finally the long northern twilight fell, and the girl in the little
white bedroom at the factory bathed her face and whispered for the
hundredth time to her beating heart:

"Night has come!"




_Chapter Thirteen_


That evening at dinner Virginia studied her father's face again. She
saw the square settled line of the jaw under the beard, the unwavering
frown of the heavy eyebrows, the unblinking purpose of the cavernous,
mysterious eyes. Never had she felt herself very close to this silent,
inscrutable man, even in his moments of more affectionate expansion.
Now a gulf divided them.

And yet, strangely enough, she experienced no revulsion, no horror, no
recoil even. He had merely become more aloof, more incomprehensible;
his purposes vaster, less susceptible to the grasp of such as she.
There may have been some basis for this feeling, or it may have been
merely the reflex glow of a joy that made all other things seem
insignificant.

As soon as might be after the meal Virginia slipped away, carrying the
rifle, the cartridges, the matches, and the salt. She was cruelly
frightened.