For a moment, Thayer stared at him in malignant hate, his gnarled hands twisting and knotting. Then, with a sudden impulse, he turned away toward the mill. A moment later the whistle blew and the saws ceased to snarl. Barry turned back to Agnes and Ba'tiste. The woman caught impulsively at his arm. "Where on earth am I going to live, Barry?" she questioned. "I don't want to go back to town. And I can't stay in this deserted place, if every one is leaving it." "I'll keep the cook. She can fix you a room in one of the cottages and stay there with you. However, it would be best to go back." "But I won't." She shook her head with an attempt at levity. "I've come all this distance, worried to death every moment over you, and now I'm going to stay until I'm sure that everything's all right. Besides, Barry," she moved close to him, "you'll need me. Won't you? Haven't I always been near you when you've needed me? And aren't you taking on the biggest sort of job now?" Houston smiled at her. True, she had always been near in time of trouble and it was only natural that now-- "Of course," came his answer. "Come, I'll have you made comfortable in the cottage." Then, as he started away, "May I see you, Ba'tiste, sometime to-night?" "Ah, _oui_." The Canadian was moving toward his wagon and the waiting dog. "In the cabin." Three hours later, the last of the men paid off, Agnes installed in the best of three little cottages in care of the motherly old cook, Barry Houston approached the door of Ba'tiste's cabin, the wolf-dog, who had picked him up a hundred yards away, trotting beside him. There was a light within; in the shadows by the grave, a form moved,--old Lost Wing. Medaine was there, then. Barry raised his hand to knock,--and halted. His name had been mentioned angrily; then again,--followed by the voice of the girl: "I don't know what it is, Ba'tiste. Fred wouldn't tell me, except that it was something too horrible for me to know. And I simply can't do what you say. I can't be pleasant to him when I feel this way." "But--" "Oh, I know. I want to be fair, and I try to be. I speak to him when I meet him; isn't that enough? We're not old friends; we're hardly even acquaintances. And if there is something in his past to be ashamed of, isn't it best that we simply remain that way? I--" Then she ceased. Houston had knocked on the door. A second later, he entered the cabin, to return Medaine Robinette's cool but polite greeting in kind, and to look apprehensively toward Ba'tiste Renaud. But the old man's smile was genuine. "We have been talk' about you, _oui_, yes!" he said. "Eh, Medaine?" It was one of his thrusts. The girl colored, then turned toward the door. "I'm afraid I've stayed longer than I intended," she apologized. "It's late. Good night." Then she was gone. Houston looked at Ba'tiste, but the old French-Canadian merely waved a big hand.