"It is only one's duty to help those who are in difficulties," she said, when she could manage her voice, and still that curious fluttering in her throat. "I hope Mr. Selincourt is not much the worse for his accident. I was afraid that he was terribly shaken. He must have suffered such fearful agony of mind during the time he was being sucked down."

"He is sleeping now, peacefully as an infant. Mr. Ferrars, who is with him, says that his pulse is steady and his heart quiet, so it really looks as if the after effects may not be very bad," Mary answered. Then she said impulsively: "I was on the hill last night when you were waiting for the dogs to help you to make the portage. My heart went out to you then, and I wondered should we ever be friends; but to-day has settled that question so far as I am concerned, and now we must be friends."

Katherine crimsoned right up to the roots of her hair. A year ago how happy such words would have made her! And how glad she would have been of the friendship of Mary Selincourt! But now all the pleasure in such intercourse was checked and clouded, because she was perforce obliged to sail under false colours.

The rosy flush faded from cheeks, neck, and brow, and her face was white and weary as she answered coldly: "It is very kind of you to talk of friendship, but I fancy there is too much difference in our lives to admit of much intercourse. I have to work very hard just now, and I have little or no leisure."

Mary winced as if Katherine had struck her a blow. She was not used to having her offers of friendship flouted in this fashion; but she was too much indebted to this girl in the shabby frock to even dream of resenting the treatment of which poor Katherine was already secretly ashamed.

"I know that you have to work very hard," Mary said gently. "But if you knew how much I honour you for your unselfish courage, I think you would not refuse to let me see as much of you as your work will allow."

Katherine had to come down from her poor little pedestal then, but she made her descent gracefully enough. "If you care to see me at my work, we may even find time for friendship," she said, smiling bravely, although her face was still very pale; "but work and I are such close comrades that only Sunday finds us apart."

"Then I will have you and your work all the week, and you without your work on Sundays," laughed Mary, afterwards saying good night and going back across the river to her father again.



CHAPTER XVII

'Duke Radford's New Friend

Mr. Selincourt suffered but little ill effects from his accident. He stayed in bed two days to ward off any danger of swamp fever, but on the third morning got up at his usual hour, and after breakfast had himself rowed across the river, and paid a visit to the store. Early as it was, Katherine and Phil had already started for an Indian encampment on Ochre Lake, so Mr. Selincourt found only Miles in the store, and he was busy sweeping dead flies from the molasses traps, and spreading fresh molasses for the catching of another batch.

"Hullo, young man! is it you who pulled me out of the mud the other day?" he asked.

"No, sir," replied Miles promptly; "I'm as heavy as Katherine, so not adapted for walking on soft spots. It was Phil who put the rope round you, but Katherine pulled you out."

"A plucky pair they were too, for it must have been difficult work. Are they at home?" Mr. Selincourt asked, as he gazed round the store, and thought what a bare-looking place it was.

"No, they started for Ochre Lake a good time ago. Where there is portage work it is easiest to get it done in the morning this hot weather. Can I have the pleasure of showing you anything this morning, sir?" Miles asked, with his very best business manner, which always had its due effect on the Seal Cove people.

Mr. Selincourt laughed. "I am afraid my wants would have to be moderate, there is so little left to buy," he said, wondering if it were poverty on the part of the Radfords which kept the stock so low.

"We are not so nearly cleared out as you would think," Miles answered, in a confidential tone. "We always like the shelves to look thin at this time of the year; then when the first shipment comes to hand we bring all our surplus stock out of the cellar, and it sells nearly as fast as we can serve it out."

"Well, that is one way of doing business; a shrewd way too," remarked Mr. Selincourt, nodding his head. "I shouldn't wonder if you make a pile some day of your own; you look wideawake enough. What are you going to be when you grow up?"

"A storekeeper; this store keeper, if Katherine can keep the business going until I'm old enough to take the work over," Miles answered, with the same promptness as had arrested Mr. Selincourt's attention at the first.

"It is a hard life for a girl, I should think," he said, as he sat down on a sugar barrel and watched Miles finishing with the traps.

"Yes, it is very hard. You see, there is so much tramping over portages, rowing up and down river, and all that sort of thing. I could manage most of it with Phil's help, only there is pricing the skins, the feathers, and the fish which we take in barter from the Indians. They wouldn't accept my prices, but would declare they were being cheated by the papoose;" and the boy threw so much scorn into his tone that Mr. Selincourt laughed aloud.

"How do you manage when the Indians come here to buy and your sister is away?" he asked.

"Oh, I just call Nellie, that is Mrs. Burton, you know! She doesn't know a thing about business, and is ignorant as a baby about the value of skins, but she is grown-up, so they believe what she says, only I have to tell her first."

"Your father can't attend to anything, then?" Mr. Selincourt enquired pitifully. He had heard a little of 'Duke Radford's affliction, and sympathized keenly with the children who had such a heavy weight of responsibility to carry.

Miles shook his head. "Since his stroke, Father has not been able to do anything at all. His memory is entirely gone, yet he is so pleased to see people, and he always seems happy and content. Have you time to go and talk to him for a little while, sir? He would like to see you, I know."

Mr. Selincourt rose from his barrel with alacrity. "Oh, yes! I will pay him a little visit; in fact, I have nothing else to do for the next hour, for I promised Mary that I would not go wandering round in soft spots to-day."

