Kells spoke jestingly, in a way that could give no offense, even to
the wildest of boys, yet there was curiosity, keenness, penetration,
in his speech. It had not the slightest effect upon Jim Cleve.

"Bad luck and a girl? ... To hell with both!" he said.

"Shore you're talkin' religion. Thet's where both luck an' gurls
come from," replied the unlucky gamester. "Will one of you hawgs
pass the whiskey?"

The increased interest with which Kells looked down upon Jim Cleve
was not lost upon Joan. But she had seen enough, and, turning away,
she stumbled to the bed and lay there with an ache in her heart.

"Oh," she whispered to herself, "he is ruined--ruined--ruined! ...
God forgive me!" She saw bright, cold stars shining between the
logs. The night wind swept in cold and pure, with the dew of the
mountain in it. She heard the mourn of wolves, the hoot of an owl,
the distant cry of a panther, weird and wild. Yet outside there was
a thick and lonely silence. In that other cabin, from which she was
mercifully shut out, there were different sounds, hideous by
contrast. By and by she covered her ears, and at length, weary from
thought and sorrow, she drifted into slumber.

Next morning, long after she had awakened, the cabin remained quiet,
with no one stirring. Morning had half gone before Wood knocked and
gave her a bucket of water, a basin and towels. Later he came with
her breakfast. After that she had nothing to do but pace the floor
of her two rooms. One appeared to be only an empty shed, long in