That was her first agony and then came the lesser stings of “Momma’s” insults, and at last, a fear.  An incomprehensible fear.  She began to doubt the wisdom of her Western venture.  She began to be terrified at her situation.  All about her lay a frozen world, a wilderness, so many thousand miles from anything that she and her father had ever known.  And in her pocket there was no penny for rescue or escape.  Over her life brooded powerfully Sylvester Hudson, with his sallow face and gentle, contemplative eyes.  He had brought her to his home.  Surely that was an honorable and generous deed.  He had given her over to the care and protection of his wife and daughters.  But why didn’t Mrs. Hudson like it?  Why did she tighten her lips and pull her nostrils when she looked at her helper?  And what was the sinister, inner meaning of those two speeches ... about the purpose of her being in the house at all?  “An ornament on the parlor mantel” ... “aiming to please him....”  Of the existence of a sinister, inner meaning, “Momma’s” voice and look left no doubt.

Something was wrong.  Something was hideously wrong.  And to whom might she go for help or for advice?  As though to answer her question came a foot-step on the stair.  It was a slow, not very heavy step.  It came to her door and there followed a sharp but gentle rap.

“Who is it?” asked Sheila.  And suddenly she felt very weak.

“It’s Pap.  Open your door, girl.”

She hesitated.  Her head seemed to go round.  Then she obeyed his gentle request.

Pap walked into the room.

CHAPTER VIII

ARTISTS

Pap closed the door carefully behind him before he looked at Sheila.  At once his face changed to one of deep concern.

“Why, girl!  What’s happened to you?  You got no call to feel like that!”

He went over to her and took her limp hand.  She half turned away.  He patted the hand.

“Why, girl!  This isn’t very pleasant for me.  I aimed to make you happy when I brought you out to Millings.  I kind of wanted to work myself into your Poppa’s place, kind of meant to make it up to you some way.  I aimed to give you a home.  ’Home, sweet home, there’s no place like home’—­that was my motto.  And here you are, all pale around the gills and tears all over your face—­and, say, there’s a regular pool there on your pillow.  Now, now—­” he clicked with his tongue.  “You’re a bad girl, a regular bad, ungrateful girl, hanged if you aren’t!  You know what I’d do to you if you were as young as you are little and foolish?  Smack you—­good and plenty.  But I’m not agoin’ to do it, no, ma’am.  Don’t pull your hand away.  Smacking’s not in my line.  I never smacked my own children in their lives, except Dickie.  There was no other way with him.  He was ornery.  You come and set down here in the big chair and I’ll pull up the little one and we’ll talk things over.  Put your trust in me, Miss Sheila.  I’m all heart.  I wasn’t called ‘Pap’ for nothing.  You know what I am?  I’m your guardian.  Yes’m.  And you just got to make up your mind to cast your care upon me, as the hymn says.  Nary worry must you keep to yourself.  Come on now, kid, out with it.  Get it off your chest.”