se to a woman who had done
her best to wreck his existence.

A mile farther, and the railroad telegraph poles appeared. Houston saw
them with grateful eyes, though with concern. He knew to a certainty
that there was no priest in Tabernacle, and what his story would be
when he got there was a little more than he could hazard. To Ba'tiste,
he would tell the truth; to others, there must simply be some
fabrication that would hold for the moment and that would allow him to
go on--while Ba'tiste--

But suddenly he ceased his plans. Black splotches against the snow,
two figures suddenly had come out of the sweeping veil,--a girl and a
man. Something akin to panic seized Houston. The man was Lost Wing,
faithfully in the background as usual. The girl was Medaine Robinette.

For once Houston hoped that she would pass him as usual,--with averted
eyes. He did not care to make explanations, to be forced to lie to
her. But Fate was against him. A moment more and the storm closed in
again, with one of its fitful gusts, only to clear at last and to leave
them face to face. Medaine's eyes went with womanly instinct to the
bundle in his arms. And even though she could see nothing but the
roundness of the blankets, the tender manner in which Barry Houston
held the poor, inanimate little parcel was enough.

"A baby!" There was surprise in her tone. Forgetting for the moment
her aversion to the man himself, she came forward, touching the
blankets, then lifting one edge ever so slightly that she might peer
beneath. "Where did you find it? Whose is it?"

Houston sought vainly for words. He stammered,--a promise made to an
enemy struggling for supremacy. And the words seem to come unbidden:

"Does it matter?"

"Of course not." She looked at him queerly. "I merely thought I could
be of assistance."

"You can. Tell me where I can find a priest."

"A priest?"

"Yes, I need him--the baby is dead."

"Oh." She touched the bundle ever so softly. "I didn't know." Then
with a sudden thought; "But her mother. She must need--"

"Only a doctor. I will try to get Ba'tiste to come out."

"But couldn't I--"

"I'm sorry." Barry tried in vain for the words that would tell her the
truth, yet tell her nothing. He felt that he was miring himself
hopelessly, that his denials and his efforts at secrecy could cause
only one idea to form in her brain. He wanted to tell her the truth,
to ask her aid, to send her back into