Miles opened the door of the kitchen and ushered the visitor in. Mrs. Burton was making a batch of bread, and had to limit her welcome to cheery words and smiles; but the twins immediately claimed him as an old friend, rushing upon him with a freedom from shyness which was surprising, until one knew that they were never troubled with that complaint at home.

"Father, Mr. Selincourt has come to see you. He is the new owner of the fleet, you know," Mrs. Burton said, speaking in raised tones to a tall, worn man who sat in the sunshine by the open door, and smiled serenely at the pleasant world outside.

'Duke Radford was not deaf, but they always raised their voices when speaking to him, in order to attract his attention. He seemed to live in a world apart, and it was only by touching him or shouting that he could be brought back to the realities of life. At the sound of his daughter's voice he looked round, and, seeing a stranger in the room, at once rose and came forward with outstretched hand. "I am very glad to see you, sir," he said, in courteous greeting.

Mr. Selincourt was so surprised that he could not hide it. He had expected to see a miserable-looking invalid, with imbecile writ large all over him; instead of whom he was confronted by a dignified, courteous gentleman, whose infirmity was only hinted at by a certain languor of movement and wistfulness of expression.

"I am glad to see you looking so much better than I expected to find you," Mr. Selincourt said, taking the proffered hand and shaking it warmly.

"Yes, I am getting stronger. I have been ill, you know, and it has upset me in many ways; my mind is not what it was, and I cannot remember a great many things which it is very awkward to forget. For instance, I cannot remember, sir, whether I have heard your name or seen your face before;" and as he spoke, 'Duke Radford looked up with wistful uncertainty into the face of the man whom years ago he had wronged so heavily.

"My name you have heard, I dare say, but I do not suppose you have seen me before, because I am an Englishman, and I have only been in Canada for a year," Mr. Selincourt answered gently.

Mrs. Burton had left the room momentarily, or she might have said that her father was an Englishman also. 'Duke Radford had probably forgotten the fact himself, and after a moment of silence, in which he seemed to be gathering up his scattered faculties, he asked:

"Do you think you are going to like Canada, sir?"

"I like it immensely. I intend settling in the country permanently. I have nothing to hold me in England, nor anything which interests me enough to make me want to stay there. But here there is so much to be done; the country is crying out for development, and I—well, I think I want to have a hand in the doing of it," Mr. Selincourt answered.

'Duke Radford nodded his head in complete understanding; something of his old vigour seemed to have returned to him, and for the moment the clouds were swept from his brain.

"Canada is a fine country;" he said. "Even her waste places possess untold sources of wealth. Take this place, for instance: there are fish enough in the rivers and the bay to feed a multitude; there is timber enough to build a dozen towns, and construct a navy as well; yet it continues almost as solitary as when I came here, I can't remember how many years ago."

"It is a great pity; but that may be altered with time. We shall see," replied Mr. Selincourt, then plunged into talk about the resources of the immediate neighbourhood, the possibilities of vast coalfields underlying the forest lands, of minerals lurking in barren hillsides, and many other things.

'Duke Radford came out of his absorption and talked as he had not done for many months, and when the visitor rose to go, after a couple of hours' sitting in the pleasant, homely kitchen, with the appetizing smell of new-baked bread perfuming the air, the invalid begged him to come again very soon.

"Indeed I will, if Mrs. Burton will let me; but if I have tired you with such a long talk she may refuse to allow me in," Mr. Selincourt replied.

"Nellie won't do that. My children are very good to me, although it is very hard on them that I should be left a log on their hands like this. But I hope you will come soon, for you have given me a very happy morning," the invalid said; and rising to his feet he walked slowly into the sunshine, supporting himself on a stout stick, to watch his visitor get into the waiting boat and be rowed away to the opposite bank of the river.

When Katherine and Phil came down from Ochre Lake three hours later, the invalid was still out-of-doors, only now he was seated on a bank in the shade of a spreading spruce, while the twins played round him, building houses of fir cones, and laying out gardens in patterns of pine needles.

"Why, Father, it is pleasant to see you out-of-doors again, and I am sure the air will do you good!" Katherine exclaimed in pleased surprise, as she came down the portage path, laden with a great reed basket filled with ptarmigan eggs.

"Katherine, I have had such a nice morning!" he said with childish eagerness. "Mr. Selincourt has been to see me, and I like him so very much."

Katherine nearly dropped her basket of eggs, being so much astonished; then, pulling herself together with an effort, she managed to say in a natural tone, although her face was rather white: "I am glad you liked him. Did he stay long?"

"Yes, ever so long, and he is coming again soon. He thinks of settling here, and building a house. I am so glad, for I think I never met a man whom I liked better," he replied.

"Then it is lucky that I pulled him out of the mud," put in Phil, who was very much disposed to swagger about his share in rescuing Mr. Selincourt. "But if he'd been a disagreeable animal, I might have been sorry that I had not left him there."

Katherine stood in a dumb amazement at the miracle which had been wrought. All these months she had been dreading the coming of Mr. Selincourt, because of its effect upon her father, and behold, it was the one thing which had brought him happiness!

"Did you pull him out of the mud? What mud?" asked 'Duke Radford in an interested tone, whereupon Phil promptly dropped the bundle he was carrying and launched into a detailed account of the rescue of Mr. Selincourt from the muskeg.

But Katherine went on to the store with her head in a whirl; almost she was disposed to believe that dark story from her father's past to be only a dream, or some conjured-up vision of a diseased fancy—almost, but not quite. Only too well she knew that it was the dread of Mr. Selincourt's coming which had induced her father's stroke, and now—well, it was just the irony of fate, that what had been so terrible in perspective should bring such pleasure in reality.

