The deep sadness, the longing in his voice brought Virginia to her feet once more. She wanted to do something for the thin, sick man because she loved him--just that! Years of neglect had failed to kill in the young heart the cherished affection for her absent parent, and in some subtle way he now appealed to the mother within her, as all sick men do to all heart-women. "I'd like to help you if I could, father," she said. The man, with a quick, spasmodic action, drew her to him. Never had he seen such a pair of eyes! They reminded him of Italian skies under which he had dreamed brave dreams--dreamed dreams which would ever be dreams. The end of them now was the grave. "Little girl! My little girl!" he murmured, caressing her shoulders. Then he caught himself sharply, crushing the sentiment from his voice. "Hide yourself; change your name; do anything to keep from your uncle. When you're old enough to handle your own affairs, you can come out of your hiding-place--do you understand me?" "I think I do," she said, tears gathering under her lids. "I don't know of any one I could trust in this county. Jordan Morse would get 'em all under his spell. That would be the last of you. For your mother's sake----" His lips quivered, but he went on with a masterful effort to choke down a sob,--"I may honestly say, for your own sake, I want you to live and do well." There was some strain in his passionate voice that stirred terrific emotion in the girl, awakening new, tumultuous impulses. It gave her a mad desire to do something, something for her father, something for herself. At that moment she loved him very much indeed and was ready to go to any length to help him. He had told her she must leave. Perhaps---- Virginia glanced through the window into the darkness. Through the falling snow she could see a giant pine throw out appealing arms. They were like beckoning, sentient beings to the girl, who loved nature with all the passionate strength of her young being. Yet to-night they filled her with new wonder,--an awe she had never felt before. Despite her onrushing thoughts, she tried to calm her mind, to say with eager emphasis: "Shall I run to-night--now?" "No, not to-night; don't leave me yet. Sit down in the chair again; stay until I tell you." "All right," murmured Virginia, walking away. The father watched the fire a few minutes. "I'll give you a letter to Grandoken, Lafe Grandoken," he said presently, looking up. "For your mother's sake he'll take you, and some day you can repay him. You see it's this way: Your mother trusted your uncle more than she did me, or she'd never have given you into his care in case of my death. Well, he's got me, and he'll get you." With no thought of disobedience, Virginia slipped from the chair to her feet. "He won't get me if I run now, will he?" she questioned breathlessly; "not if I go to--what'd you say his name was?"