the back door. She straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if by
erasing every sign she would force from memory the thought of the scenes
that had just passed. She took her brother's coat that hung against the
wall, and an old pipe from the mantle, and hid them in the room that was
hers. Then she looked about for something else to be done.

A shadow darkened the sunny doorway. Looking up, she saw the man she
believed to be her brother's murderer.

"I came back, Bess, to see if I could do anything for you."

The tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her hand to her throat,
and caught her breath. She would like to speak out and tell him what she
thought, but she dared not. She did not even dare let her thought appear
in her eyes. The dull, statue-like look came over her face that she had
worn at the grave. The man thought it was the stupefaction of grief.

"I told you I didn't want any help," she said, trying to speak in the same
tone she had used when she thanked the men.

"Yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; she felt a menace
in the thought, "and I am sorry for you!"

He came nearer, but her face was cold. Instinctively she glanced to the
cupboard door behind which lay her brother's belt with two pistols.

"You're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but I'd rather be alone
now." It was hard to speak so when she would have liked to dash on him,
and call down curses for the death of her brother; but she looked into his
evil face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her heart.