Donald’s announcement that Labour Day would be celebrated at the Lake
was received with good-natured approval by the men of the camp, who
spoke of the coming event as the “dry” holiday. The rain, which had
brought such blessed relief to the hearts of the guardians of the
forest, had cleansed the air of the last vestige of haze that had
overhung the valley for the past month.
The morning of the holiday dawned auspiciously. The hot days of August
had given place to the mellow sunshine of Indian summer. Through the
crystal clear atmosphere the mountains seemed much nearer, standing out
sharply against the blue sky. Near the top there had been a fresh fall
of snow that had covered the bare ice of the glaciers like a white
mantle. The brilliant rays of the September sun were reflected from this
virgin covering with a brilliancy that was dazzling to the eye.
Janet arrived for the occasion, bringing with her a score of her
friends. All through the previous day the trail from the north had
brought strings of cayuses from the Indian Reserve, their dusky riders
gaily bedecked in holiday attire. “_Klahowya, tillicum!_” they shouted,
their coffee-coloured faces lighting up with a grin that betokened a
gala day spirit. Their tents dotted the lake-shore, their camp fires
glowing cheerfully throughout the night.
The sports committee had arranged a varied list of events. A rowing race
between the two camps; a sack race, free for all; a baseball game
between the whites and the Indians; a sawing race in which two “buckers”
from each camp would participate; a hundred-yard dash; a log-rolling
contest between a man from the State of Maine and a citizen of New
Brunswick. But these were mere preliminaries to the real event of the
day, the much advertised horse-race. The men from the other camps,
arrayed in their “Sunday clothes” made their appearance early in the
day.
Each camp brought its quota of sandwiches and cakes, but the brunt of
the work fell on Andy and his assistants, who piled tier upon tier of
sandwiches on the long tables under the willows by the lake-shore. The
lemonade was in half-barrels at each end of the tables, with a “help
yourself” sign attached.
Old Klootchmen, with stolid, sombre faces, etched deep with
cross-hatching of wrinkles, walked through the throng laden with baskets
they were trying to sell. “Mika tika basket,” quavered their aged voices
as they held forth their wares.
About eleven o’clock Mr. Wainwright appeared alone.
“Where’s Connie?” asked Donald.
“As you are aware, Mr. McLean, Connie is very shy. I could not induce
her to accompany me.”
“That will never do,” said Donald quickly. “I am going after her.”
“I am afraid that your trip will avail you nothing,” smiled Wainwright
in his absent-minded way.
Donald borrowed a cayuse and set off up the trail. He hitched the horse
at the edge of the clearing and proceeded on foot down the path, his
shoes making no sound on the soft dark earth. As he turned a clump of
alders and came in view of the cabin he stopped short, arrested by a
sight that evidently elicited his amused interest.
Connie stood outside the door before a small mirror hung on the rough
log walls of the house. She was attempting to place her heavy hair in a
knob at the top of her head. A page cut from a magazine was tacked to a
log near the mirror. She studied the photograph carefully, then returned
to the attack with renewed vigour. But she could not get it to suit her.
She tried and tried, but the heavy shining coils would elude her slender
fingers and fall in a golden cascade over her slight shoulders. Her
efforts to reach a satisfactory result brought her to the verge of
tears. She stamped her little foot impetuously. At last she got it
arranged in a fair semblance to that of the envied actress. The effect
was so startling that Donald fairly gasped. The child of the moment
before was transformed, as if by a fairy’s wand, to a woman of wondrous
grace and beauty.
Connie perked her head saucily, then half smiled to show her small
milk-white teeth; apparently she was pleased with the reflection she saw
in the glass. From the clothes-line she took a flour sack that had been
split open and washed to be used for drying dishes. Draping this from
her waist-line, she pinned it securely. Assuming a haughty pose, she
walked past the mirror with a sinuous, undulating movement. The little
artist was so perfect in her mimicry that Donald’s lips involuntarily
formed the word “Janet.” Twice she passed before the tiny mirror with a
regal step, her head turning with its characteristic bird-like motion to
catch the reflection.
Gradually the queenly pose slipped from her. She stopped abruptly,
throwing out her arms with a forlorn gesture. Her golden head fell
forward. Two big tears welled from her blue eyes and ran down the small
freckled nose. Her small hands plucked convulsively at her faded blue
overalls. A sob like a stab [of] pain shook her slender body. One arm
came up slowly to cover her tear-wet face as she threw herself face
forward on the grass. Her slender shoulders were shaking with such an
agony of weeping that Donald’s throat felt constricted and his eyes grew
suddenly dim.
