offered. Hilma did not know what the hour might be; the lights she saw through the window indicated it could not be after midnight, at least. She guessed the sheriff and his wife were abed. There was a chance.
Very gingerly the girl raised the shade just enough to lighten the solid blackness of the room. By this uncertain light she groped for her clothes and hastily donned them. She wondered what had become of her precious bundle,—the apron-bound tin box containing her father's sheep books and the photograph of a bridal couple. Wherever it might be, no chance to look for it now.
Fully dressed, Hilma stepped to the window and groped for the lock. She cautiously threw it back and raised the window by inches, shrinking at the dry squeaking the sash made in its groove. Now she had the lower sash raised full length. She leaned over the sill and looked down. Perhaps ten feet below was the darker shadow of the ground. She carefully climbed through the window, lowered herself by her hands gripped on the sill, swayed for an instant, then dropped.
Just as she landed in a heap on the ground, the girl heard a rifle shot, sharp and clear; then
