Ann tossed her head. "Not with my leave."

"No," he assented; "but I want to tell you now that if we can't get on
Markham's track I shall have to spy on you. You'll help him if you can,
of course."

"I don't know where he is," said Ann sullenly.

"I do not believe you are telling the truth" (sadly); "but you may
believe _me_, I have warned you."

People in Fentown went to sleep early. At about eleven that night all
was still and lonely about the weather-stained, unpainted wooden house
in which Ann lived.

Ann closed her house for the night. The work was a simple one: she set
her knee against the door to shut it more firmly, and worked an old nail
into the latch. Then she shook down the scant cotton curtains that were
twisted aside from the windows. There were three windows, two in the
living-room (which was also kitchen and beer-saloon) and one in the
bedroom; that was the whole of the house. There was not an article of
furniture in the place that was not absolutely necessary; what there was
was clean. The girl herself was clean, middle-sized, and dressed in
garments that were old and worn; there was about her appearance a
certain brightness and quickness, which is the best part of beauty and
grace. The very hair itself, turning black and curly, from the temples,
seemed to lie glossy and smooth by reason of character that willed that
it should lie so.

One small coal-oil lamp was the light of the house. When Ann had closed