So he wouldn't hurt even a dog! Madge repeated these words to herself. Then why had he played such a sorry joke on a woman who had never injured him? She wondered whether he would be sorry, afterwards, if--if he ever chanced to learn what had become of her--after everything was all over. It might be that he had just been a big fool, as the Canadian woman had called him, and never reflected on the possible consequences of his action. But then he should have had the manhood to acknowledge his fault and beg her pardon, instead of resorting at once to clumsy lies and pretending utter ignorance. In many ways such conduct seemed inconsistent with the man, now that she had had further opportunity of seeing him. And then there was no doubt that he looked very ill. She was really very sorry for her share in that accident, and yet--and yet men had been shot dead for smaller offenses than he had meted out to her. He might have been killed, of course, and her quickened imagination caused her to see him stretched stark upon the floor of that little cabin, on those rough boards that smelled of resiny things. And then people would have come and she would have been accused of his murder, of course. It would have been her weapon that had done it, and they would have found motive enough for the deed in the story she would have been compelled to relate. They wouldn't have believed in any accident. And then, instead of being able to end everything in some air hole of Roaring River, she would have been dragged to some jail to eke out her days in a prison, if she had not been hanged. The next day she awaited his coming somewhat anxiously. She felt that she must know how he was before--before taking that last step. After all he had tried to be considerate, except in the matter of those amazing lies. During the afternoon Mrs. Papineau, growing anxious, sent little Baptiste over to enquire after him. The small boy returned, saying that he had seen two squirrels and a rabbit on the tote-road, and the track of a fox, and that he had found Hugo sitting by the fire. And Hugo had declared that he was all right and--and perhaps he wasn't pleased, because he spoke very shortly and had told him to hurry home. So Baptiste had left, and on his way he had seen partridges sitting on a fir sapling, and if he'd had a gun, or even some rocks.... But this circumstantial narrative was interrupted by the barking of the dogs. The sun was about setting. Madge looked out of the window, while Mrs. Papineau rushed to the door. It was a man arriving with a toboggan and two big dogs. "Dat my man Philippe coming," announced the woman, happily. She held the door open, letting in a blast of cold air, and the man entered, tired with long tramping. From the toboggan he removed a load of pelts, dead hares that would serve chiefly for bait, his blankets and the indispensable axe. Mrs. Papineau volubly explained the guest's presence and he greeted her kindly.