inside. There were many mock quarrels, in one of which Marcey sent her a
letter by the Company's courier, covered with great seals, saying, "I
return you the hairpin, the egg-shell, and the white wolf's tooth. Go to
your Laforce, or whatever his ridiculous name may be."

In this way the pretty game ran on, the little goldenhaired,
golden-faced, golden-voiced child dancing so gayly in their hearts, but
nestling in them too, after her wilful fashion, until the serious thing
came--the tragedy.

On the mad night when all ended, she was in the gayest, the most elf-like
spirits. All went well until Marcey dug a hole in the ground, put a stone
in it, and, burying it, said it was Laforce's heart. Then Laforce
pretended to ventriloquise, and mocked Marcey's slight stutter. That was
the beginning of the trouble, and Lucille, like any lady of the world,
troubled at Laforce's unkindness, tried to smooth things over--tried very
gravely. But the playful rivalry of many months changed its composition
suddenly as through some delicate yet powerful chemical action, and the
savage in both men broke out suddenly. Where motives and emotions are few
they are the more vital, their action is the more violent. No one knew
quite what the two young men said to each other, but presently, while the
Indian dance was on, they drew to the side of the house, and had their
duel out in the half-shadows, no one knowing, till the shots rang on the
night, and John Marcey, without a cry, sprang into the air and fell face
upwards, shot through the heart.

They tried to take the child away, but she would not go; and when they
carried Marcey on the shutter she followed close by, resisting her
father's wishes and commands. And just before they made a prisoner of
Laforce, she said to him very quietly--so like a woman she was--"I will