voice, her touch, had worked the last marvel in man--forgetfulness of
self. And so Neale loved him.

It made Neale quake inwardly to think of the change being wrought in
himself. It made him thoughtful of many things. There was much in life
utterly new to him. He had listened to a moan in his keen ear; he had
felt a call of something helpless; he had found a gleam of chestnut
hair; he had stirred two other men to help him befriend a poor,
broken-hearted, half-crazed orphan girl. And, lo! the world had changed,
his friends had grown happier in their unloved lives, a strange strength
had come to him, and, sweetest, most wonderful of all, in the place of
the helpless and miserable waif appeared a woman, lovely of face and
form, with only a ghost of sadness haunting her eyes, a woman adorable
and bright, with the magic of love on her lips.

October came. In the early morning and late afternoon a keen cold breath
hung in the air. Slingerland talked of a good prospect for fur. He
chopped great stores of wood. Larry climbed the hills with his rifle.
Neale walked the trails hand in hand with Allie.

He had never sought to induce her to speak of her past, though at times
the evidence of refinement and education and mystery around her made
strong appeal to him. She could, tell her story whenever she liked or
never--it did not greatly matter.

Then,--one day, quite naturally, but with a shame she did not try to
conceal, she confided to him part of the story her mother had told her
that dark night when the Sioux were creeping upon the caravan.

Neale was astounded, agitated, intensely concerned.

"Allie!... Your father lives!" he exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Then I must find him--take you to him."

"Do what you think best," she replied, sadly. "But I never saw him. I've
no love for him. And he never knew I was born."

"Is it possible? How strange!... If any man could see you now! Allie, do
you resemble your mother?"

"Yes, we were alike."

"Where is your father?" Neale went on, curiously.

"How should I know? It was in New Orleans that mother ran off from him.
I--I never blamed her--since she said what she said.... Do you? Will
this--make any difference to you?"

"My God, no! But I'm so--so thunderstruck.... This man--this
Durade--tell me more of him."

"He was a Spaniard of high degree, an adventurer, a gambler. He was
mad to gamble. He forced my mother to use her beauty to lure men to his
gambling-hell.... Oh, it's ter