"No, but equally reliable; one of Ned Cowan's mountaineers. Captain Fox is a prisoner, wounded, and his men mostly dead."
A moment she rested unknowingly against my arm, her face covered with her hands. There was that in the man's words and manner which convinced her that he spoke the truth. Nor could I strengthen her by any denial, comfort her by any expression of hope. There was not a sob, not a sound to indicate suffering, but the face she finally lifted so that the light again fell upon it was white and drawn. The girl had changed to a woman. She stood erect, alone, one hand grasping the back of a chair.
"You say my father is dead—killed," she said, in steady, clear voice, "and that Captain Fox is wounded, and a prisoner. You tell me this on the report of one of Ned Cowan's men. It may be true, or it may be a lie, concocted to frighten me. But be that one way or the other, you never came here tonight, through this storm, to bring me such a message alone. Who sent you, Parson Nichols? What deviltry is on foot?"
"My dear young lady," he began smoothly, spreading his hands deprecatingly. "Be charitable, and just. I realize that in the first shock of thus suddenly learning of your father's demise, you naturally speak harshly. With me the past is forgot-
