In his relief at finding she was not Wayne’s daughter he spoke awkwardly.

“Your father?  Is he—­dead?”

“Yes; he’s dead.  You needn’t be afraid to take the things.  He would have liked to help a man—­in your position.”

“In my position?  Then you know—­who I am?”

“Yes; you’re Norrie Ford.  I saw that as soon as I chanced on the terrace last night.”

“And you’re not afraid of me?”

“I am—­a little,” she admitted; “but that doesn’t matter.”

“You needn’t be—­” he began to explain, but she checked him again.

“We mustn’t talk now.  I must shut the door and leave you in the dark all day.  Men will be passing by, and they mustn’t hear you.  I shall be painting in the studio, so that they won’t suspect anything, if you keep still.”

Allowing him no opportunity to speak again, she closed the door, leaving him once more in darkness.  Sitting in the constraint she imposed upon him, he could hear her moving in the outer room, where, owing to the lightness of the wooden partition, it was not difficult to guess what she was doing at any given moment.  He knew when she opened the outer door and moved the easel toward the entrance.  He knew when she took down the apron from its peg and pinned it on.  He knew when she drew up a chair and pretended to set to work.  In the hour or two of silence that ensued he was sure that, whatever she might be doing with her brush, she was keeping eye and ear alert in his defence.

Who was she?  What interest had she in his fate?  What power had raised her up to help him?  Even yet he had scarcely seen her face; but he had received an impression of intelligence.  He was sure she was no more than a girl—­certainly not twenty—­and yet she acted with the decision of maturity.  At the same time there was about her that suggestion of a wild origin—­that something not wholly tamed to the dictates of civilized life—­which persisted in his imagination, even if he could not verify it in fact.

Twice in the course of the morning he heard voices.  Men spoke to her through the open doorway, and she replied.  Once he distinguished her words.

“Oh no,” she called out to some one at a distance.  “I’m not afraid.  He won’t do me any harm.  I’ve got Micmac with me.  I often stay here all day, but I shall go home early.  Thanks,” she added, in response to some further hint.  “I’d rather not have any one here.  I never can paint unless I’m quite alone.”

Her tone was light, and Ford fancied that as she spoke she smiled at the passers-by who had thought it right to warn her against himself; but when, a few minutes later, she pushed open the door softly, the gravity that seemed more natural to her had returned.

“Several parties of men have gone by,” she whispered.  “They have no suspicion.  They won’t have, if you keep still.  They think you have slipped away from here, and have gone back toward the lumber camps.  This is your lunch,” she continued, hastily, placing more food before him.  “It will have to be your dinner, too.  It will be safer for me not to come into this room again to-day.  You must not go out into the studio till you’re sure it’s dark.  No noise.  No light.  I’ve put an extra rug on the couch in case you’re chilly in the night.”