had compelled her to keep the tragedy in the cabin quiet. The
minister helped her to her chamber, and, after she had retired, went in
and prayed with and for her. His voice, low and tender, with the
exquisite tones of an orator, was strangely moved.

"Child," he groaned, "I would give much to see you in good health
again."

"I shall never be better, dearest; never. I know now that I cannot--that
I sha'n't--"

His hand covered her lips.

"If you want to break my heart, Teola," he cried, unnerved, "then say
what you were going to. I can't, and won't, bear it! You are not yet
eighteen. You've always been well until these past few weeks.... Oh, I
wish your mother and I had never gone abroad--or that you had gone with
us.... But you begged so hard to stay at home!"

Teola had coveted the chance to tell him of the little human link
between Dan Jordan's life and hers. She raised herself on her pillow,
the long hair mantling her shoulders and aureoling the death-like face.

"Father," she gasped. "Father! Let me tell you something about Tessibel
Skinner. No! Don't put your fingers over my lips! Don't! Don't! Listen."

"Teola," interjected Graves gravely, "if you want to displease me--"

"She's so lonely," broke in the girl, her courage ebbing away under the
bent brows of her father. "I thought--you--might help her."

"Go to sleep," replied the minister, "there's a good girl!...
Good-night."

For a moment, Teola lay panting nervously. She had been so near the
confession, so near telling her father about the little babe in the
shanty. She slipped out of bed to the window. The wind still flung the
dead leaves, whirling them to and fro in the orchard like willful
spirits. The night had darkened until, to Teola, shivering and ill, it
seemed alive with shadowy goblins which mocked at her.

She could just make out the dark line of the hut under the willow
branches. A candlelight flickered a moment in the window, and was gone.
Teola moaned long, muttering loving messages to the child cuddled in
Tessibel's arms. She loved it, but could not bring it home--yet! At last
sleep, a deep, fatigued sleep, enveloped her. She was too tired to
dream.

After Tess was alone, she made ready for bed. The child whimpered
drowsily. The squatter lifted it up with infinite tenderness, binding
the rags more closely about the scrawny body.

"Ye don't amount to as much as the tuft on Kennedy's mare's tail," she
said aloud. "Eat now, I says, or