Her spotted cayuse, grazing nearby, raised his head at the sound of
Connie’s hysterical sobbing and moved to the small figure of his
mistress. With ears bent forward and a look of bewilderment in his soft
eyes, he nuzzled her neck with his velvety nose. The sobbing continued,
but her brown hand came up to pat his head lovingly.
Donald tiptoed softly back to the trail. He stood for some time with his
hand on the saddle, his head bowed in deep thought. “Poor little kid,”
he said gently, then whistling a lively tune, he slowly retraced his
steps to the cabin. He entered the clearing just in time to see Connie
as she disappeared in the timber across the field. He did not want her
to know that he was aware of her flight, so he knocked loudly on the
door and shouted her name. A raven croaked derisively from the top of a
dead tree. The pony raised his head to eye him silently. Connie’s pet
deer came around the corner of the barn, a look of gentle questioning in
her beautiful big eyes.
Donald rode slowly back to camp. Connie’s distress had touched his
heart; her heart-breaking sobs were still ringing in his ears. “It is
not that Wainwright does not love his daughter,” mused Donald. “It must
be that he is very poor.
“Don’t see how I can help,” his thoughts ran on. “One can’t very well
suggest to a father that he buy clothes for his child.”
Andy rang the lunch-bell, and there was a wild but good-natured scramble
for the tables.
A long table had been arranged in the big dining-room for the officials
and Janet’s party to which Donald had invited Mr. Wainwright.
“Did you find Connie?” queried Wainwright.
“No,” lied Donald, “I couldn’t find her.”
Janet’s friends were having a merry time. There was laughter, jesting
and gay repartee from all sides. Douglas was in his element, his quips
and brilliant sallies keeping the diners in a continual uproar.
As Donald glanced around the big table at the laughing faces of the gay
party, he tried to visualize Connie dressed as one of these
fashionably-clad girls who represented Vancouver’s “younger set.” The
vision he conjured caused him to smile dreamily.
Janet had manœuvred to secure a seat beside Donald. In spite of all her
artful contriving, she had been unable to have more than a few words
with her father’s busy general superintendent since her arrival. She
noticed the dreamy smile on his face and wondered what could be the
cause.
“You seem rather distraught,” she said with an arch smile, her dark eyes
fixed on his face. “Aren’t you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh yes,” he replied absently.
“You were gone for some time this morning,” she stated.
“Yes,” he concurred, “I went up to bring Connie.”
“Oh!”
Janet’s fine eyebrows lifted slightly, and she looked at Donald with a
curious intentness. “Why didn’t she come?”
“She wasn’t home.”
Her woman’s intuition long ago had told her that the “wood-sprite”—as
Donald called Connie—was madly in love with him. As she looked at him
now and noticed his pre-occupied air, a pang of jealousy shot through
her heart like an arrow. Was it possible that he had begun to realise
that the wild girl of the woods was not a child, and that a love for her
had been kindled in his heart? The thought made her feel faint and she
tried to put it from her mind.
Lunch was finished now and they were walking back to the lake. Douglas
invited the party to take a trip around the lake in a motor-boat, to
which they assented gleefully.
Janet hesitated as Donald turned away with Wainwright. “Aren’t you
coming, Mr. McLean?” she called.
Donald turned and shook his head. “I may be needed here,” he said
briefly.
Janet flushed to the roots of her dark hair and bit her lip in anger.
She was not used to being thwarted in her desires.
Donald and Wainwright seated themselves on a bench under the willows and
lighted cigarettes. Donald was ill at ease. The sound of Connie’s tragic
sobbing was ringing in his ears. He could see her little figure writhing
on the ground in a tempest of grief that had torn at his heart-strings.
He sprang involuntarily to his feet and began pacing the ground with
quick, nervous strides. Wainwright glanced up at him interrogatively.
“You seem worried,” he volunteered.
“I am,” Donald admitted briefly.
“Can I assist you in any way?”
Donald was in a welter of indecision. How should he broach this delicate
subject? Although poor as the proverbial church-mouse, Connie’s father
had the pride of Lucifer. There was natural dignity in his bearing, a
certain aloofness in his manner, that in no way interfered with his
unfailing courtesy, but had always precluded exchange of intimacies. He
had resided in this wilderness for many years, but none could say that
they had any more knowledge of his affairs at this moment than on the
day of his arrival.
