_Chapter Eleven_


Virginia did not sleep at all that night. She was reaching toward her
new self. Heretofore she had ruled those about her proudly, secure in
her power and influence. Now she saw that all along her influence had
in not one jot exceeded that of the winsome girl. She had no real
power at all. They went mercilessly on in the grim way of their
fathers, dealing justice even-handed according to their own crude
conceptions of it, without thought of God or man. She turned hot all
over as she saw herself in this new light--as she saw those about her
indulgently smiling at her airs of the mistress of it. It angered
her--though the smile might be good-humored, even affectionate.

And she shrank into herself with utter loathing when she remembered
Ned Trent. There indeed her woman's pride was hard stricken. She
recalled with burning cheeks how his intense voice had stirred her;
how his wishes had compelled her; she shivered pitifully as she
remembered the warmth of his shoulder touching carelessly her own. If
he had come to her honestly and asked her aid, she would have given
it; but this underhand pretence at love! It was unworthy of him; and
it was certainly most unworthy of her. What must he think of her? How
he must be laughing at her--and hoping that his spell was working, so
that he could get the coveted rifle and the forty cartridges.

"I hate him!" she cried to herself, the backs of her long, slender
hands pressed against her eyes. She meant that she loved him, but for
the purposes in hand one would do as well as the other.

At earliest daylight she was up. Bathing her face and throat in cold