Another man drew, and another, and a fourth. Hands faltered and shook, and while some watched fascinated, others turned their faces away as they drew, looking at the string only when sounds and indications about them assured them that they had missed. At the tenth draw there was a short checked cry; Dick o’ Dean had drawn a string no longer than the width of the palm in which it lay. Two chances were accounted for; and men now pressed forward and drew more freely, and Mish paused to arrange the disordered ends. Monjoy watched without moving a muscle, and presently the pale youth called Charley backed whimpering away from his turn. There were but half a dozen strings left, and one wolf had not yet met his luck. “Clog him up!” cried Mish, savagely; and the youth was thrust forward. He shook his fingers free of the string he had drawn with a cry of terror, and Mish tossed the remaining strings aside and set the cap on his head. The lot was complete--Charley, Dick o’ Dean, and Murgatroyd himself. “Humph!” said Monjoy; “very prettily done. Now, James, fetch a blanket and we’ll get Ellah away.” Charley, on his knees, was uttering agonized cries; he had drawn wrong--had drawn wrong. Somebody lifted him to his feet and supported him. James Eastwood had unbarred the door and disappeared; he returned with a blanket, in which they wrapped Ellah. Another man had brought a draught of brandy for Charley, and Monjoy took up Ellah in his arms and moved towards the door. “To the ‘Pipes,’ now, James,” he said; “I may take him home with me later. Stand on one side, wolves----” They allowed him to pass, and at the door he turned. “Don’t forget, Mish,” he said. “’Tis ye had best remember,” Mish replied. * * * * * The white cotton blinds of Sally Northrop’s bedroom were drawn against the sun, but the windows were open outside them. From time to time they moved gently in the light breeze, and the shadows of the house-martens flitted across them. The chamber was softly aglow with light, and it smelt of some preparation of lemon that Dooina Benn had supplied Cicely with for the sprinkling of it. Cicely’s face was composed and grave, and the third finger of the hand with which every few minutes she felt Sally’s low pulse was ringless. So slowly did the coverlet rise to Sally’s breathing that its movement was hardly noticeable. At long intervals there came a light purring sound from her lips. The little wicker cradle on the floor was trimmed with gaudy ribbons and muslin, and its patchwork quilt was of Sally’s own making. Round the front of the house there came the sound of steps. They passed up the alley, and there came a knock at the kitchen door. Cicely descended and called softly, “Who’s there?” “Arthur and your father. You must open the door, Cicely.” She drew back the bar. Arthur carried Ellah in his arms in the blanket. “It’s your cousin,” he said; “make a place for him in the niche.”