oing the chores.
To him she observed that Frank was an hour late, and Swan, whistling
softly to Jack--Lorraine was surprised to hear how closely the call
resembled the chirp of a bird--strode away without so much as a pretense
at excuse. Lorraine stared after him wide-eyed, wondering and yet not
daring to wonder.

Her father called to her fretfully, and she went in to him again and
told him what Sorry had said about the cracked doubletree, and persuaded
him to let her bring his supper at once, and to have the fruit later
when Frank arrived. Brit did not say much, but she sensed his
uneasiness, and her own increased in proportion. Later she saw two tiny,
glowing points down by the corral and knew that Sorry and Jim were down
there, waiting and listening, ready to do whatever was needed of them;
although what that would be she could not even conjecture.

She made her father comfortable, chattered aimlessly to combat her
understanding of his moody silence, and listened and waited and tried
her pitiful best not to think that anything could be wrong. The subdued
chuckling of the wagon in the sand outside the gate startled her with
its unmistakable reality after so many false impressions that she heard
it.

"Frank's coming, dad," she announced relievedly, "and I'll go and get
the mail and the fruit."

She ran down the path again, almost light-hearted in her relief from
that vague terror which had held her for the past hour. From the corral
Sorry and Jim came walking up the path to meet the wagon which was
making straight for the bunk-house instead of going first to the stable.
One man rode on the seat, driving the team which walked slowly, oddly,
reminding Lorraine of a funeral procession. Beside the wagon rode Lone,
his head drooped a little in the starlight. It was not until the team
stopped before the bunk-house that Lorraine knew what it was that gave
her that strange, creepy feeling of disaster. It was not Frank Johnson,
but Swan Vjolmar who climbed limberly down from the seat without
speaking and turned toward the back of the wagon.

"Why, where's Frank?" she asked, going up to where Lone was dismounting
in silence.

"He's there--in the wagon. We picked him up back here about
three-quarters of a mile or so."

"What's the matter? Is he drunk?" This was Sorry who came up to Swan and
stood ready to lend a hand.

"He's so drunk he falls out of wagon down the road, but he don't have
whisky smell by his face," was