Donald decided to take the plunge. He sat down on the bench beside
Connie’s father and related the scene he had witnessed that morning—of
Connie’s preening before the mirror with the magazine page pinned to the
logs; of the struggle with her hair; of the flour sack, and of the
piteous sobbing of the heart-broken child.
Wainwright’s face flushed painfully. There was a look of poignant
suffering in his grave eyes. Of all the races in the world, the
English—especially of the better class—fight most stoically to hide
their distress.
Wainwright leaned forward, his throat working convulsively as he
struggled to regain composure.
“I hope you do not consider me presumptuous,” said Donald, a note of
anxiety in his tone.
Wainwright’s hand reached forth to clasp Donald’s firmly. “No, I do not
doubt your sincerity. An inordinate sense of pride has kept me in my
present circumstances. This circumstance you have related has brought me
to a realization that it is a selfish pride, as it has denied Connie the
privileges to which she is entitled. There is nothing I can say,” he
went on in bitter self-condemnation, “that can even partially condone or
palliate my stupidity. I should have known that she would require proper
clothing now that she is grown up. As a matter of fact”—he paused, his
distress acute—“my finances are at a very low ebb.”
“How old is Connie?” asked Donald, hoping to relieve Wainwright’s
embarrassment.
“Nineteen.”
Donald’s head came up with a jerk. “What!” he almost shouted.
“She is nineteen,” Wainwright reiterated, a peculiar expression in his
eyes as he noticed Donald’s bewilderment.
“Nineteen!” Donald re-echoed, a bemused look on his face. “Great Scot!
This is a surprise. I thought of Connie as being not more than fourteen
or fifteen.”
“Connie’s healthful outdoor life has tended to keep her young, and her
mode of dressing enchances the youthful effect,” said her father as he
sat down wearily, a far-away look in his eyes. “Her mother,” he went on
softly, a tremor in his voice, “was just like her; at the age of
twenty-five she looked almost a child.” He turned to Donald. “No doubt
you have wondered why I buried myself in this wilderness?”
Donald nodded. At this moment they were interrupted by members of the
Sports Committee, who wanted Donald’s advice on a matter pertaining to
the afternoon’s programme.
It was evident to Donald as he withdrew that Wainwright had been about
to disclose his past history, a history which had been locked in his
heart these many years.
At three o’clock the crowd began drifting toward the race-course. The
centre of the valley had been cleared of under-brush, and the long grass
burned under the watchful eye of the fire-ranger. A small creek and a
few swampy places had been “corduroyed” with cedar poles and then
covered with soil. A judges’ stand, with a few hastily erected seats for
Janet’s party, stood near the finishing point. The horse-race, as has
been said, was to be the feature event of the day. The crowd surged
happily from the lake-shore to line up in orderly ranks about the oval.
The brilliant and diversified colours of the Klootchmen’s skirts and
head-gear showed in bright contrast to the drab wearing apparel of the
white men. The Siwash Indians were dressed in nondescript clothing as to
trousers and coat, but one and all wore side-brimmed cowboy hats and
displayed silk handkerchiefs of gorgeous hues, knotted at the throat to
drape their shoulders carelessly.
Three husky farmers’ sons from Pemberton rode to the starting-line amid
hearty hand-clapping and shouting from their friends. A swarthy-skinned
rider, mounted on a spirited black cayuse, came prancing through the
crowd. He lifted his hat and smiled in acknowledgment of the plaudits of
the spectators. This was Joe Lafonte, the half-breed who had won first
prize at the Lillooet races for the past two seasons.
The wise ones averred that Paul John, of the Indian contingent, would
give him a hard race. Paul John’s cayuse was young, but the previous
year he had run the half-breed’s horse a close second. Money was being
placed on all sides, particularly by the Indians, who are inveterate
gamblers. Amid an excited babble in Chinook, nine Indian riders came
laughing and shouting, with much waving of hats, to prance about and
display their horsemanship before the admiring crowd.
Donald, with Andy, Gillis and Wainwright, stood leaning over the edge of
the judges’ stand watching the animated scene below.
At this moment there was an agitation at the far end of the oval, where
the crowd opened to admit a horse and rider that came tearing down the
course like the wind.
“Look!” Donald shouted excitedly as he seized Wainwright’s arm. “It’s
Connie!”
