the
road. Evidently she had been hidden in the underbrush behind. Miss
Mackall gasped in piteous terror and stood rooted to the spot.

Bela's face was as relentless as a high priestess's. "I listen if you
goin' tell him 'bout me," she said. "If you tell him, I ready to
shoot."

The other woman was speechless.

"You not goin' be here to-morrow night," Bela went on quietly. "Bishop
Lajeunesse leave to-morrow morning."

Miss Mackall turned and flew up the trail.

* * * * *

The trader's house was built bungalow style, all the rooms on a floor.
Miss Mackall's room was at the back of the house, her window facing
the end of the back trail, where it issued from the woods. The nights
were now mild and fragrant, and doors and windows stood wide. Locks
are never used north of the landing. Or if they are, the key hangs
hospitably within reach.

Miss Mackall, however, insisted on locking the doors and securing her
window. There were no blinds, and she hung a petticoat inside the
glass. Laughing at her old-maidish precautions, they let her have her
way. As a further safeguard against nervousness during the night, she
had one of her nieces to bed with her.

There was no sleep for her. In every little stir and breath she heard
the footfall of her enemy. She was tormented by the suspicion that
there was something lurking outside her window. She regretted leaving
the petticoat up, for it prevented her seeing outside. She brooded on
it until she felt as if she would go out of her mind, if she were not
reassured.

Finally she mustered up sufficient courage to get out of bed and creep
to the window. Holding her breath, she gathered the petticoat in her
hand and smartly jerked it down. She found herself looking into the
face of the native girl, who was peering through the glass. There was
a little light in the sky behind her.

Bela sprang back, and Miss Mackall saw the gun-barrel. She uttered a
piercing scream and fell fainting to the floor. The whole family
rushed to her door. Hysterics succeeded. They could make nothing of
her wild cries. When she recovered she was mum.

* * * * *

In the morning Gilbert Beattie and his wife discussed it soberly.
"Nerves," said the man. "We'd best let her go out with the bishop, as
she wants. This is no country for her. We might not get another chance
this year to send her out with a proper escort."

"It's too bad!" sighed hi