Jervis Ferrars came in quite early that evening, and suggested that Katherine should go with him to Ochre Lake, as he had some business at the Indian encampment, and wanted a companion.

"But I have been to Ochre Lake once to-day; Phil and I went this morning. I brought home a hundred eggs in one basket, and had to carry them over both portages myself," she said, laughing.

"Never mind; another journey in the same direction won't hurt you, because I will do the work," he answered. "I want to borrow your boat, don't you see? and of course it lessens a little my burden of indebtedness if you are there too."

"I shall also be useful in getting the boat over the portage," laughed Katherine, then ran away to get ready. There was really nothing to keep her at the store this evening, and so few pleasures came her way that it would have been foolish to refuse.

"Nellie, I am going to Ochre Lake with Mr. Ferrars. Do you mind?" she asked, as she hurriedly shed her working frock and clothed herself anew.

"No, dear, of course I don't. Good-bye! I hope you will have a pleasant time," said Mrs. Burton, then kissed her sister affectionately.

Katherine was a little surprised. Mrs. Burton was not given to over-much demonstration of feeling, and so the kiss was out of the ordinary. But then the evening was out of the ordinary too. As a rule she hurried along the portage path, laden with burdens as heavy as she could carry. To-night she sauntered at a leisurely pace with no burdens at all; even the cares of the day were thrust into the background for the moment, and she was genuinely lighthearted and happy. It was pleasant, too, to sit at ease while Jervis pulled the boat up river with long, swinging strokes that never suggested tired arms in even the remotest connection; and if they did not talk much, it was only because the river and the sunset seemed suggestive of silence. They had passed the second portage, and waved a greeting to Mrs. M'Kree, who was sitting at ease in her garden while Astor lounged beside her. Then Jervis began to talk about himself, which was unusual, the subject apparently having but little interest for him in a general way.

"I have been writing to my mother to-day. It seems strange to think we shall have a post out from here once a month all the summer," he remarked, rowing slower now, as if he were tired of violent exercise, and desired to take things easy.

"How glad your mother will be to get the letters!" exclaimed Katherine, wondering how the poor woman had borne the weary waiting of the past weeks.

"It has been hard on her, poor little Mother!" he said softly, then went on with a hardness in his tone that grated on the ears of the listener: "Few women have had to know greater contrasts in life than my mother. She was brought up in the purple, a maid to brush her hair and tie her shoestrings, but for the last six years she has lived in a four-roomed cottage, and has done the family washing."

"Oh, how hard for her!" exclaimed Katherine.

"It was hard, poor Mother!" Jervis said, and his voice grew so tender that the listener understood the previous hardness must have been meant for someone else. He was silent for some time after that, and, pulling slowly up the river, kept his eyes fixed on the water which was gliding past.

Katherine sat with her gaze fixed on the treetops, whilst her fancies were busy with the poor lady who had fallen from the luxury of having a lady's maid to doing the work of a washerwoman.

"I was to have been a doctor," Jervis said abruptly, taking up the talk just where he had dropped it. "We were very poor, so I had worked my way on scholarships and that sort of thing. I was very keen on study, for I meant to make a name for myself. I believe I should have done too, but——"

He broke off suddenly, and, after a pause, Katherine ventured gently: "Don't you think it is the 'buts' which really make us live to some purpose?"

"At least they make a mighty difference in our outlook," he admitted with a smile. "The particular 'but' which stopped my medical studies, and drove me into the first situation where I could earn money was the death of my father, and the consequent cessation of the income which had been his allowance under his grandfather's will. We had been poor before; after that we were destitute."

Katherine nodded sympathetically. Her life had been hard, and there was plenty of rough work in it, but she had never been within seeing distance of destitution, and she had plenty of pity for those whose lives had been fuller of care than her own.

"I tried keeping near home first," went on Jervis; "but it was of no use. There was no room for me anywhere; the only thing I could get to do was a miserable clerkship at twelve shillings a week. Just think of it! Twelve shillings a week, and there were four of us to live! I bore it for six months, and then I cleared out. My next brother, who is four years younger, got work which brought in enough to buy his food, and I have managed to send home something to help to keep my mother and the youngest boy, who is still at school."

"Perhaps the necessity to do your utmost has been very good for you," Katherine ventured demurely.

"I think it has," he answered with emphasis. "At any rate, I don't feel disposed to quarrel now with the destiny which has knocked me about the world, and brought me eventually to an anchorage like this."

Katherine's face flamed scarlet, to her intense mortification. What would this man think of her, what must he think of her, if she changed colour at every word he said?

But Jervis did not appear to notice her confusion, for which she was devoutly thankful, and in a moment he went on talking: "It is going to make a very great difference to me if Mr. Selincourt decides to spend money in developing this place. The fisheries, properly worked, will yield a cent-per-cent interest on the outlay, and that is going to make a big difference to me, because I am not manager merely, but I have a share in the profits also."

"A working partner," suggested Katherine.

"Something of the kind," he replied. Then turning his head he saw that they were close to the Indian encampment, for long lines of fish were stretched in all directions, drying in the sun.

"The end of our journey," he said lightly. "Do you sit here in the boat and I will have my business finished in about ten minutes."

Katherine's gaze went to the treetops again, only now it was not trees and sky that she saw, but a rose-hued future of happiness stretching out before her.



