All, however, had heard of her and her father, the giant greybeard who moved and lived in an air of mystery, and apparently secret wealth, for more than once he had given large sums--large in the eyes of folks of moderate means, when charity was needed; as in the case of the floods the year before, and in the prairie-fire the year before that, when so many people were made homeless, and also when fifty men had been injured in one railway accident.

On these occasions he gave disproportionately to his mode of life.
Now, when they saw that Fleda was about to move away, they drew just a little nearer, and presently one of the crowd could contain his admiration no longer.

He raised a cheer.
"Three cheers for Her," he shouted, and loud hurrahs followed.
"Three cheers for Ingolby," another cried, and the noise was boisterous but not so general.
"Who shot Carillon Rapids ?" another called in the formula of the West.
"She shot the Rapids," was the choral reply.

"Who is she ?" came the antiphon.
"Druse is her name," was the gay response.

"What did she do ?" "She shot Carillon Rapids--shot 'em dead.