appeared, hastening toward the group in front of the store, Curly’s mother-in-law, wife of the postmaster of Heart’s Desire, and guardian as well of the twins of Heart’s Desire.  It was one of these twins, Arabella, whom she now hurried along with her, at such speed that the child’s feet scarce touched the ground.  When this latter did happen, Arabella seemed synchronously to catch her breath, becoming thus able to emit one more spasmodic wail.  There was pain and fright in the cries, and the whole attitude of the woman from Kansas was such that all knew some tragedy had occurred or was impending.

“Good Lord!” cried Curly, “I’ll bet a thousand dollars the kid’s got my strychnine bottle this time!  I left it in the window.  There was enough to poison a thousand coyotes!”

He sprang forward to catch the other arm of the sobbing child.  The man from Kansas, postmaster of Heart’s Desire, hastened to join his wife in the street, wagging his gray beard in wild queries.  In half a moment all the population was massed in front of Whiteman’s store, incoherent, frightened, utterly helpless.

“She’s dyin’!” cried the woman from Kansas.  “Poison!  Oh, Willyam, what shall we do?” But the postmaster was unable to offer any aid or counsel.

“I just left it there in the window,” explained Curly, excitedly; “I was goin’ to put out some baits around a water hole, about to-morrow.”

“Oh, it’s awful!” sobbed the woman from Kansas.  “What shall we do?  What shall we do?”

“Doc,” said Curly to Doc Tomlinson, “you run the drug store—­ain’t you got no anecdote for this?” Doc Tomlinson could only shake his head mournfully.  A ring of bearded, beweaponed men gathered about the little sufferer, hopeless, at their wits’ end.

Constance and her father, hurrying to learn the cause of the commotion, received but incoherent answers to their questions.  “Good Lord! girl, that child’s hurt!” cried Ellsworth, helpless as the others.  “What’ll we do?”

Constance did not even reply to him.  Without his assistance, indeed without looking to right or left, she made straight through the circle of men, who gave way to admit her.

“What’s the trouble here?  What’s wrong?” she demanded sharply, catching the weeping woman by the arm, even as she reached out a hand toward the suffering Arabella.

“Poison!” wailed the woman from Kansas again.  “She’s goin’ to die!  There ain’t no way to help it.”

“What poison—­what has the child taken?” asked Constance.

“It was strychnine, ma’am, like enough,” ventured Curly.  “There was some—­”

“Nonsense!  It’s not strychnine,” cried the girl.  In an instant her eye had caught what every other individual present had overlooked, although it was certainly the most obvious object in all the landscape,—­the half-empty can which still remained tightly clutched in Arabella’s free hand.

“Why, here it is!” she exclaimed.  “The child has eaten concentrated lye.  Quick!  Get her in somewhere.  What are you standing around here for—­get out of the way, you men!”