“Ah, Jacky, my child, we of the frivolous sex are always being forced into considering the mundane matters of everyday life here at Foss River.  What is it, dear?  I can see by your face that you are worrying over something.”

The girl threw herself into an easy chair, drawn up to the glowing stove with careful forethought by the old lady.  Mrs. Abbot reseated herself in the straight-backed chair she usually affected.  She carefully put her book on one side and took up some darning, assiduously inserting the needle but without further attempt at work.  It was something to fix her attention on whilst talking.  Old Mrs. Abbot always liked to be able to occupy her hands when talking seriously.  And Jacky’s face told her that this was a moment for serious conversation.

“Where’s the Doc?” the girl asked without preamble.  She knew, of course, but she used the question by way of making a beginning.

The old lady imperceptibly straightened her back.  She now anticipated the reason of her companion’s coming.  She glanced over the top of a pair of gold pince-nez, which she had just settled comfortably upon the bridge of her pretty, broad nose.

“He’s down at the saloon playing poker.  Why, dear?”

Her question was so innocent, but Jacky was not for a moment deceived by its tone.  The girl smiled plaintively into the fire.  There was no necessity for her to disguise her feelings before “Aunt” Margaret, she knew.  But her loyal nature shrank from flaunting her uncle’s weaknesses before even this kindly soul.  She kept her fencing attitude a little longer, however.

“Who is he playing with?” Jacky raised a pair of inquiring gray eyes to her companion’s face.

“Your uncle and—­Lablache.”

The shrewd old eyes watched the girl’s face keenly.  But Jacky gave no sign.

“Will you send for him, ‘Aunt’ Margaret?” said the girl, quietly.  “Without letting him know that I am here,” she added, as an afterthought.

“Certainly, dear,” the old lady replied, rising with alacrity.  “Just wait a moment while I send word.  Keewis hasn’t gone to his teepee yet.  I set him to clean some knives just now.  He can go.  These Indians are better messengers than they are domestics.”  Mrs. Abbot bustled out of the room.

She returned a moment later, and, drawing her chair beside that of the girl, seated herself and rested one soft white hand on those of her companion, which were reposing clasped in the lap of her dungaree skirt.

“Now, tell me, dear—­tell me all about it—­I know, it is your uncle.”

The sympathy of her tone could never have been conveyed in mere words.  This woman’s heart expressed its kindliness in voice and eyes.  There was no resisting her, and Jacky made no effort to do so.

For one instant there flashed into the girl’s face a look of utter distress.  She had come purposely to talk plainly to the woman whom she had lovingly dubbed “Aunt Margaret,” but she found it very hard when it came to the point, She cast about in her mind for a beginning, then abandoned the quest and blurted out lamely the very thing from which she most shrank.