had from his roof-ridge, for when he entered the narrow hall-way
his pilot jacket was unmarked, except where a narrow line of powdered
flakes outlined the seams as if worn. To the right was an apartment,
half office, half sitting-room, furnished with a dark and chilly iron
safe, a sofa and chairs covered with black and coldly shining horsehair.
Here Hays not only removed his upper coat but his under one also, and
drawing a chair before the fire sat down in his shirt-sleeves. It was
his usual rustic pioneer habit, and might have been some lingering
reminiscence of certain remote ancestors to whom clothes were an
impediment. He was warming his hands and placidly ignoring his gaunt
arms in their thinly-clad "hickory" sleeves, when a young girl of
eighteen sauntered, half perfunctorily, half inquisitively into
the room. It was his only remaining daughter. Already elected by
circumstances to a dry household virginity, her somewhat large features,
sallow complexion, and tasteless, unattractive dress, did not obviously
suggest a sacrifice. Since her sister's departure she had taken sole
charge of her father's domestic affairs and the few rude servants
he employed, with a certain inherited following of his own moods and
methods. To the neighbors she was known as "Miss Hays,"--a dubious
respect that, in a community of familiar "Sallies," "Mamies," "Pussies,"
was grimly prophetic. Yet she rejoiced in the Oriental appellation
of "Zuleika." To this it is needless to add that it was impossible to
conceive any one who looked more decidedly Western.

"Ye kin put some things in my carpet bag agin the time the sled comes
round," said her father meditatively, without looking up.

"Then you're not coming back tonight?" asked the girl curiously. "What's
goin' on at the summit, father?"

"I am," he said grimly. "You don't reckon I kalkilate to stop thar!
I'm going on as far as Horseley's to close up that contract afore the
weather changes."

"I kinder allowed it was funny you'd go to the hotel to-night. There's
a dance there; those two Wetherbee girls and Mamie Harris passed up the
road an hour ago on a wood-sled, nigh blown to pieces and sittin' up in
the snow like skeert white rabbits."

Hays' brow darkened heavily.

"Let 'em go," he said, in a hard voice that the fire did not seem to
have softened. "Let 'em go for all the good their fool-parents will ever
get outer them, or the herd of wayside cattle they've let them loose
among.