CHAPTER XVIII

Standing Aside

Mrs. Burton was perplexed, and a good bit troubled in her mind. She was honestly proud of Katherine's beauty, and longed that her sister should have an easier life than she had had herself. So that when Jervis Ferrars had begun to show rather a decided inclination to cultivate Katherine's society, the elder sister had felt both glad and sorry because of it. She was glad, because any girl might have felt honoured by the notice of a man like Jervis Ferrars: But she was sorry because he was so poor, and marriage with him must mean for Katherine a life of hard work and much drudgery; for in remote places and pioneer settlements it was on the women, the wives and the mothers, that the real hardships of life fell.

Her own husband had been a poor man, a bright young Canadian, as good-looking as Jervis Ferrars, but without his culture. Ted Burton had commanded one of the boats of the fishing fleet, and was holder of a good many shares in the company as well; but one day his vessel came home without him, and Mrs. Burton had to return a widow to her father's house. No wonder she dreaded Katherine wedding after the same fashion. History has a trick of repeating itself, and she could not bear to think of sunny-hearted Katherine having to live always in the shadows, as she herself had done.

But the worry oppressing her just now was concerned also with Mary Selincourt. Mary spent a great deal of time at the store, and when she was there she made herself useful like other people. She had even served an Indian squaw with coloured calico of an astonishing pattern, had clicked off the proper number of yards in the most business-like fashion, and then had demanded: "What next, if you please?" in a manner as collected as if she had served an apprenticeship behind a counter. A most delightful companion was Mary, and Mrs. Burton fairly revelled in her society: but Mary had one strange habit which puzzled her, she always avoided Jervis Ferrars when it was possible to do so, and she had a trick of blushing when his name was mentioned. These symptoms were proof positive to Mrs. Burton that Mary cared for Jervis, and she was sorely troubled about it.

Katherine, on the other hand, seemed to be absolutely heart-whole; she went about her daily work with a zest which was refreshing to behold. She always seemed to be happy and content, while she treated Jervis in much the same fashion as she did Miles, and teased him whenever the occasion seemed to demand it, which was very often.

It was the middle of July, and the great event of the year had taken place, that is, the first steamer had come through Hudson Strait, and was anchored off Seal Cove. 'Duke Radford had heavy shipments in this vessel, and for a few days Katherine left the outside customers to their own devices, spending busy hours in checking invoices and helping to stow away the merchandise which Stee Jenkin and Miles brought up river in boatloads from the steamer. These goods had been ordered in October of the year before, but that was how things had to be done in that awkward corner of the world, where ice blocked the ocean road for eight months out of the twelve.

The steamer which brought groceries and dry goods for the store was to take away sealskins, walrus-skins, narwhal ivory, whalebone, and blubber of various sorts, which had been accumulating in the fish shed since the fishing began. This made Jervis as busy in his way as Katherine was in hers. Indeed, the press of work was so great that Mary went down day after day to do the writing in the office at Seal Cove, while Mr. Selincourt, with his shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows, helped Jervis to pack skins and weigh blubber.

It was easy for Mary to get away, as most of her housework and a good deal of the cooking was done for her by the portage men who happened to be in residence at Roaring Water Portage. When Mr. Selincourt hired men and boats at Temiskaming, he hired them for the whole summer, and planned their work to suit his own convenience. There were two men to each boat, and after the first journey with luggage-laden boats the men found that they could manage the journey each way in a little over a fortnight. So two pairs of them were always en route, while the third pair rested and did housework at the hut at Roaring Water Portage, taking their departure with mails when another pair of their companions returned from the lake.

When Mrs. Burton was troubled about anything it was sure to come out sooner or later, and one night during that week of bustle and hard work she spoke of the matter that was on her mind. The sisters were brushing their hair before going to bed. Somehow hair-brushing lends itself to confidential talk, especially when, as in this case, awkward things have to be put into speech, because a veil of hair will hide a good many emotions.

"Do you know, I believe that Mary cares for Mr. Ferrars," Mrs. Burton blurted out, with considerable nervous trepidation, turning her back on Katherine, and wielding her brush as if her life depended on her accomplishing a given number of strokes per minute.

"What put such an idea into your head, you delightful old matchmaker?" demanded Katherine, with a ripple of amused laughter, while her brush went slower as she waited for the answer.

"A good many things," Mrs. Burton said, warming to her subject, and feeling relieved already by the careless ease of Katherine's manner. "Mary always avoids Mr. Ferrars when it is possible to do so, and I have never once seen her touch his hand, though she shakes hands with every other person she meets. I have even seen her shake hands with Oily Dave, a thing I would not do myself."

"Am I to understand, then, that if one person will not shake hands with another it is a sign of being in love?" asked Katherine in a teasing tone. "Because, if so, what about your own refusal to touch the hand of Oily Dave?"

Mrs. Burton laughed, and her heart felt lighter than for many days past; for if Katherine could laugh and make jokes in this fashion, it was plain there was no harm done. So she drew a long breath and went on: "I wish you would try to be serious for a few minutes and listen to me. What is only fun to you may be grim earnest to poor Mary, and I like her so well that I do not care to think of her missing the best thing that life can give her."

"Which is——?" queried Katherine mischievously.

"Which is the love she longs for," Mrs. Burton answered, with a sentimental sigh.

Katherine broke into irrepressible laughter. Then, when her mirth had subsided a little, she said: "Just fancy speaking of a girl as 'Poor Mary' whose father has an income of five or six thousand pounds a year!"

