"You told him that?" A light came into Jude's handsome, heavy face, which quickly vanished as the torturing jealousy, feeding upon a new hope, rose, defiantly. "You told him you cared--and then he kissed you, damn him! Maybe he thinks he'll get you to take me, and then he'll go on with hand-holding and kissing all the safer." "Take that back," cried Joyce harshly. "Take that back, Jude Lauzoon." Yet as she resented the implied insult, the primitive woman in her admired Jude as it had never admired him before. "I didn't mean it against you, Joyce, I swear it. Can't you see how I love yer and I don't want yer hurt? No one ain't going to hurt yer!" He had clutched her to him roughly but tenderly. "Maybe he wouldn't want ter, maybe I don't understand--but he can't, anyway!" She was sobbing hysterically against his breast. "You're mine, lass; you're just a little one; you don't know things. You're no older than you was when you toted over to Hillcrest and--and never felt afraid." Jude tried to kiss the tear-stained face, but she pressed it closer against him. He had to be content with the satin softness of her thick hair. Suddenly she sprang from him. A sickish odour was filling the room. "Everything's burned," she gasped; "everything!" She drew the pot from the stove and ruefully carried it outside. "Nothing left, Jude;" she laughed nervously. "Nothing but crusts and leavings." "You go to bed," commanded Jude authoritatively; "that's what you need more than anything!" "Yes, yes, that's what I need--sleep. I'm almost dead, I'm so tired." Jude looked at her hungrily. The sudden happy ending of his torture gave him an unreal, unsafe feeling. He wanted to touch her again in the new, thrilling way, but she was forbidding even in her sweet yielding. "You go to bed," he said vaguely; "I'll go down to the Black Cat, and see that your father gets home all right." Joyce stepped backward to the chamber door beyond. "Thank you," she murmured; "I certainly am dead tired." CHAPTER II There was only a path leading from the highway to John Gaston's shack. A path wide enough for a single traveller, and the dark pointed pines guarded it on either side until within ten feet of the house. The house itself sat cosily in the clearing. It was a log house built by amateur hands, but roughly artistic without, and mannishly comfortable within.