The Frontiersman: A Tale of the Yukon. H. A. Cody

in her heart, or the fire which was smouldering there, only awaiting an opportunity to burst forth. At last the time had arrived, and she stood ready with flashing eyes to carry out her design.

      "Jennie," said Keith, calming his voice as much as possible, "how long have you been thinking of this?"

      "Ever since that night," she replied, "when I saw my poor mother and sister lying cold and dead. I said in my heart that some day I would meet him and kill him."

      "And you told no one of what was in your heart, Jennie?"

      "No. The Indians would only have laughed at me for thinking such a thing."

      "But why did you come to me?"

      "The bell told me to come, and I felt you would understand. He hates you and would like to kill you. I thought you would be glad if I killed him."

      Keith placed his hand to his forehead, while a strange helplessness took possession of him. Was this, then, the result of years of prayerful instruction of the truths he had tried to instil into her childish mind? Turning to her he said:

      "Jennie, Jennie. Do you know what you are saying? Do you know it is wrong to kill? It is murder. Do you know the sixth Commandment?" he continued, pointing to the right of the altar.

      "Tinjih zhigotyin rsho," repeated the girl in a mechanical manner.

      "Who said that, Jennie?"

      "God."

      "And do you think God will like it if you do not obey Him?"

      "God will understand; He killed His own enemies."

      "Jennie—!"

      "Anyway, He doesn't mean me," hurried on the girl, when she saw the sorrow in her clergyman's face.

      "Whom does He mean, then?"

      "Men, only. He says so."

      Well did Keith know that "Tinjih zhigtoyin rsho," to the Indian, was "Man, do not kill," but how often he had explained that tinjih, man, meant everybody, men, women, and children. But here was a child—a child in years, though a woman in thought—who through long brooding had absorbed only that which appealed to her own case. What was he to do?

      "Christ said," he replied, after a pause, "that we are to forgive people who wrong us. He said 'your enemies,' and that includes the man who killed your mother."

      "But no one ever killed Christ's mother," answered the girl.

      "No, not His mother, Jennie. But cruel men killed Him, drove nails through His hands and feet, and hung Him on the cross. But He forgave them, and asked His Father to do the same."

      To these words she listened intently, and a gentler look came into her face. "I like Him," she said. "He was good to little children, and loved the birds and flowers."

      A ray of hope shot into Keith's heart. Was he to win after all?

      "Give me the knife, Jennie," and he stretched out his hand for the weapon.

      But the girl drew back. "No, no!" she cried. "You will keep it. I want it."

      "What, to-night?"

      "Yes, to-night. I must kill him."

      Keith arose. His face was stern. He had tried kindness in vain. The girl must be stopped by force from her mad design.

      Jennie read his thoughts only too truly. She clutched the knife more firmly and, before a restraining hand could be laid upon her, she fled down the aisle and out into the cold, silent night.