All night long the wind blew wildly. It raved like a live, mad thing, tearing across the country with tornado-like force.

The house shock and rocked upon its foundations, the rattling windows and clattering doors ready to be burst open every moment.

To the girl, lying wide-eyed throughout the night, it seemed almost as if the voice of the wild wind had the triumphant, mocking tone of the man she loathed. It seemed to typify his immense strength, his power and madness. It was gloating, triumphing over her, buffeting and trampling her down.

Nettie was not given to self-analysis, but for all her simplicity she was capable of intense feeling. Behind her slow thought there slumbered an unlimited capacity for suffering. Now even the elements were preying upon her morbid imagination. She could not sleep for the raging of the terrific wind, the incessant shaking of windows and doors, and all the sounds of a loosely built old ranch house, rattling and trembling in the furious tempest. As she lay in bed, her face crushed into her pillow, her hands over her ears, as though to deaden the roar of the wind, she could not rid her mind of the thought of the man she hated. She was doomed that night to relive the hideous hours spent with him, until, the vision becoming intolerable to her fevered mind, she sprang up in bed, and rocking herself to and fro like one half demented, sat in judgment upon her own acts.

Why had she not killed herself? Why was she living on? Why was she crouched here now upon her bed, when the Ghost River was at hand? True, it was frozen over, but there were great water holes, where the cattle came to drink, and into one of these she might throw herself as into a deep well. Oblivion would come then. Her sick mind would no longer conjure up the loathsome vision of Bull Langdon, and her ears would be deaf to the taunting, beating challenge of the wind, calling to her with its roaring voice to come forth and fight hand to hand with the fates that had crushed her.

"I got to go out!" she moaned. "I got to go out! I can't live no longer."

She put her foot over the side of the bed, and with her head uplifted she listened to what her disordered mind fancied was a voice out of the river, calling to her above the raging of the wind. And as she sat in the dark room, above the raving of the wind, she heard indeed a call—a living voice. Instantly she drew up tensely, holding her breath the more clearly to catch the faint cry.

"Nettie! Nettie!"

It was her mistress. She was out of bed, fumbling for the matches.

The Bar Q was equipped with electricity, but the wires were not connected with the hired girl's room. It was a pitch-dark night. Frightened as she was of the darkness and the storm, the cry of her well-loved mistress awoke all the defensive bravery of her nature, and she called aloud in reply, feeling along the walls, groping her way to the door.

"I'm coming, Mrs. Langdon! I'm coming! I'm coming!"

In the hall she found the electric button, and hurried across to Mrs. Langdon's room. She found the cattleman's wife propped high up on her pillow, breathing with the difficulty of an asthmatic. The window was wide open, and the shades flapped angrily and tore at the rollers. The face on the bed smiled up wanly at Nettie in the reflected light from the hall.

"Oh, Mrs. Langdon, did you call me? Do you want something?"

"Yes, dear. I thought maybe you wouldn't mind closing my window for me. I tried to get up myself, but I had a sort of presentiment that—that you were awake and that perhaps you would—would like to come to me."

"Oh, I was awake, wide, wide awake. I couldn't sleep to save myself. Isn't the wind terrible!"

"It's dying down, I think."

"Oh, it's fiercer than ever," cried the girl wildly. "It's just terrible. I can't bear to hear it. I been awake all night. Just seems as if that wind was shoutin' and screamin' and makin' mock of me, Mrs. Langdon. It's banging upon my—heart. I hate the wind. I think it's alive—a horrible, wild thing. It fights and laughs at me. It's driving me mad."

"Ah, Nettie, you are not yourself these days. It is not the wind, but what is in your heart that speaks. We can even control the wind if we wish. Christ did, and the Christ spirit is in us all, if we only knew how to use it."

Nettie had closed the windows. On her knees by Mrs. Langdon's bed, she was pulling the covers up and tucking them closely about her, and chafing the thin, cold hands.

"You're cold. Your hands are just like ice. I'm going downstairs to heat some water and fill the hot-water bag for you."

"No, no, Nettie. You go right back to bed. I'll go down myself by and by, if I feel the need of the bag."

But though Nettie promised to go back to bed, she hurried down to the lower floor. She had no longer fear of the wind or the darkness. Her mind was intent upon securing the hot-water bag, and she built up a fire in the dead range, and set the kettle upon it.