"Still, she is poor in spite of her money if she can't get what she wants," Mrs. Burton said, sticking to her point. "Money isn't everything by a long way, and you can't satisfy heart-hunger with dollars, or pounds either."

"Did Mary take you into her confidence concerning this want which money can't satisfy?" demanded Katherine, a touch of scorn in her tone and a chill feeling at her heart, as if someone had laid an icy finger upon it.

"Dear me, no! Mary is not the sort of girl to go round howling about what she wants but can't get," Mrs. Burton replied. "But I have eyes in my head, and I think a married woman sees more, and has a larger understanding of affairs of the heart, than a girl who has had no experience at all."

"That is very probable," Katherine said quietly, while the chill feeling grew and intensified, despite her efforts to make light of the matter. "But what has all this to do with me? Do you want me to approach Mr. Ferrars on the subject, and say to him that he had better make haste and satisfy the heart-hunger of the rich Miss Selincourt?"

Mrs. Burton looked absolutely shocked. "Dear Katherine, do be serious for once if you can!" she pleaded. "If I thought that you cared for Mr. Ferrars yourself I should never have mentioned this to you at all; but you are so plainly fancy-free that surely it won't hurt you to stand aside and let Mary have her chance."

"Stand aside? How?" Katherine kept her voice steady by an effort, while her thoughts flew back to that evening when Jervis Ferrars had taken her up to Ochre Lake, and had talked to her of the struggles and hardships of his life. She had been so happy that evening, and every day since had been like a festival. There had been no need to put things into words: she had known that night that Jervis Ferrars cared for her; she had been equally well assured that she cared for him, and the knowledge brought with it a rest and contentment such as she had never known before. But if what her sister said was correct, then it might be that she was wrong, something worse than selfish even, to take this good thing which was offered to her; and the standing-aside idea would have to be very carefully considered.

Mrs. Burton rolled up her abundant hair, and poked in half a dozen hairpins to keep it in place. Then she said: "You are so much better-looking than Mary, and you have so much more charm of manner! It is easy to see that Mr. Ferrars is attracted by you, because his eyes always follow you every time you move. Then you saved his life at considerable risk, which, of course, is tremendously in your favour, or would be, if you cared about him. But if you don't really want to marry him it would be kind to stand back and let Mary have a chance. Of course it would be an immense advantage to Mr. Ferrars to marry Mr. Selincourt's daughter, for I fancy he is very poor, although he is such a cultured gentleman; and money does make a great deal of difference in the comfort of one's daily life."

"Indeed it does, my wise, practical sister. Really, your argument is not half bad, and is well worth my best consideration, which it shall have," said Katherine; then giving her sister a good-night kiss, she dived into bed and promptly went to sleep, or at least pretended to do so, which was the same thing in its effect on Mrs. Burton, who soon went to sleep herself.

In reality there was little rest for Katherine that night, for she was faced by a problem that had never even occurred to her before. If she followed the desire of her own heart, she stood in the way of two people. True, she might make Jervis Ferrars happy with her love, more especially as she was quite sure that he cared for her. But would there ever come a time when he might be tempted to wish for more worldly advantages, and to long for the power that money brings? Lying there in the twilight of the northern summer night, which was never in that month quite dark, Katherine faced the future with a steady, single-hearted desire to do the right thing at all costs. She felt herself doubly bound. Her own love for Jervis made her hesitate about allowing him to bind himself to a life of poverty, or at least a life of continuous struggle, such as marriage with a portionless wife must bring.

But Jervis was only one consideration. There was Mary also to be thought of. And then it flashed upon Katherine that Mary had even more claim upon her than Jervis. Ever since 'Duke Radford had been stricken down, robbed of memory, of understanding, and the power to think and act for himself, Katherine had carried her father's sin as if it were a wrongdoing of her own. He had implored her to expiate it if she could. But how could she? Even the saving grace of confession was denied to her, for she could not go to Mr. Selincourt and say: "My father did you a bitter wrong many years ago; please forgive him, and say no more about it!"

It was true that she and Phil had saved the rich man's life by pulling him out of the muskeg, but there had been little personal risk for herself in the matter, although it had been very hard work, and there were scars on her hands still where the ropes had cut into the skin. Hard work was not self-sacrifice, however, and as Katherine understood things it was only by self-sacrifice that she could expiate her father's sin, if indeed it ever could be expiated.

Could she do it? Lying there in the mean little room, with the grey twilight showing outside the open window, she told herself 'No': she could not do it, she could not stand aside and give up to another what she wanted so badly for herself. But, as the slow hours stole by, a different mood crept over her. She thought of the Saviour of the world, and the sacrifices he had made for man; then prayed for grace to tread the thorny path of self-immolation, if such action should be required of her.

She dared not rise to kneel and pray, the little bedroom was too crowded for privacy; and although she often yearned for a room, however small, to have for her sole use, this was not possible. Folding her hands on her breast, she prayed for strength to do what was right, for guidance in the way she had to go, and wisdom to see the true from the false. Then, because her day's work had made her so very tired, she fell asleep, and presently began to dream that she was at the marriage of Mary Selincourt with Jervis Ferrars, and that it was her place to give away the bride. She was doing her part, as she believed, faithfully and well, although the dragging pain at her heart was almost more than she could endure, and the part of the marriage service had been reached where the ring should have been put on Mary's hand, when, to her amazement, she found it was on her own finger.

