any of us."

The girl was forced to notice the money-lender. She did so reluctantly,
however.

"So you, too, sought shelter from the storm beneath old man Norton's
hospitable roof. You are dead right, Mr. Lablache; we who live on the
prairie need to be ever on the alert. One never knows what each hour may
bring forth."

The girl was still in her ball-dress. Lablache's fishy eyes noticed her
charming appearance. The strong, beautiful face sent a thrill of delight
over him as he watched it--the delicate rounded shoulders made him suck
in his heavy breath like one who anticipates a delicate dish. Jacky
turned from him in plainly-expressed disgust.

Her uncle was watching her with a gaze half uneasy and wholly tender.
She was the delight of his old age, the center of all his affections,
this motherless child of his dead brother. His cheek twitched painfully
as he thought of the huge amount of his losings to Lablache. He shivered
perceptibly as he rose from his seat and went over to the cooking stove.

"I believe you people have let the stove out," the girl exclaimed, as
she noted her uncle's movement. She had no intention of mentioning the
game they had been playing. She feared to hear the facts. Instinct told
her that her uncle had lost again. "Yes, I declare you have," as she
knelt before the grate and raked away at the ashes.

Suddenly she turned to the money-lender.