s her.

"Then," she said, "even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game."

She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.

Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge,
and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had
done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is
that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion--and
release.

I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has
taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law,
but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There
was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite
House were treated as lepers until they left the country.

For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the
public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or
discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.

The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These
things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relationship
with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the
conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to
seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The
waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from
his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were
transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly
were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further
mischief.

Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me,
but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal
of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's
vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might
have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy
was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and neither the nurse, the
Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went
to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.

While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be
danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor,
perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life
by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As
a professional gambler,