everything, in everybody to whom I turn. I see it in
Wishkobun's avoidance of me, in my father's silence, in Mr. Crane's
confusion, in your reluctance--yes, in the very reckless insolence of
Mr. Trent himself!"--her voice broke slightly. "If you will not tell
me, I shall go direct to my father," she ended, with more firmness.

Mrs. Cockburn examined the girl's flushed face through kindly but
shrewd and experienced eyes. Then, with a caressing little murmur of
pity, she arose and seated herself on the arm of the red chair, taking
the girl's hand in hers.

"I believe you mean it," she said, "and I am going to tell you myself.
There is much sorrow in it for you; but if you go to your father it
will only make it worse. I am doing what I should not. It is shameful
that such things happen in this nineteenth century, but happen they
do. The long and short of it is that the Factors of this Post tolerate
no competition in the country, and when a man enters it for the
purpose of trading with the Indians, he is stopped and sent out."

"There is nothing very bad about that," said Virginia, relieved.

"No, my dear, not in that. But they say his arms and supplies are taken
from him, and he is given a bare handful of provisions. He has to make a
quick journey, and to starve at that. Once when I was visiting out at
the front, not many years ago, I saw one of those men--they called him
Jo Bagneau--and his condition was pitiable--pitiable!"

"But hardships can be endured. A man can escape."

"Yes," almost whispered Mrs. Cockburn, looking about her
apprehensively, "but the story goes that there are some cases--when
the man is an old offender, or especially determined, or so prominent
as to be able to interest the law--no one breathes of these cases
here--but--_he never gets out_!"

"What do you mean?" cried Virginia, harshly.

"One dares not mean such things; but they are so. The hardships of the
wilderness are many, the dangers terrible--what more natural than
that a man should die of them in the forest? It is no one's fault."

"What do you mean?" repeated Virginia; "for God's sake speak plainly!"

"I dare not speak plainer than I know; and no one ever really _knows_
anything about it--excepting the Indian who fires the shot, or who
watches the man until he dies of starvation," whispered Mrs. Cockburn.

"But--but!" cried the girl, grasping her companion's arm. "My father!
Does _he_ give such orders? _He?_"

"No orders are g