moving of washbasins. When she came
out Mrs. Papineau had already kindled the wood in the fireplace and
was stirring the hot embers in the stove. From without she heard
sounds of lusty chopping.

She wrapped a borrowed knitted scarf about her neck and put on Hugo's
woolen _tuque_, after which she stepped out. There was a wondrous
brilliancy over the world. On trees hung icicles that took o