“I saw someone standing out there against the snow.  I fired.  I could have sworn it was a man.”

The Girl winced.  But as she stood watching him calmly remove his coat and shake it with the air of one determined to make himself at home, she cried out tauntingly: 

“Why do you stop?  Why don’t you go on—­finish your search—­only don’t ever speak to me again.”

At that, Rance became conciliatory.

“Say, Min, I don’t want to quarrel with you.”

Turning her back on him the Girl moved over to the bureau where she snapped out over her shoulder: 

“Go on with your search, then p’r’aps you’ll leave a lady to herself to go to bed.”

The Sheriff followed her up with the declaration: 

“I’m plumb crazy about you, Min.”

The Girl shrugged her shoulder.

“I could have sworn I saw—­I—­Oh, you know it’s just you for me—­just you, and curse the man you like better.  I—­I—­even yet I can’t get over the queer look in your face when I told you who that man really was.”  He stopped and flung his overcoat down on the floor, and fixing her with a look he demanded:  “You don’t love him, do you?”

Again the Girl sent over her shoulder a forced little laugh.

“Who—­me?”

The Sheriff’s face brightened.  Taking a few steps nearer to her, he hazarded: 

“Say, Girl, was your answer final to-night about marrying me?”

Without turning round the Girl answered coyly: 

“I might think it over, Jack.”

Instantly the man’s passion was aroused.  He strode over to her, put his arms around her and kissed her forcibly.

“I love you, I love you, Minnie!” he cried passionately.

In the struggle that followed, the Girl’s eyes fell on the bottle on the mantel.  With a cry she seized it and raised it threateningly over her head.  Another second, however, she sank down upon a chair and began to sob, her face buried in her hands.

Rance regarded her coldly; at last he gave vent to a mirthless laugh, the nasty laugh of a man whose vanity is hurt.

“So, it’s as bad as that,” he sneered.  “I didn’t quite realise it.  I’m much obliged to you.  Good-night.”  He snatched up his coat, hesitated, then repeated a little less angrily than before:  “Good-night!”

But the Girl, with her face still hidden, made no answer.  For a moment he watched the crouching form, the quivering shoulders, then asked, with sudden and unwonted gentleness: 

“Can’t you say good-night to me, Girl!”

Slowly the Girl rose to her feet and faced him, aversion and pity struggling for mastery.  Then, as she noted the spot where he was now standing, his great height bringing him so near to the low boards of the loft where her lover was lying that it seemed as though he must hear the wounded man’s breathing, all other feelings were swept away by overwhelming fear.  With the one thought that she must get rid of him,—­do anything, say anything, but get rid of him quickly, she forced herself forward, with extended hand, and said in a voice that held out new promise: