en to his amazement he heard her open his gate again and re-enter, he
swung around with eyes contracting wickedly.

She met his evil glance quite bravely, wincing when he invited her to
leave the yard. But she came nearer, crossing the rank, soaking grass,
and stood beside him where he was sitting.

"May I tell you something?" she asked, timidly.

"Will you be good enough to pass your way?" he answered, rising.

"Not yet," she replied, and seated herself on the steps. The next moment
she was crying, silently, but that only lasted until she could touch her
eyes with her handkerchief.

He stood above her on the steps. Perhaps it was astonishment that sealed
his lips, perhaps decency. He had noticed that she was slightly lame,
although her slender figure appeared almost faultless. He waited for a
moment.

Far on the clearing's dusky edge a white-throated sparrow called
persistently to a mate that did not answer.

If Helm felt alarm or feared treachery his voice did not betray it.
"What is the trouble?" he demanded, less roughly.

She said, without looking at him: "I have deceived you. There was a
letter for you to-day. It came apart and--I found--this--"

She held out a bit of paper. He took it mechanically. His face had
suddenly turned gray.

The paper was fibre paper. He stood there breathless, his face a
ghastly, bloodless mask; and when he found his voice it was only the
ghost of a voice.

"What is all this about?" he asked.

"About fibre paper," she answered, looking up at him.

"Fibre paper!" he repeated, confounded by her candor.

"Yes--government fibre. Do you think I don't know what it is?"

For the first time there was bitterness in her voice. She turned partly
around, supporting her body on one arm. "Fibre paper? Ah, yes--I know
what it is," she said again.

He looked her squarely in the eyes and he saw in her face that she knew
what he was and what he had been doing in Nauvoo. The blood slowly
stained his pallid cheeks.

"Well," he said, coolly, "what are you going to do about it?"

His eyes began to grow narrow and the lines about his mouth deepened.
The criminal in him, brought to bay, watched every movement of the young
girl before him. Tranquil and optimistic, he quietly seated himself on
the wooden steps beside her. Little he cared for her and her discovery.
It would take more than a pretty, lame girl to turn him from his
destiny; and his destiny was what he chose to make it. He almos