hat he was master of Heyington
and had married Gladys Rowan, who was no other than Dick Stanesby's
hutkeeper, and crouched in the corner with a long, shining knife in her
hand. Then he awakened suddenly and heard the sound of voices, a woman's
voice and Dick's, Dick's soft and tender. He could not hear the words,
but the tones were enough. It was the same old Dick. He did not want
her, he would rather be without her: but since she was there, he must
needs be good to her. So she had come back after all! He might have
known she was sure to come back. Why couldn't she stop away? Why
couldn't she join her relatives down by the creek? Alas! and alas! The
barrier between her and them was as great as it was between her and the
white man. Greater, if possible. Poor child! poor child! How was it to
end?

He tossed and turned and the voices went on softly murmuring. He thought
of Gladys and grew angry, and finally, when he had given up all hope, he
fell fast asleep.

Next morning he found that peace reigned. The girl came in and quietly
cleared away the remnants of last night's meal and began making
preparations for breakfast. Her mind was at ease evidently. She had
no doubts about the permanency of her heaven; and when she saw him she
smiled upon him the same slow, lazy, contented smile with which she had
first greeted him, apparently forgetting and expecting him to forget all
disagreeable episodes of the day before. How long would this peace last?
asked Guy Turner of himself.

The meal done, Stanesby called to his black boy to bring up the horses,
and touching the girl on the shoulder drew her aside, evidently to
explain that he was going into the head-station and wanted provisions
for the journey.

"We'll take a packhorse between us," said he to Turner, "it'll save
trouble; and I 'll show you a decent camping-place for to-night." Then
he followed the girl outside, and his companion began rolling up his
swag.

He came back a few moments later, the girl following, and Turner could
not but note the change in her face. It was not angry now, there
was hardly even a trace of sullenness on it. Fear and sorrow seemed
struggling with one another for the upper hand, and she was sobbing
every now and then heavily, as if she could not help herself.

"Good Lord! Stanesby, what the dickens have you been doing to the girl?"
he said.

Stanesby looked at him angrily.

"You seem to take a confoundedly big interest in the girl," he sa