Tannis was the
only one who seemed to be able to think coherently. It was she
who told Tom where to take the horses and then led Elinor to the
room where Carey was dying. The doctor was sitting by the
bedside and Mrs. Joe was curled up in a corner, sniffling to
herself. Tannis took her by the shoulder and turned her, none
too gently, out of the room. The doctor, understanding, left at
once. As Tannis shut the door she saw Elinor sink on her knees
by the bed, and Carey's trembling hand go out to her head.
Tannis sat down on the floor outside of the door and wrapped
herself up in a shawl Marie Esquint had dropped. In that
attitude she looked exactly like a squaw, and all comers and
goers, even old Auguste, who was hunting for her, thought she was
one, and left her undisturbed. She watched there until dawn came
whitely up over the prairies and Jerome Carey died. She knew
when it happened by Elinor's cry.
Tannis sprang up and rushed in. She was too late for even a
parting look.
The girl took Carey's hand in hers, and turned to the weeping
Elinor with a cold dignity.
"Now go," she said. "You had him in life to the very last. He
is mine now."
"There must be some arrangements made," faltered Elinor.
"My father and brother will make all arrangements, as you call
them," said Tannis steadily. "He had no near relatives in the
world--none at all in Canada--he told me so.
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