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She put out her hands towards him. “I hate them all here,” she said. “I never knew them. They forced me away. I have no father but Jimmy Throng. I will not stay,” she flashed out in sudden anger to the others; “I’ll kill myself and all of you before I marry that Borotte.”

Pierre could hear a man tramping about upstairs. Caleb knocked on the stove-pipe, and called to him to come down. Pierre guessed it was Borotte. This would add one more factor to the game. He must move at once. He suddenly slipped a pistol into the girl’s hand, and with a quick word to her, stepped towards the door. The elder brother sprang between–which was what he looked for. By this time every man had a weapon showing, snatched from wall and shelf.

Pierre was cool. He said: “Remember, I am for the law. I am not one man. You are thieves now; if you fight and kill, you will get the rope, every one. Move from the door, or I’ll fire. The girl comes with me.” He had heard a door open behind him, now there was an oath and a report, and a bullet grazed his cheek and lodged in the wall beyond. He dared not turn round, for the other men were facing him. He did not move, but the girl did. “Coward!” she said, and raised her pistol at Borotte, standing with her back against Pierre’s.

There was a pause, in which no one stirred, and then the girl, slowly walking up to Borotte, her pistol levelled, said: “You low coward–to shoot a man from behind; and you want to be a decent girl’s husband! These men that say they’re my brothers are brutes, but you’re a sneak. If you stir a step I’ll fire.”

The cowardice of Borotte was almost ridiculous. He dared not harm the girl, and her brothers could not prevent her harming him. Here there came a knocking at the front door. The other brothers had come, and found it locked. Pierre saw the crisis, and acted instantly. “The girl and I–we will fight you to the end,” he said, “and then what’s left of you the law will fight to the end. Come,” he added, “the old man can’t live a week. When he’s gone then you can try again. She will have what he owns. Quick, or I arrest you all, and then–“

“Let her go,” said Borotte; “it ain’t no use.” Presently the elder brother broke out laughing. “Damned if I thought the girl had the pluck, an’ damned if I thought Borotte was a crawler. Put an eye out of him, Liddy, an’ come to your brother’s arms. Here,” he added to the others, “up with your popguns; this shindy’s off; and the girl goes back till the old man tucks up. Have a drink,” he added to Pierre, as he stood his rifle in a corner and came to the table.

In half an hour Pierre and the girl were on their way, leaving Borotte quarrelling with the brothers, and all drinking heavily. The two arrived at Throng’s late the next afternoon. There had been a slight thaw during the day, and the air was almost soft, water dripping from the eaves down the long icicles.

When Lydia entered, the old man was dozing in his chair. The sound of an axe out behind the house told where Duc was. The whisky-and-herbs was beside the sick man’s chair, and his feet were wrapped about with bearskins. The girl made a little gesture of pain, and then stepped softly over and, kneeling, looked into Throng’s face. The lips were moving.

“Dad,” she said, “are you asleep?”

“I be a durn fool, I be,” he said in a whisper, and then he began to cough. She took his’ hands. They were cold, and she rubbed them softly. “I feel so a’mighty holler,” he said, gasping, “an’ that bread’s sour agin.” He shook his head pitifully.

His eyes at last settled on her, and he recognised her. He broke into a giggling laugh; the surprise was almost too much for his feeble mind and body. His hands reached and clutched hers. “Liddy! Liddy!” he whispered, then added peevishly, “the bread’s sour, an’ the boneset and camomile’s no good…. Ain’t tomorrow bakin’-day?” he added.

“Yes, dad,” she said, smoothing his hands.

“What damned–liars–they be–Liddy! You’re my gel, ain’t ye?”

“Yes, dad. I’ll make some boneset liquor now.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, with childish eagerness and a weak, wild smile.

“That’s it–that’s it.”

She was about to rise, but he caught her shoulder. “I bin a good dad to ye, hain’t I, Liddy?” he whispered.

“Always.”

“Never had no ma but Manette, did ye?”

“Never, dad.”

“What danged liars they be!” he said, chuckling. She kissed him, and moved away to the fire to pour hot water and whisky on the herbs.

His eyes followed her proudly, shining like wet glass in the sun. He laughed–such a wheezing, soundless laugh!

“He! he! he! I ain’t no–durn–fool–bless–the Lord!” he said.

Then the shining look in his eyes became a grey film, and the girl turned round suddenly, for the long, wheezy breathing had stopped. She ran to him, and, lifting up his head, saw the look that makes even the fool seem wise in his cold stillness. Then she sat down on the floor, laid her head against the arm of his chair, and wept.

It was very quiet inside. From without there came the twang of an axe, and a man’s voice talking to his horse. When the man came in, he lifted the girl up, and, to comfort her, bade her go look at a picture hanging in her little room. After she was gone he lifted the body, put it on a couch, and cared for it.