"Yes, I fancy I can understand that," she said. "I can understand how,
for instance, one might feel a just and great resentment, and have in
one's hand the instrument of punishment, and yet withhold one's hand
and protect where one should injure."

At this moment these words had no particular significance to me, but
there chanced a time when they came home with great force. I think,
indeed, that she was speaking more to herself than to me. Suddenly she
turned to me.

"I wonder," she said, "if I am as cruel as you think me--for, indeed,
I do not know. But I have been through many things."

Here her eyes grew cold and hard. The words that followed seemed in no
sequence. "Yet," she said, "I will go and see him to-morrow. . . .
Good-night." After about an hour I went below to Galt Roscoe's cabin.
I drew aside the curtain quietly. Justine Caron evidently had not heard
me. She was sitting beside the sick man, her fingers still smoothing
away the pillow from his fevered face and her eyes fixed on him. I spoke
to her. She rose. "He has slept well," she said. And she moved to the
door.

"Miss Caron," I said, "if Mrs. Falchion is willing, you could help me to
nurse Mr. Roscoe?"

A light sprang to her eyes. "Indeed, yes," she said.

"I will speak to her about it, if you will let me?" She bowed her head,
and her look was eloquent of thanks. After a word of good-night we
parted.