Even in Death

HARSH, clamant, wild, the braying of the long tin horn that hung by a rawhide lashing from the tamarack on the American shore of the Madawaska ferry hurled echoes over the far reaches of the river.

At its second blaring call, imperatively eloquent of deadly haste, the door of the little ferry-shack swung wide and a girl looked out — a girl clad strangely and for rough toil, in faded blue overalls and a checkered mackinaw of felted stuff.