The girl ran to the window and pulled aside
the bearskin curtain which had completely shut out the light. Then she
stirred the fire, threw a log upon it, snuffed the candles, hastily put
on her moccasins, fur coat, wool cap, and gloves, and went to the door
quickly, the dog at her heels. Opening it, she stepped out into the
night.
"Qui va la? Who is it? Where?" she called, and strained towards the
west. She thought it might be her father or Mickey the hired man, or
both.
The answer came from the east, out of the homeless, neighbourless, empty
east--a cry, louder now. There were only stars, and the night was dark,
though not deep dark. She sped along the prairie road as fast as she
could, once or twice stopping to call aloud. In answer to her calls the
voice sounded nearer and nearer. Now suddenly she left the trail and
bore away northward. At last the voice was very near. Presently a
figure appeared ahead, staggering towards her.
"Qui va la? Who is it?" she asked.
"Ba'tiste Caron," was the reply in English, in a faint voice. She was
beside him in an instant.
"What has happened? Why are you off the trail?" she said, and supported
him.
"My Injun stoled my dogs and run off," he replied.
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