"Katherine, Katherine, how soundly you sleep, dear! Wake up, we are quite late this morning!" said Mrs. Burton, and Katherine opened her tired, heavy eyes to find that Beth and Lotta were enjoying a lively pillow fight on the other bed, and that their mother was already half-dressed.

For one moment she lay weakly wishing that she had not to rise to work, to struggle, and to endure; but the next minute found her out of bed and thrusting her face into a basin of cold water, which is, after all, the very best way of gathering up a little courage.

When she was dressed and out in the fresh air things did not look so bad. Mrs. Burton might have been quite mistaken in thinking that Mary cared for Jervis Ferrars. In the broad light of the sunshiny morning the very idea seemed absurd. The rich man's daughter had a wide circle to choose from; it was scarcely likely that her choice would fall on a poor man, whose position was little removed from that of a Hudson Bay fisherman.

Of course it was absurd! Mrs. Burton must have had a sentimental streak on last night, and she herself was uncommonly foolish to have been made so miserable for nothing at all.

When Katherine reached this point in her musings her laughter rang out again, the future brightened up, and she was ready to face anything the day might bring. Happiness is such a great factor in one's life; and when that is secured it is easy to make light of the ordinary ills, troubles, cares, and vexations which are sure to crop up even in the smoothest kind of existence. But she meant to watch very closely for some sign which might guide her in gaining an insight into Mary's heart. She must make absolutely certain that Mrs. Burton was wrong. It was not easy to see just how she would be able to do this; but it must be done, of course it must be done!

The day passed in a feverish round of incessant work. One hour Katherine was happy as of old, the next hour she was horribly heartsick and oppressed. But it never once occurred to her that the reason for this was her exhausted condition from loss of rest on the previous night.

In the evening Jervis came up from Seal Cove, sat and talked with 'Duke Radford for half an hour, then asked Katherine to come and walk with him in the woods to see if the wild strawberries were getting ripe. But she refused, declaring that her head ached, which, although true, was not the real reason by any means.

"I am afraid you have been working too hard this week," he said kindly. "I have been very much in the same plight myself, or I would have come up to help you. Can you save things back for a few days? As soon as the steamer has gone I shall be quite at leisure, and will put in a day or two at helping you to get your stores stowed away."

"It has been hard work, and of course we are to a certain extent novices at it," Katherine answered. "But the worst is over now until the next boat comes, when I suppose the confusion will begin all over again, only of course by then we shall be more used to managing things."

"You had better go to bed early and get a good night's rest, or I shall be having you for a patient next, and I am very much afraid you would not prove a tractable one," he said, more troubled by her pale cheeks and weary looks than he cared to confess.

"I have never been ill in my life, so I have no idea how the role of invalid would suit me," she answered with a mirthless laugh, thinking how very pleasant a stroll in the woods would have been after her long, hard day of work in the stockrooms.

"I don't think it would suit you at all," he replied. Then he said, as he rose to go: "As you are not inclined for a walk, I will go and have a talk with Mr. Selincourt about the plans for the fish-curing sheds."

Standing aside was dismal work, Katherine told herself; and there were tears on her pillow when she went to sleep that night.



CHAPTER XIX

An Awkward Fix

Mr. Selincourt was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet when he had any sort of project in hand. He was so rich, too, that his schemes never had to suffer delay from want of means to carry them through. Directly he had made up his mind that he meant to have a fish-curing establishment at Seal Cove, he had the plans drawn for the buildings, work which fell to Jervis and Mary; then, when these were ready, Astor M'Kree was set to work, with as many helpers as could handle a hammer or a saw with any degree of dexterity.

Never had there been such a summer of work at Seal Cove; everyone who could do anything was pressed into service. Some of the Indians, tempted by wages, were set to work, and although they were no good at carpentry, or things of that sort, they did very well at cod-splitting, or, as it was termed, "flaking", and spreading the fish to dry on the flakes, as the structures were called which had been erected on a sunny headland, after the fashion of the fish-flakes at St. John's, Newfoundland, whence the idea was taken.

Already Mr. Selincourt was in treaty for the purchase of land on both sides of the river. He wanted to possess the river frontage on each bank of the water, from the bay up to the first portage; but the drawback to this was that 'Duke Radford owned nearly three quarters of a mile of frontage close to the store, so it was not likely that the owner of the fishing fleet would get all the ground into his own hands.

Mary had a fancy for geology, and when her father had no need of her help in forwarding his schemes she spent long days in tramping about the woods and the shore, armed with a hammer and a specimen bag, and accompanied by one or two of the big dogs from the store. True to her resolve, she had lost no time in making friends with the great, fierce creatures, which roamed as they pleased in summer, as a sort of holiday compensation for the hard work they had to do in winter, when stores had to be transported by sledges. She had done her work so thoroughly that the dogs became, not merely her friends, but her abject slaves, and were ready at any time to swim the river at her call.

The coast of the bay to the northward was flat and swampy, but southward from Seal Cove it stretched in bold headlands and precipitous rocks for mile on mile, until the mouth of the next river spread acres of swamp 'twixt land and sea. Beyond the headland on which Mr. Selincourt had erected his fish-flakes there extended miles of broken ground, with split rocks and riven cliffs which might have been the result of volcanic upheaval, but were probably only the product of the intense frost of centuries. This was Mary's happy hunting ground, a place full of scientific surprises, and full of dangers too. For the rocks were slippery, the heights tremendous, and a fall in many places must have meant certain death.

