She broke off with a shiver, and George looked very compassionate.

“I think,” he said gently, “you had better not go on.”  “Ah!” replied Sylvia, “I must grapple with the horror and not yield to it; with the future to be faced, I can’t be a coward.  At last I heard the team and opened the door.  The snow was blinding, but I could dimly see the horses standing in it.  I called, but Dick didn’t answer, and I ran out and found him lying upon the load of logs.  He was very still, and made no sign, but I reached up and shook him—­I couldn’t believe the dreadful thing.  I think I screamed; the team started suddenly, and Dick fell at my feet.  Then the truth was clear to me.”

A half-choked sob broke from her, but she went on.

“I couldn’t move him; I must have gone nearly mad, for I tried to run to Peterson’s, three miles away.  The snow blinded me, and I came back again; and by and by another team arrived.  Peterson had got lost driving home from the settlement.  After that, I can’t remember anything; I’m thankful it is so—­I couldn’t bear it!”

Then there was silence for a few moments until George rose and gently laid his hand on her shoulder.

“My sympathy’s not worth much, Sylvia, but it’s yours,” he said.  “Can I help in any practical way?”

Growing calmer, she glanced up at him with tearful eyes.

“I can’t tell you just yet; but it’s a comfort to have your sympathy.  Don’t speak to me for a little while, please.”

He went back to his place and watched her with a yearning heart, longing for the power to soothe her.  She looked so forlorn and desolate, too frail to bear her load of sorrow.

“I must try to be brave,” she smiled up at him at length.  “And you are my trustee.  Please bring those papers I laid down.  I suppose I must talk to you about the farm.”

It did not strike George that this was a rather sudden change, or that there was anything incongruous in Sylvia’s considering her material interests in the midst of her grief.  After examining the documents, he asked her a few questions, to which she gave explicit answers.

“Now you should be able to decide what must be done,” she said finally; “and I’m anxious about it.  I suppose that’s natural.”

“You have plenty of friends,” George reminded her consolingly.

Sylvia rose, and there was bitterness in her expression.

“Friends?  Oh, yes; but I’ve come back to them a widow, badly provided for—­that’s why I spent some months in Montreal before I could nerve myself to face them.”  Then her voice softened as she fixed her eyes on him.  “It’s fortunate there are one or two I can rely on.”

Sylvia left him with two clear impressions:  her helplessness, and the fact that she trusted him.  While he sat turning over the papers, his cousin and co-trustee came in.  Herbert Lansing was a middle-aged business man, and he was inclined to portliness.  His clean-shaven and rather fleshy face usually wore a good-humored expression; his manners were easy and, as a rule, genial.