he said to Nepeese:

"And you shall remain here, ma cherie. I will not take you to Lac Bain.
I have had a dream that m'sieu will not go on a journey, but that he
has lied, and that he will be SICK when I arrive at the Post. And yet,
if it should happen that you care to go--"

Nepeese straightened suddenly, like a reed that has been caught by the
wind.

"Non!" she cried, so fiercely that Pierrot laughed, and rubbed his
hands.

So it happened that on the second day after the fox hunter's visit
Pierrot left for Lac Bain, with Nepeese in the door waving him good-bye
until he was out of sight.

On the morning of this same day Bush McTaggart rose from his bed while
it was still dark. The time had come. He had hesitated at murder--at
the killing of Pierrot; and in his hesitation he had found a better
way. There could be no escape for Nepeese.

It was a wonderful scheme, so easy of accomplishment, so inevitable in
its outcome. And all the time Pierrot would think he was away to the
east on a mission!

He ate his breakfast before dawn, and was on the trail before it was
yet light. Purposely he struck due east, so that in coming up from the
south and west Pierrot would not strike his sledge tracks. For he had
made up his mind now that Pierrot must never know and must never have a
suspicion, even though it cost him so many more miles to travel that he
would not reach the Gray Loon until the second day. It was better to be
a day late, after all, as it was possible that something might have
delayed Pierrot. So he made no effort to travel fast.

McTaggart took a vast amount of brutal satisfaction in anticipating
what was about to happen, and he reveled in it to the full. There was
no chance for disappointment. He was positive that Nepeese would not
accompany her father to Lac Bain. She would be at the cabin on the Gray
Loon--alone.

This aloneness to Nepeese was burdened with no thought of danger. There
were times, now, when the thought of being alone was pleasant to her,
when she wanted to dream by herself, when she visioned things into the
mysteries of which she would not admit even Pierrot. She was growing
into womanhood--just the sweet, closed bud of womanhood as yet--still a
girl with the soft velvet of girlhood in her eyes, yet with the mystery
of woman stirring gently in her soul, as if the Great Hand were
hesitating between awakening her and letting her sleep a little longer.
At these times, when the opportunit