She was bending over the wood-box, picking but a likely log, when something stirred behind her. Still stooping, she remained still and tense. Slowly the Bull's great arms reached down from behind and enfolded her.

The noise of the wind had deadened his approach to the house. He had come through the living room to the opened kitchen door, by the stove of which was the bending girl.

She twisted about in his arms, only to bring her face directly against his own. She was held in a vise, in the arms of the huge cattleman. His hoarse whispers were muttered against her mouth, her cheek, her neck.

He chuckled and gloated as she fought for her freedom, dumbly, for her thoughts flew up to the woman upstairs. Above all things, Mrs. Langdon must be spared a knowledge of that which was happening to Nettie.

"Ain't no use to struggle! Ain't no use to cry," he chortled. "I got you tight, and there ain't no one to hear. I been thinkin' of you day and night, gell, for months now, and I been countin' off the minutes for this."

She cried in a strangled voice:

"She's upstairs! She'll hear you! Oh, she's coming down. Oh, don't you hear her? Oh, for the love of God! let me go."

The man heard nothing but his clamoring desires.

"Gimme your lips!" said the Bull huskily.

The clipclop of those loose slippers clattering on the stairs broke upon the hush that had fallen in the kitchen. Through all her agony Nettie heard the sound of those little feet, and she knew—she felt—just when they had stopped at the lower step as Mrs. Langdon clung to the bannister. Slowly the wife of the cowman sank to the lowest step. She did not lose consciousness, but an icy stiffness crept over her face; her jaw dropped, and a glaze came like a veil before her staring eyes.

With a superhuman effort Nettie had obtained her release. She sprang to Mrs. Langdon, and groveled at her feet.

"Oh, Mrs. Langdon, it 'twant my fault. I didn't mean to do no harm. Oh, Mrs. Langdon, I wisht I'd heeded the wind! It must've been warning me. I wisht I'd gone to the Ghost River, when it called to me to come."

Mrs. Langdon's head had slowly dropped forward, just as if the neck had broken. Nettie, beneath her, sought the glance of her eyes, and saw the effort of the moving lips.

"God's—will," said the woman slowly. "A dem-on-stration—of—God. I—had—to leave, Nettie. God's will you—take—my—place."

Across the half-paralyzed face something flickered strangely like a faint smile. Then the girl saw her mistress fall, inert and still against the staircase.

A loud cry broke from the frantic Nettie.

"We've killed her! We've killed Mrs. Langdon!"

"Killed her—nothing," said the man hoarsely, his face twitching and his hands shaking. "I told you she was 'bout ready to croak, and you heard what she said. You was to take her place. That means——"

Nettie had arisen, and her eyes wide with loathing she stared at him in a sort of mad fury. Somehow she seemed to grow strong and tall, and there was a light of murder in her eyes.

"I'd sooner drown myself in the Ghost River," she said.

Like one gone blind she felt her way to her room, and this time the man did not follow her.

The wind raved on; the windows shook; the door easements creaked as if an angry hand were upon them; the white curtains flapped in and out. There was the heavy tramp of men's feet upon the stair; the rough murmur of men's voices in the hall. She knew they were carrying the dead woman to her room.

Hours of silence followed. The Bull had gone with his men to the bunkhouse, and she was alone in the house with the dead woman. For the first time, a sense of peace, a passionate gladness swept over the tortured girl. Mrs. Langdon would know the truth at last! She would have no blame in her heart for Nettie—— Nettie, who had a psychic sense of the warm nearness and understanding of the woman who had passed away.

As she dressed in the darkness of the room, Nettie talked to her, she believed was with her, catching her breath in trembling little sobs and laughs of reassurance.

"You understand now, don't you, and you don't hold it against me? I didn't mean no wrong.... I done the best I could. You don't ask me to stay now that you know, do you, dear?"

The plaid woolen shawl, a Christmas gift from Mrs. Langdon, covered her completely. The gray light of dawn was filtering through the house; the wind had died down. In its place the snow was falling upon the land, spotless and silent. Nettie's face was whiter than the snow as she left her room. Mrs. Langdon's door was closed, and, hesitating only a moment, Nettie stole to it on tiptoe. With her face pressed against it, she called to the woman inside.

"Good-by, Mrs. Langdon. Nobody will ever be so kind to me in this world as you have been."

She listened, almost as if she heard that faint, sweet voice in reply. Then, strangely comforted, she wrapped her cape closer about her, and in her rubbered feet Nettie Day stole down the stairs and went out into the storm.