or. In his fall he had unconsciously clutched and torn down the
curtain, and like a shroud it lay over him. She was trying to raise
him, when the door opened and her mother appeared.

"What's the matter, Harriet?"

"He has fainted--I don't know, he may be dead. Look, mother!"

Mrs. Floyd raised Westerfelt's head and turned his face upward.

"No, he's still breathing." She opened his shirt hastily. "His wound
has not broken; we must get him to bed again. How did he happen to be
here?"

"He got up as soon as the Whitecaps came; I couldn't persuade him to go
back."

"We must carry him to the bed," said Mrs. Floyd. As they started to
raise him, Westerfelt opened his eyes, took a long breath, and sat up.
Without a word he rose to his feet, and between them was supported back
to his bed.

"His feet are like ice," said Mrs. Floyd, as she tucked the blankets
round him. "Why did you let him stand there?"

"It wasn't her fault, Mrs. Floyd," explained Westerfelt, with
chattering teeth. "I knew they meant trouble, and thought I ought to
be ready."

"You ought to have stayed in bed." Her eyes followed Harriet to the
fireplace. "No, daughter," she said, "go lie down; I'll stay here."

"I'd rather neither of you would sit up on my account," protested
Westerfelt; "I'm all right; I'll sleep like a log till breakfast. I
don't want to be such a bother."

"You ain't a bit of trouble," replied Mrs. Floyd, in a tone that was
almost tender. "We are only glad to be able to help. When I saw that
cowardly scamp draw his pistol and knife on you, I could 'a' killed
him. I've often told Harriet--"

"Mother, Mr. Westerfelt doesn't care to hear anything about him."
Harriet turned from the fire and abruptly left the room. Mrs. Floyd
did not finish what she had started to say. Westerfelt looked at her
questioningly and then closed his eyes. She went to the fireplace and
laid a stick of wood across the andirons, and then sat down and hooded
her head with a shawl.

When Westerfelt awoke it was early dawn. The outlines of the room and
the different objects in it were indistinct. At the foot of his bed he
noticed something which resembled a heap of clothing on a chair. He
looked at it steadily, wondering if it could be part of the strange
dreams which had beset him in sleep. As the room gradually became
lighter, he saw that it was a woman. Mrs. Floyd, he thought--but no,
the figure was slighter. It was Harriet. She