ilings and walls were beautifully covered with
stamped metal plates guaranteed to last for ever and sell for old iron
afterwards. Its corrugated iron roof, to most of Carcajou's
population, represented the very last word in architectural glory.

Within the store Miss Sophy was biting her nails, excitedly, and felt
all the fury of the woman scorned.

CHAPTER II

What Happened to a Telegram

Customers were rare on such terribly cold nights. For a long time
Sophy McGurn held her chin in the palm of her hand, staring about her
from time to time, without seeing anything but the visions her anger
evolved. Presently, however, she took up the small bag of mail and
sorted out a few letters and papers, placing them in the individual
boxes. But while she worked the heightened color of her face remained
and her teeth often closed upon her lower lip. There was a postal card
addressed to Hugo Ennis. She turned it over, curiously, but it proved
to be an advertisement of some sort of machinery and she threw it from
her, impatiently.

"Supper's ready, Sophy," cried a shrill voice. "Train's in and
father'll be here in a minute. Get the table fixed."

"I'm coming," she answered.

For a minute she busied herself putting down plates and knives and
forks. She heard her father coming in. He had been away on some
business at the next station. She heard him kicking off his heavy felt
shoes and he came into the room in his stocking-feet.

"Hello, Ma! Hello, Sophy! Guess ye've been settin' too close to the
hot stove, ain't ye? Yer face is red as a beet."

"My face is all right!" she exclaimed, angrily. "Them as don't like it
can look the other way!"

Her mother, a quiet old soul, looked at her in silence and dished out
the broiled ham and potatoes. The old gentleman snickered but forebore
to add more fuel to the fire. He was a prudent man with a keen
appreciation of peace. They sat down. Under a chair the old cat was
playing with her lone kitten, sole remnant of a large litter. An
aggressive clock with a boldly painted frame was beating loudly.
Beneath the floor the oft-repeated gnawing of a mouse or rat went on,
distractingly. From the other side of the road, in spite of
double-windows and closed doors, came the wail of an ill-treated
violin.

"One of these days I'm goin' over to Carreau's an' smash that fiddle,"
suddenly asserted Sophy, truculently. "It's gettin' on my nerves. Talk
o' cats screechin'!"

"I wouldn't do t