cheerfully she trusted me with her
story.

She told me of a village among vineyards, overlooking Lake Ontario,
just where a creek comes tumbling down from the Niagara heights. Her
father, a retired minister, wasted his narrow means in trying to raise
the proper grapes for sacramental wine. Mother was dead, and nine small
children had to be fed and clothed, to appear with decency at church and
school, so that they would not be ashamed among the neighbors. "You
see," she added primly, "I'm the eldest, the only one grown up, so, of
course, I couldn't be spared to stay at college." And there was little
to earn in the village, much to do taking a mother's place.

Then Uncle John found an advertisement in the paper. A governess was
wanted for four children somewhere in British Columbia. The wages were
so generous that there would be enough to spare for helping father. It
meant so much of proper food, and good warm clothing for the younger
children. So references were exchanged with Mr. Brooke, who wrote most
charming letters, and Uncle John lent money for the journey. My little
schoolma'am pursed her lips severely over that loan, which must be
repaid by instalments. Then her eyes shone with tears, and her face
quivered, all the scholastic manner quite gone, for she spoke of the sad
parting with everybody she loved, then of the long nights, the lonely
days of that endless journey across the continent.

Mr. Brooke met Jenny at Ashcroft, and took her by sleigh nearly a
hundred miles, getting more and more familiar and horrid until, in a
state of wild fear of him, she ran for safety into a drunken riot at
Spite House. The waitresses were rude and cruel, Polly lay drunk on the
floor. There were no children.

Afterward I learned from Mr. Eure that I was a prejudiced witness,
without a shred of evidence, that no court would listen to hearsay, and
that the dying girl's confession would not be allowed in court except it
were made under oath before a magistrate. Poor Jenny would never have
told any man what happened at Spite House; she would not have given the
last sane moments of her life to vengeance; and so there was no case
against either Brooke or Polly in a crime which had earned them penal
servitude.

Vengeance? I think our prayers together did more good, and when the time
came for Jenny's removal to a bed of lint soaked in carbolic oil, she
was prepared to face the coming pain.

"Shall I die?" she asked. I could only kis