Down the course, riding like a spirit of the woods, came the girl, her
golden hair blowing about her face, sitting astride her mettlesome horse
and riding as if the wilderness belonged to her alone.
Pegasus was not used to crowds. With arched neck and quivering flanks he
reared on his hindlegs to poise an instant, then leaped forward like a
rabbit. Connie sat on the bare back of her adored cayuse as though a
part of the animal, her slender body moving in gentle undulations in
perfect co-ordination with the movements of the horse. She was hard set
to keep from running over the other riders, who sat with mouths agape.
Connie was unknown to the greater part of the crowd. To them this
child-like equestrienne, with her mass of shining hair, appeared as an
apparition. Her firm little hands soon checked her turbulent mount, who
stood trembling with nervousness. The crowd gave her a rousing welcome
as soon as they had recovered from their astonishment.
“Who is she? Where does she come from?” they shouted.
Connie kept her eyes fixed on the ground. She was outwardly calm and
serene; inwardly she was as nervous as her fretting cayuse, and did not
dare raise her flushed face to meet the battery of eyes around her.
Donald turned to Wainwright. “Are you going to let her run? Is it safe
for her to enter a race with all those men?”
“I couldn’t stop her now, and besides,” he added with a touch of pride,
“she can hold her own with any of them.”
The old trapper made his way to Donald’s side. His leathery old face,
with its multitudinous wrinkles, wore a perturbed expression. “That
feller Lafonte is cultus. He’s full of dirty tricks; ’tain’t safe for
Connie to ride.”
Donald turned anxiously to Wainwright.
Connie’s father shook his head. “I am afraid it is too late now.” Then
in a lower voice he added: “You must know the reason for her entering
this race.”
Donald looked puzzled for an instant. Suddenly it dawned on him. “The
purse?”
Wainwright nodded. “It would break her heart if I forbade her to ride,
now that she has gone this far. She must have decided suddenly, as she
never mentioned it to me.”
The Rennie Company had put up a purse of two hundred and fifty dollars.
There was to be a collection taken after the race to add to this purse.
The horses trotted down the course. Connie’s was rearing and prancing,
and it was with difficulty that she managed to get him to join the
others. She leaned forward to whisper words of quieting in his twitching
ears. Down the course they came. They were in nice alignment as they
passed the judges’ stand.
“Go!”
Connie on her spotted cayuse showed as a bright splash of colour in the
midst of her darker competitors.
Lafonte’s dark face lighted with a savage gleam as he swung his horse to
the inside or “pole.”
Running neck and neck with him was his hated rival, Paul John, leaning
low on his horse’s neck and shouting unintelligibly in Chinook. Connie
was with the stragglers five lengths in the rear. This was new to
Pegasus, and he was bewildered by the crowding horses about him. As they
turned the corner of the course, Lafonte’s horse stumbled, and before he
righted Paul John had slipped into the lead. Cursing wildly, Lafonte
settled himself in the saddle, his horse’s head at the flank of his
rival.
Hundreds of times Pegasus had travelled this field with Connie clinging
to his back, slowing up for shrubs and trees and making sudden bursts of
speed in the open. That had been vastly different to being surrounded by
running horses and listening to the wild cries of their riders and the
roaring of the excited crowd.
At the moment Lafonte lost the point of vantage to his rival, Connie
leaned forward and emitted a peculiar clucking sound, at the same time
striking her moccasined feet into the horse’s sides. Pegasus’s ears
twitched back at the sound of the voice he loved. “Now I know what you
want,” he seemed to say, as his beautiful neck stretched out and his
hoofs spurned the ground. His graceful body lowered until it appeared to
the spectators as though he were just skimming the earth. He moved with
a springy stride, the muscles of his sinewy frame working with a sliding
movement beneath the glossy skin. Gradually he drew away from the horses
travelling with him. Foot by foot he crawled up on the leaders.
The party in the judges’ stand came to their feet to shout approval. The
girls were cheering wildly for Connie as she crept nearer the front.
Donald was leaning forward with flushed face, his eyes glued to the
spotted cayuse, a deep admiration in his heart for the intrepid little
rider.
Little Andy jumped on the rail. “Strike me pink!” he yelled, “look at
that ’oss run!” His eyes were bright with excitement. “A ’undred dollars
on the spotted ’oss!” he shouted hysterically.
“I’ll take you,” said a voice.