Jervis Ferrars had been in his boat one morning along the coast to a certain bay or inlet much beloved of the black-headed gulls. These birds were valuable either for their plucked feathers, or for their skins with the feathers left on. They frequented the inlet in their tens of thousands, and it had occurred to him that it might be good business to secure a couple of thousand skins, and get them dry for packing by the time the next boat arrived, probably in the middle of August.

He had beached his boat, and spent an hour or more wandering round the crags, and planning the campaign against the luckless gulls, which dozed in sleepy content on the sunny slopes of the inlet. Then, taking to his boat again, he pulled himself back towards Seal Cove, maturing his plans on the way. He was passing a rocky promontory just before reaching the fish-flakes, when he heard a yelping noise, and, looking up, saw a big dog running to and fro on the rocks in evident distress. But there were so many big dogs running loose in the woods and the wilds at this time of the year, and as they were mostly in distress over something or other, he took very little notice of the creature, and, working steadily on, arrived in due course at the fish shed.

Jervis was tired, having pulled many miles through a choppy sea with the wind against him, and he was thinking that it would be really pleasant to sit writing for an hour or two somewhere out of the roaring of the wind. Entering his office, he took off his jacket and sat down on the rough stool before the equally rough desk where his clerical work was principally done.

But he had not entered two items in his book of takings when Mr. Selincourt came in hastily, with a worried look on his face.

"Have you seen Mary in your travels?" he asked.

"No; I didn't even know that Miss Selincourt was at Seal Cove this morning," Jervis answered, looking up from his writing.

"She came down a good two hours before I did; said she wanted to go over the rocks to test some ironstone formation which she discovered the other day. She promised to be back here to meet me when I arrived, but that is three hours ago, and she has not come yet."

Jervis sat looking at him in an abstracted fashion, as if trying to settle some clue which threatened to escape him; then, with a start, he asked: "Had she a dog with her?"

"Most likely; she never moves very far without one or two of those great brutes from the store to keep her company, and a good thing too. I always feel more comfortable about her then, than if she were alone."

Jervis jumped up and began to pull on his jacket with nervous haste. He was remembering the dog he had seen on the rocks an hour or two ago, and the creature's evident distress, which probably meant that Miss Selincourt was in trouble also.

"What is the matter?" demanded Mr. Selincourt.

"Nothing, I hope. But as I came home a while ago from the inlet I noticed a dog on the rocks, a big creature that seemed in trouble. I didn't think much of it then, but of course it must have been the animal that was with Miss Selincourt, so I am going to see if she is all right," Jervis answered.

"I will come with you," said Mr. Selincourt.

"Please, no; I can go faster alone. And if she is not really in difficulties we might both miss her, and have a long, anxious hunt for no purpose at all. If you will walk over beyond the fish-flakes, and come to the rocks from that direction, you will either meet her or meet me," Jervis said, then hurried off to his boat, which was drawn up on the shore at a little distance from the fish shed.

It must have been two miles away, perhaps three, that he had seen the dog, and now he blamed himself because he had not taken more notice of its trouble. The worst of it was, he was not quite sure as to where he had seen the creature. The sky was overcast, and the weather looked so threatening that, unless he could find Miss Selincourt soon, and hurry her home, she would scarcely escape a very bad wetting.

Resting on his oars, he sent out a mighty shout, then waited with every sense on the alert. One minute passed—two—and when five minutes had gone he shouted again, following this up with a whistle so piercing that it fetched a distant echo from the rocks.

But was it an echo?

The sound had scarcely died away when it was repeated again. A moment later Jervis heard it yet again, and knew for a certainty that it was no echo, but someone whistling back to him.

The breeze had freshened to a gale that roared in his ears like thunder, as he drew his boat high up beyond reach of the tide that was running in strongly; and when the boat was safe he set out to climb the rocks. Up, and up, a dizzy height he went, finding foothold with difficulty, for what looked like solid rock had a trick of crumbling when stepped upon, just as if it were rotten mortar.

But he reached the top at last, and paused to look about him, holding fast with both hands, for the force of the wind at this height was so great that he feared lest he should be blown away.

On one side was the bay, with great waves, foam-crested, rolling in, to break with a thunderous roar on the beach. Spread out on the other hand was the wild, rocky waste, full of dangers now, for in the deep valleys between great rock boulders the incoming tide was rising and making deep pools where a little before had been dry ground.

It was these pools that Jervis feared. If Mary had slipped into one of these deep places she might easily be caught by the rising flood, and drowned before help could reach her.

The mere thought turned him sick, and he whistled shrilly as before.

The answering whistle came so promptly, and sounded so close, that he started in surprise, then shouted: "Where are you?"

"Here," replied a voice that sounded so close, so audibly that he looked round in mystification. Then he saw a deep gulch yawning below him, and caught the flutter of a handkerchief on the far side. But how could he reach there? Down he plunged with reckless haste, having little or no regard for his own safety—and, indeed, he who hesitated here was lost, for at every step the rock crumbled and slid under his weight.

"It will be queer work getting back!" he said to himself, then pressed onward to reach the side of the gulch, where now he could see Mary Selincourt crouched on a narrow ledge or shelf against a perpendicular cliff, while the water was rising higher and higher, creeping nearer and nearer to where she sat.

How could he rescue her from there? One hope he had, that her shelf might be above high-water mark, in which case patient endurance would be all that was needed until the tide ran out again. A glance at the wall of cliff behind Mary proved this hope to be futile, for the mark of the water showed above her head, and if she were not rescued speedily, he could only stand by and see her drown.

