ducks quacking, the
lowing of the cow, the swelling melody of wild birds--these were the
sounds that filled her waking ears.

Motionless there on the bed in the dim room, delicate bare arms
outstretched, hair tumbled over brow and shoulder, she lay, lost in
fearless retrospection--absolutely fearless, for courage was hers
without effort; peril exhilarated like wine, without reaction; every
nerve and contour of her body was instinct with daring, and only the
languor of her dark eyes misled the judgment of those she had to deal
with.

Presently she sat up in bed, yawned lightly, tapping her red lips with
the tips of her fingers; then, drawing her revolver from beneath the
pillow, she examined the cylinder, replaced the weapon, and sprang out
of bed, stretching her arms, a faint smile hovering on her face.

The water in the stream was cold, but not too cold for her, nor were the
coarse towels too rough, sending the blood racing through her from head
to foot.

Her toilet made, she lighted the fire in the cracked stove, set a pot of
water boiling, and went out to the doorstep, calling the feathered flock
around her, stirring their meal in a great pan the while her eyes roamed
about the open spaces of meadow and pasture for a sign of those who
surely must trace her here.

Her breakfast was soon over--an ash cake, a new egg from the barn, a
bowl of last night's creamy milk. She ate slowly, seated by the window,
raising her head at intervals to watch the forest's edge.

Nobody came; the first pink sunbeams fell level over the pasture; dew
sparkled on grass and foliage; birds flitted across her line of vision;
the stream sang steadily, flashing in the morning radiance.

One by one the ducks stretched, flapped their snowy wings, wiggled their
fat tails, and waddled solemnly down to the water; hens wandered
pensively here and there, pecking at morsels that attracted them; the
tinkle of the cow bell sounded pleasantly from a near willow thicket.

She washed her dishes, set the scant furniture in place, made up the bed
with the clean sheet spread the night before, and swept the floor.

On the table she had discovered, carefully folded up, the greater
portion of a stocking, knitting needles still sticking in it, the ball
of gray yarn attached. But she could not endure to sit there; she must
have more space to watch for what she knew was coming. Her hair she
twisted up as best she might, set the pink sunbonnet on her head,