He nodded: "Sure thing; it's the only sporting way. There's no stunt to it; only keep cool and keep shooting, and drop him before he comes to close quarters." "Yes," she said, looking up at Kathleen. Her brother drew her to her feet. She gave him a little hug. "Believe in me, dear," she said. "I'll do it easier if you do." "Of course I do. You're a better sport than I. You always were. And that's no idle jest; witness my nose and Duane's in days gone by." The girl smiled. As they turned homeward she slung her rifle, passed her right arm through Kathleen's, and dropped her left on her brother's shoulder. She was very tired, and hopeful that she might sleep. And tired, hopeful, thinking of her lover, she passed through the woods, leaning on those who were nearest and most dear. Somehow--and just why was not clear to her--it seemed at that moment as though she had passed the danger mark--as though the very worst lay behind her--close, scarcely clear of her skirts yet, but all the same it lay behind her, not ahead. She knew, and dreaded, and shrank from what still lay before her; she understood into what ruin treachery to self might precipitate her still at any moment. And yet, somehow, she felt vaguely that something had been gained that day which never before had been gained. And she thought of her lover as she passed through the forest, leaning on Scott and Kathleen, her little feet keeping step with theirs, her eyes steady in the red western glare that flooded the forest to an infernal beauty. Behind her streamed her gigantic shadow; behind her lay another shadow, cast by her soul and floating wide of it now. And it must never touch her soul again, God helping. Suddenly her heart almost ceased its beating. Far away within, stirring in unsuspected depths, something moved furtively. Her face whitened a little; her eyes closed, the lids fluttered, opened; she gazed straight in front of her, walked on, small head erect, lips firm, facing the hell that lay before her--lay surely, surely before her. For the breath of it glowed already in her veins and the voices of it were already busy in her ears, and the unseen stirring of it had begun once more within her body--that tired white, slender body of hers which had endured so bravely and so long. If sleep would only aid her, come to her in her need, be her ally in the peril of her solitude--if it would only come, and help her to endure! And wondering if it would, not knowing, hoping, she walked onward through the falling night. CHAPTER XVII THE DANGER MARK Her letters to him still bore the red cross: "I understand perfectly why you cannot come," she wrote; "I would do exactly as you are doing if I had a father. It must be a very great happiness to have one. My need of you is not as great as his; I can hold my own alone, I think. You see I am doing it, and you must not worry. Only, dear, when you have the opportunity, come up if only for a day."