Joe Simkins had brought the news early that morning, and all day long the suspense had been terrible. Not for an instant did she or her father believe that Keith was guilty. There was something wrong, they felt sure of that. Constance longed to go to him, that he might know that they had not deserted him at any rate, and at times she was tempted to go to the trial, face the men, and give him a word of encouragement.
She fancied him defending himself against the base charge with all the determination of his manly nature. That he would fight hard, she had no doubt, but she shuddered when she thought how little one man could do against so many. She was surprised, too, to find what an interest she took in his welfare, and how his trouble pierced her heart like a sharp sword.
As the evening wore on, and the storm howled and raged outside, and no one came near the cabin, the suspense became almost unbearable. Had the worst happened, so that even Joe did not dare to come and break the news? She had often heard how gold thieves were treated by enraged miners, and she shivered as the idea came to her this night. Mechanically, she picked up a book, a small copy of Keble's "Christian Year," which Keith had left there. Opening it at random, her eyes rested upon a verse for the twenty-third Sunday after Trinity, which attracted her attention. Slowly she read:
"But first by many a stern and fiery blast
The world's rude furnace must our blood refine,
And many a blow of keenest woe be passed,
Till every pulse beat true to airs divine."
The book dropped upon her lap, and for some time she remained in silent thought. "Perhaps that is meant for me," she meditated. "I have been careless and indifferent to the higher things of life, living only for to-day. Is the Great Master allowing these things to happen, the loss of mother, brother, home, and now——"
She was startled by a knock upon the door, and she trembled as she laid the book upon the table and crossed the room.
Caribou Sol grasped her hand in his own strong one, and looked searchingly into her eyes.
"Bad storm," he panted, "an' a tough climb up yon hill. I ain't as young as I uster be."
Then Constance noticed how haggard was his face, while his hair and beard seemed whiter than when first she saw him. A feeling of dread entered her heart.
"Tell me, oh, tell me!" she cried, "what has happened!"