Later that night when Rand started home, strange incantations were going on in Sing's lean-to. In four china bowls punk was burning, and an old Chinaman was muttering weird invocations over the clothes of Digger Dan slowly smouldering in a coal-oil can in the middle of the floor. Hop Sing held one hand in the smoke, raised the other aloft and made a blood-curdling oath of some sort which, by the expression of his face, probably consigned the owner forever more to the nethermost depths 'of Tophet. “Why, where is Ali Sing?” asked Jo the next morning, when she found the tall slave still in the kitchen. “He got heap sick cousin. He go way. I stay. He come back bime-by.” Jo knew that it was useless to question further. The summer drifted by and still Sing did not return. Rand walked in one day with the first flurry of snow, from his claim in the south. He caught both of Jo's hands in his without a word, kissed them tenderly and let them go. “Rand,” she faltered, “it is so long since I've heard from you. You have been acting so strangely-for months!” “Jo, have you not heard the talk that has been whispered with my name ever since Sing disappeared? They say that I know too much about the holdups; that I helped the Chinaman to escape; that Digger Dan and Hop Sing are one; that--” “I would not listen to such falsehoods,” cried the girl, her grey eyes flashing. “You blessed little woman! But considering this, how can I say to you what--tell you that which glorifies the very life in my frame. How can I offer you a name tarnished by the suspicions of my fellow men?” “Rand, I acknowledge no such allegations. Oh, I may be lost to all sense of womanly reserve, but--” “When my name is cleared, I shall hope to enter Paradise. Till then I must not. I cannot bring disgrace upon you. I shall return to my old post of shotgun messenger--” “Rand! No! Listen to me one moment. Last evening Digger Dan came to this very place. He told me that if you went back to the stage you would certainly be killed. They have been robbing all summer. It is said that Joaquin is in the mountains.” “No, they are Tom Bell's men.” Jo glanced up, startled. “Whoever it is, has sent you a warning.” “Miz Halstead,” called a strident voice, “th' stage's jest in, an' you're paw's took awful sick up on the Middle Fork, at his mine.” “I shall have to go on the morning stage. Will you not please--” to Rand. “Jo, I do not fear death. It is dishonor that maddens me, for your sake. The snows have come. They are already fitting runners to the stages. The mails and the 'dust' must get through in spite of all. I go out on the first sleigh; this one you must take. This winter I shall vindicate my name, if it is humanly possible to do so.” He kissed the end of one long curl of her hair, and was gone. Some weeks later, during a lull between storms, Rand's face lit up with the feeling which but one woman in the world could inspire, as the stage pulled in to Middle Fork.