Priscilla, in a chair, sat upright and
rather breathlessly wondered how she could manage all she wanted to say
and hear in the small space of time that was hers.
Anton's back was toward her when she uttered her first question and the
words brought him to an upright position, facing her at once.
"Mr. Farwell, where did you come from--I mean before the wreck?"
For a moment the master looked as if about to spring forward to lock the
door and bar the windows. Real alarm was in his eyes.
"Who told you to ask that?" he whispered.
"No one. No one has to tell me questions; I have more of my own than I
can ask. I never thought before about you, Mr. Farwell, we're so used to
you, but now it's because of _me_. I want to know. Somebody has got to
help me--I feel it coming again."
"Feel what coming?" Farwell sat limply down in the chair he had lately
occupied.
"Why, the lure. It comes to the boys, Mr. Farwell. They just get it and
go off to the States, and it's come to me! I've always known it would.
You see, I've got to go away; not just now, but some time. I'm going out
through the Secret Portage.
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