"Forgive me? Becky forgive me? She wouldn't--an' I don't want her--" She could not look up into the girl's eyes; but she pulled a pipe from under the apron, laid it down with a trembling hand and began to rock slightly. The girl leaned across the gate. "Look at me!" she said, sharply. The woman raised her eyes, swerved them once, and then in spite of herself, held them steady. "Listen! Do you want a dying woman's curse?" It was a straight thrust to the core of a superstitious heart and a spasm of terror crossed the woman's face. She began to wring her hands. "Come on!" said the girl, sternly, and turned, without looking back, until she reached the door of the hut, where she beckoned and stood waiting, while the woman started slowly and helplessly from the steps, still wringing her hands. Inside, behind her, the wounded Marcum, who had been listening, raised himself on one elbow and looked after her through the window. "She can't come in--not while I'm in here." The girl turned quickly. It was Dave Day, the teamster, in the kitchen door, and his face looked blacker than his beard. "Oh!" she said, simply, as though hurt, and then with a dignity that surprised her, the teamster turned and strode towards the back door. "But I can git out, I reckon," he said, and he never looked at the widow who had stopped, frightened, at the gate. "Oh, I can't--I _can't!_" she said, and her voice broke; but the girl gently pushed her to the door, where she stopped again, leaning against the lintel. Across the way, the wounded Marcum, with a scowl of wonder, crawled out of his bed and started painfully to the door. The girl saw him and her heart beat fast. Inside, Becky lay with closed eyes. She stirred uneasily, as though she felt some hated presence, but her eyes stayed fast, for the presence of Death in the room was stronger still. "Becky!" At the broken cry, Becky's eyes flashed wide and fire broke through the haze that had gathered in them. "I want ye ter fergive me, Becky." The eyes burned steadily for a long time. For two days she had not spoken, but her voice came now, as though from the grave. "You!" she said, and, again, with torturing scorn, "You!" And then she smiled, for she knew why her enemy was there, and her hour of triumph was come. The girl moved swiftly to the window--she could see the wounded Marcum slowly crossing the street, pistol in hand. "What'd I ever do to you?" "Nothin', Becky, nothin'." Becky laughed harshly. "You can tell the truth--can't ye--to a dyin' woman?" "Fergive me, Becky!" A scowling face, tortured with pain, was thrust into the window. "Sh-h!" whispered the girl, imperiously, and the man lifted his heavy eyes, dropped one elbow on the window-sill and waited. "You tuk Jim from me!" The widow covered her face with her hands, and the Marcum at the window--brother to Jim, who was dead--lowered at her, listening keenly.