people, this sort of life you daily surround her with, is a sane
atmosphere in which to bring up our daughter? That's the first thing
I've got to say to you, and I want to tell you right here that it's
got to stop."

She looked up at him in a half frightened way, wondering whether there
was not something back of this sudden tirade, something she could not
fathom--something she feared to fathom.

"The second thing that I have to tell you is this: I am at the end
of my rope, or will be if I keep on. A man can't keep up month in
and month out, living my life, and not break down. I saw Leveridge
yesterday and he wishes me to get some relief at once. Young Holcomb,
who did me a service once at Long Lake, is here, and I am going back
home with him. I intend to take a rest for a fortnight--possibly three
weeks--in camp."

For an instant she could not speak--so quick came the joyful rebound.
Then there rushed over her what his absence might, or might not, mean
to her.

"When do you start?" she asked with assumed condescension--her old way
of concealing her thoughts.

"Saturday night."

"But Saturday night we are giving a dinner," she rejoined in a
positive tone. This was one at which she wanted him present.

"You can give it, but without me," he replied doggedly.

"I tell you you'll do nothing of the sort, Sam. I'm not going to
abide by the advice of that quack, Leveridge, nor shall you!" The old
dominating tone reasserted itself now that she had read his mind to
the bottom.

"Quack or not, you would not be alive to-day but for him, and it is
disgraceful for you to talk this way behind his back. And now I am
going to bed." With this he turned off the remaining light, leaving
only the flicker of the firelight behind, shot back the bolt and
strode from the room.

As he passed Margaret's door there came softly:

"Is that you, daddy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Come in, daddy, dear." Her clear young voice was confident and
tender.

He stopped, pushed back the door and entered her dainty room. She lay
propped up among the snowy whiteness of the pillows, smiling at him.

Like her mother, Margaret in her womanhood--she was eighteen--was well
made; her figure being as firm and well knit as that of a boy. For an
instant his eyes wandered over her simple gown of white mull, tied at
the throat with the daintiest of pink ribbons, her well shaped ears
and the wealth of auburn hair that sprang from the nape of her shapely
neck an