When the last twinging tremour had run through the racked body, she leaned over and kissed her father full on the lips.
Then her heart broke. She ran blindly out into the night.
While the Bishop was straightening the body on the couch, a young man and two women came into the room.
They were Jeffrey Whiting and his mother and her sister, neighbours whom Arsene had brought.
The Bishop was much relieved with their coming. He could do nothing more now, and the long night ride was still ahead of him.
He told the young man that the girl, Ruth, had gone out into the cold, and asked him to find her.
Jeffrey Whiting went out quickly. He had played with Ruth Lansing since she was a baby, for they were the only children on Lansing Mountain. He knew where he would find her.
Mrs. Whiting, a keen-faced, capable woman of the hills, where people had to meet their problems and burdens alone, took command at once.
“No, sir,” she replied to the Bishop’s question, “there’s nobody to send for. The Lansings didn’t have a relation living that anybody ever heard of, and I knew the old folks, too, Tom Lansing’s father and mother. They’re buried out there on the hill where he’ll be buried.
“There’s some old soldiers down the West 22 Slope towards Beaver River. They’ll want to take charge, I suppose. The funeral must be on Monday,” she went on rapidly, sketching in the programme. “We have a preacher if we can get one. But when we can’t my sister Letty here sings something.”