lettering was that of a man's name. The man's name was Graehme
Stewart.

Without thinking of what he did, he dropped the object on the small
table, and returned anxiously to the girl's side, cursing the
tardiness of the Indian woman. But in a moment Wishkobun returned.

"Will she recover?" asked the Factor, distracted at the woman's
deliberate examination.

The latter smiled her indulgent, slow smile. "But surely," she assured
him in her own tongue, "it is no more than if she cut her finger. In a
few breaths she will recover. Now I will go to the house of the
Cockburn for a morsel of the sweet wood[A] which she must smell." She
looked her inquiry for permission.

[Footnote A: Camphor.]

"Sagaamig--go," assented Albret.

Relieved in mind, he dropped into a chair. His eye caught the little
silver match-safe. He picked it up and fell to staring at the rudely
carved letters.

He found that he was alone with his daughter--and the thoughts aroused
by the dozen letters of a man's name.

All his life long he had been a hard man. His commands had been
autocratic; his anger formidable; his punishments severe, and
sometimes cruel. The quality of mercy was with him tenuous and weak.