Agony looked at herself pitilessly and shuddered.  Was this the road she was going to travel; was this the direction in which she had set her face?  Cheat, deceiver, that was what she was.  The winds whispered it; the river babbled it; the very stars seemed to twinkle it.  Agony closed her eyes, and put her hands over her ears to shut out the little insinuating sounds; and in the silence her very heart beats throbbed it, rhythmically, pitilessly.

* * * * *

In the hour before dawn Miss Amesbury sat up in bed, under the impression that someone had called her name.  Yes, there was someone on her balcony; in the dim light she could make out a drooping figure beside her bed.

“Miss Amesbury,” faltered a low, but familiar voice.

“Why Agony, child!” exclaimed Miss Amesbury, now well awake and recognizing her visitor.  “What is the matter?  Are you sick?”

“Yes,” replied Agony quietly, “sick of deceiving people.”

And there, in the dim light, she told her whole story, the story of vaulting ambition and timely temptation, of action in haste and repentance at weary leisure.

“So that was it,” Miss Amesbury exclaimed involuntarily, as Agony finished.  “It seemed to me that you had something on your mind; it puzzled me a great deal.  How you must have suffered in conscience, poor child!”

She put out her hand and drew Agony down on the bed, laying cool fingers on her hot forehead.  Agony, entirely taken aback by Miss Amesbury’s sympathetic attitude, for she had expected nothing but scorn and contempt, broke down and began to weep wildly.  Miss Amesbury let her cry for awhile for she knew that the overburdened heart and strained nerves must find relief first of all.  After awhile she began to speak soothing words, and gradually Agony’s tempestuous sobs ceased and she grew calm.  Then the two talked together for a long while, of the dangers of ambition, the seeking for personal glory at whatever cost.  When the rising sun began to redden the ripples on the river Agony’s heart once more knew peace, and she lay sleeping quietly, worn out, but tranquil in conscience.  She had at last found the courage to make her decision; she would tell the Camp at Morning Sing the true story of the robin, and decline the honor of the Buffalo Robe.  Agony’s torch, dim and smoky for so long, at last was burning bright and high.

* * * * *

It was over.  Agony sat on the deck of the Carribou beside Miss Amesbury.  Camp had vanished from sight several minutes before behind an abrupt bend in the river, and was now only a memory.  Agony sat pensive, her mind going back over the events of the day.  It had been harder than she thought—­to stand up in Mateka, and looking into the faces about her, tell the story of her deceit, but she had done it without flinching.  Of course it had created a sensation.  There was a painful silence, then