“’Ere you are, mate; let’s make ’er two ’undred. I’m for me ’ome girl.
She saved me blinkin’ life, God bless ’er!”
As they neared one of the corduroy bridges Connie was neck and neck with
Lafonte. The latter glanced up as Pegasus came opposite. The roar of the
crowd came dimly to Connie’s ears above the swish of air and the rumble
of hoofs as they struck the culvert. An evil look crossed the
half-breed’s face. He swung his horse sharply to the right. Connie’s
horse floundered. Struggling to right himself, he fell off the bridge
and landed with a dull thud on the soft ground below. The forward motion
of the cayuse had stopped so suddenly that Connie was thrown like a
projectile to a clump of bushes fifteen feet distant.
For an instant the big crowd was paralyzed. Then there went up a great
groan of horror. The old trapper came to his feet, his eyes flaming, a
hectic flush on his cheeks. Like a flash his hand flew to his
six-shooter, and the long-barrelled Colt was trained on Lafonte. As he
pulled the trigger Douglas struck his arm and the bullet sped harmlessly
over the horseman’s head.
“My God!”
The words whistled through the set teeth of big Jack Gillis. “Let me get
at him!” he cried hoarsely, as, pale of face, he struggled through the
crowd. He would have thrown himself in front of the oncoming rider if
strong hands had not clutched and held him. Connie’s father fell back a
step as if struck a sudden blow, his eyes wide and staring. Andy’s head
fell forward, and he groaned aloud. Janet covered her face with her
hands and sat down weakly.
Donald leaned from the judges’ stand, his face pale as death. A vision
of Connie’s broken body came before his eyes. “Oh, God!” he cried aloud
in a voice vibrant with pain. He covered his eyes as though in dread of
looking at the spot where she had fallen.
A shout came from the crowd—then a cheer that seemed to rock the hills.
“Look! look!” they shouted.
Donald’s heart was beating tumultuously. Could he believe his eyes?
Connie was standing upright. She appeared to sway slightly; then, like a
flash, she was at her horse’s head.
Trembling and snorting, Pegasus came to his feet. With a bound she was
on his back and seized the reins. Pegasus reared like a stag and was off
down the course at the tail end of the race.
As Connie passed the judges’ stand she was well up with the tail-riders
and gaining steadily. Her face was pale and tense. A smear of red showed
on her arm, and a little stream of blood trickled down her forehead from
the wound invisible in the thickness of her hair.
The crowd became suddenly quiet as Connie thundered past—a silent
tribute to her glorious pluck. But as she crept toward her original
position they roared their applause. Pegasus was showing an endurance
and speed that had never been equalled in all of that district. As they
turned to come down the home-stretch Connie was a good fifty yards
behind the leaders. Lafonte’s wiry cayuse was again in the lead by a few
feet.
The shock and strain were beginning to tell on Connie. She leaned
forward and in a broken, trembling voice she cried: “Oh, Peggy! Win,
Peggy! Please! Please! I don’t want to lose! I’ve got to win! Go! Go!”
She was sobbing hysterically now, and her small hands were patting the
horse’s neck.
Pegasus had never heard that tone of supplication in the sweet voice of
his mistress before. Nobly he responded to the call. She felt his body
lower under her as he set himself to the herculean task of overcoming
his rival’s enormous lead.
Lafonte was using the whip. Paul John, hanging so persistently to his
flank, angered him. They thundered across the corduroy, and at the sound
of Pegasus’s hoofs on the cedar poles Lafonte turned to glance behind. A
look of astonishment crossed his face as he saw the golden-haired rider
so close. With a curse he struck his horse a brutal blow that caused the
animal to lose its stride momentarily and fall back in line with Paul
John.
Slowly, but surely, Connie’s spotted cayuse was closing the gap between
himself and the two leaders, sweeping along at a terrific pace, his body
and limbs moving with the rhythmic grace of a thoroughbred. Connie was
leaning so low that the heavy white mane of her horse was brushing her
face. Her hair was streaming in the wind like fine-spun gold. The party
in the judges’ stand rushed to the railing, leaned anxiously forward to
get a glimpse of the running horses as they turned the corner, and
cheered lustily as the three riders thundered over the small bridge and
came toward the finishing line. Connie was at Lafonte’s flank now.
Pegasus’s remarkable speed fanned the spectators’ excitement to a fever
heat. Andy had done so much shouting that his voice was reduced to a
whisper. Standing on the top rail, his arms waving, he was shouting
huskily, “Come on, Connie! Come on, Connie!”
