"You'll give what I say, and be quick about it, or I'll take her out to-morrow, and you'll never see her again; so fork over." "And you fotch her to-morrow?" "Yes, I told you." And so the bargain was concluded. Only a moment more, while Chip sat numb and dazed, then came the sound of footsteps, as the two men separated, and then silence over Tim's Place. And yet, what a horror for Chip! Sold like a horse or a pig to this worse than disgusting half-breed, and on the morrow to be taken--no, dragged--to the half-breed's hut by her hated father. Hardly conscious of the real intent and object of this purchase, she yet understood it dimly. Life here was bad enough--it was coarse, unloved, even filthy, and yet, hard as it was, it was a thousand times better than slavery with such an owner. And now, still weak and trembling from the shock, she raised her head cautiously and peeped out of the window. A faint spectral light from the rising moon outlined the log barn, the two log cabins, and pigsty, which, with the frame house she was in, comprised Tim's Place. Above and beyond where the forest enclosed the hillside, it shone brighter, and as Chip looked out upon the ethereal silvered view, away to the right she saw the dark opening into the old tote road. Up this they had brought her, eight years before. Never since had she traversed it; and yet, as she looked at it now, an inspiration born of her father's sneer came to her. It was a desperate chance, a foolhardy step--a journey so appalling, so almost hopeless, she might well hesitate; and yet, escape that way was her one chance. Only a moment longer she waited, then gathering her few belongings--a pair of old shoes, the moccasins Old Tomah had given her, a skirt and jacket fashioned from Tim's cast-off garments, a fur cap, and soft felt hat--she thrust them into a soiled pillow-case and crept down the stairs. Once out, she looked about, listened, then darted up the hillside, straight for the tote road entrance. Here she paused, put on her moccasins, and looked back. The moon, now above the tree-tops, shone full upon Tim's Place, softening and silvering all its ugliness and all its squalor. Away to the left stood Tomah's hut, across the river, a shining path bright and rippled. In spite of the awful dread of her situation and the years of her hard, unpaid, and ofttimes cursed toil, a pang of regret now came to her. This was her home, wretched as it was. Here she had at least been fed and warmed in winters, and here Old Tomah had shown her kindness. Oh, if he were only in his hut now, that she might go and waken him softly, and beg him to take her in his canoe and speed down the river!