once. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her knees by the bed, and Carey’s trembling hand go out to her head.
Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped herself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In that attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and goers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was one, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn came whitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knew when it happened by Elinor’s cry.
Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even a parting look.
The girl took Carey’s hand in hers, and turned to the weeping Elinor with a cold dignity.
“Now go,” she said. “You had him in life to the very last. He is mine now.”
“There must be some arrangements made,” faltered Elinor.
“My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call them,” said Tannis steadily. “He had no near relatives in the world — none at all in Canada — he told me so. You may send out a Protestant minister from town, if you like; but he will be buried here at the Flats and his grave will be mine — all mine! Go!”
And Elinor, reluctant, sorrowful, yet swayed by