Donald’s dark eyes were glowing as he watched the slender figure
clinging to the flying horse’s bare back. “What a pity if she loses,” he
said under his breath. Leaping to the rail, he joined in the shouts of
encouragement to the straining Pegasus.
With one hundred yards to go, Connie uttered one last appeal to her
flying steed. Above the drumming of hoofs the spectators heard her voice
ring in passionate entreaty. “Now, Peg! Now! Go! Go!”
With nostrils distended, his breath coming in choking gasps, his eyes
bulging, and the voice of his adored mistress ringing in his ears, the
gallant animal with a burst of speed that made the onlookers marvel,
ranged himself alongside his labouring rivals.
Ten yards from the finish—five yards—they were neck and neck. Then,
summoning his last ounce of strength, Pegasus leaped forward as though
he would annihilate time and distance. With eyes nearly blinded with
dirt, tears and the roaring air, Connie saw Pegasus hurl himself past
the winning post—a winner by half a length!
The ear-splitting roar that went up from the race-mad crowd must have
caused the marmots on the slides near the distant glaciers to seek their
holes in terror. A flock of mallard ducks, which had floated peacefully
near the centre of the placid lake throughout the day’s commotion, rose
with frightened cries to seek a more secluded spot in which to finish
their afternoon’s siesta.
The crowd had seemingly gone mad. The atmosphere pulsated with a wild
tumult of sound. Hats were thrown in air and throats were strained with
shouting.
Donald found himself with his arms about Andy, dancing and cheering in a
frenzy of joy.
Connie made no attempt to check her cayuse’s onward flight. She was in
no mood to listen to the kudos of the admiring crowd; she wanted only to
get away from the scene as quickly as possible. The movement toward the
centre gave her the opportunity she desired, and she urged the weary
cayuse through an opening on her left. Many hands were reached up to
congratulate her, but she pushed her way through to the trail.
At the sound of hoof-beats behind her she turned to see Lafonte urging
his tired mount toward the Pemberton trail and looking back
apprehensively over his shoulder.
Several men were running after him, shaking their fists and uttering
loud imprecations. A man leaped from behind a jack-pine to land in the
path in front of the half-breed, lunged for the reins, missed, then
caught the stirrup. Lafonte struck the man a blow with his heavy whip
that loosened his hold and felled him to the ground.
Connie saw Gillis break from the crowd, jump to the saddle of a cayuse
and start after the fleeing man just as the latter disappeared in the
woods. Gillis waved his hand to her and vanished in pursuit. She urged
Pegasus to the shelter of the timber as she saw her father and Donald
running toward her.
The strenuous race and the spectacular fall had left both horse and
rider in a badly shaken condition. Connie’s body was bruised and sore,
and her head ached horribly. The cayuse’s strained muscles were
stiffening, he was limping badly, and his head drooped wearily as he
dragged his tired limbs up the steep trail.
At the barn door Connie dismounted stiffly, removed the horse’s bridle,
then threw her arms passionately around his neck and stroked his
symmetrical head with soft caresses. “I’m so sorry, Peggy darling,” she
said in a choking voice.
The horse nipped her shoulder in a weak attempt at playfulness, as if to
signify that he quite understood.
Connie’s eyes brightened at a sudden thought. “Peggy dear,” she
whispered softly as she nestled her cheek against his soft mane, “do you
know that I can have some nice clothes now? Lots and lots of nice
things. I am going to buy you a blanket—a nice thick one for
winter—and some ribbons for your mane. And you, Peggy”—with a flood of
tenderness in her voice—“you won all this for me.”
She was crooning sweet nothings in his ear that only Pegasus could
understand when her father appeared, breathless from running, his face
grey and anxious.
“Are you all right, Constance darling?”
Connie stepped forward. She was pale and weak, but her colourless lips
tried to form a smile.
“Yes, Daddy dear—I’m—all—ri——” Her voice trailed to a whisper and
the blue eyes closed as darkness fell upon her like a cloud. Swaying
uncertainly for an instant, she fell like a broken flower into her
father’s outstretched arms. For the first time in her life Connie had
fainted. She lay like a child in his trembling arms, her upturned face
wearing the pallor of death.
With a prayer on his lips and an agony of fear in his heart, her father
carried her to the cabin and tenderly stretched the bruised little body
on the coarse blankets of her bunk.