"Are you hurt?" he called out when he had scrambled low enough to talk to her.

"I have twisted my foot rather badly," she said in an exhausted tone, "and I seem to have been shouting and whistling for help for so long. I had great difficulty to make the dog leave me and go for help, but I think it understood at last, because it went off at such a pace."

"Well, we must get you out of this as soon as possible, for the tide is coming up fast. Do you mind a wetting!" he asked, creeping down to the edge of the dividing water, and wondering whether he could wade or if he must swim.

"Mind or not mind, I shall get one, I expect," she answered, with a nervous laugh. "Be careful, Mr. Ferrars, there is a very deep place just below this shelf, and the water showed there before anywhere else; it seemed to ooze up from the bottom."

"I must swim for it, then, I suppose," he said, pulling off his jacket and his boots; then, slipping into the water, he struck out and crossed the strip of rising tide, which lay like a river along the bottom of the gulch.

But when he reached the shelf it was above him, and the cliff was too steep for climbing.

"You must roll off that shelf and drop into the water," he said in a sharp, decided tone.

"Oh, I dare not! I cannot swim, and I might be drowned!" cried Mary, her face turning ashen white.

"You won't drown—I will catch you. But make haste, this water is so cold that I am afraid of cramp," Jervis said, feeling his teeth chatter. Although it was July, there was so much ice in the bay in the shape of floating bergs that the water was of course fearfully chill.

"I can't do it; I simply can't!" she cried, with a shudder. "Mr. Ferrars, I would rather lie here and drown than have to roll off into that dreadful water. All my life I have been a coward, and it is of no use expecting me to be brave now."

"You must do as you choose, of course, as you are too high up for me to be able to reach you," he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could, although his teeth were chattering still; "but all the time you stay there you keep me here, so in compassing your own death you compass mine also."

"Go away, Mr. Ferrars, go away, and save yourself," she groaned. "I cannot, I dare not, plunge into that dreadful water!"

"You must; there is no other way to safety. Come, be a brave girl, and take the plunge," he urged, a note of entreaty coming into his tone, for life was sweet to him, sweeter than it had ever been before, and it was dreadful to think that he must throw it away because this wilful girl refused to allow herself to be saved. But she only covered her face with her hands, moaning and crying because of the panic that had her in its grip.

Then Jervis felt himself lifted higher; the water was rising fast, and now, by straining upward and reaching as far as he could, he managed just to touch the shelf whereon Mary was crouched,

"Here I am. Now, take my hand and come," he said urgently.

She only covered her face with her hands and moaned, but would not stir nor look up.

In that narrow gulch they were sheltered from the wind, but the rain was beginning to pour down in torrents, and Jervis thought grimly that she would soon be as wet as if she had taken the plunge.

He was kicking vigorously in the water, and was thankful to find that, now he had got over the first chill, his teeth were not chattering so miserably.

Another ten minutes, he reckoned, would put him high enough in the water to scramble on to the ledge, and then it would have to be a tussle of physical strength, if necessary, for he meant to save Mary somehow, whether she would let him or not.

The minutes dragged slowly on, the rain beat down with tempestuous violence, and in that dreary gulch it was dark, almost like night. But the water was rising still, and putting out all his strength Jervis dragged himself up on to the shelf of rock. Mary saw him coming. Then she scrambled to her feet with a cry of fear, and, before he could stretch out an arm to save her, reeled and toppled over into the water.



CHAPTER XX

Katherine Makes a Discovery

Katherine was having a thorough turn-out of the store. Everything was off the shelves, the cobwebs had all been swept from the ceiling, and now, armed with a scrubbing-brush, she was cleaning all the shelves with soap and water. To use her own expression, it was "horridly" dirty work. But it had to be done, so the sooner it was got through and finished the better. She had done the top shelves all round, and, changing the water in her pail, had started on the next lot and was scrubbing vigorously, when she heard a long-drawn, mournful howl from the other side of the river.

"That is Hero," she said to herself in surprise; and then, remembering that Mary Selincourt had called for the dog that morning on her way down river, she came down the ladder, and, going to the door, looked out.

There was Hero plainly enough, a big black-and-white dog, which, while looking like a Newfoundland, had such a marked aversion to water that it would never swim if it could avoid doing so. Katherine would have turned back to her work, and left the dog to remain where it was until someone came along with a boat, but she remembered that Mary had wanted the dog to accompany her in a ramble, and so it was rather disquieting to find the creature had wandered home again.

Sitting on its haunches, the dog was flinging up its head for another howl, but, chancing to catch sight of Katherine, it broke into eager barking instead, pleading so plainly for a dry journey across the river that, with a laugh at her own weak yielding, she ran down to the bank, and, getting into the boat which was moored there ready for anyone who might want it, rowed across to the other side, where the dog awaited her in a perfect ecstasy of welcome.

She had no hat on, the sleeves of her cotton blouse were rolled up over her elbow, and she wore still the big rough apron she had donned for scrubbing. It struck her, as she crossed the river, that the wind was very cold, and that the day was grey and cheerless, now the clouds had hidden the sun.

Hero jumped into the boat, and, crouching at Katherine's feet, fawned upon her with great affection and delight.

"Oh, yes, you are very glad to see me, I have no doubt, but really you are a fearful fraud to bring me away from my work on a busy day like this, by pretending you cannot swim, when it is plain you have been in the water, for you are dripping with wet!" Katherine said, seeing the water which ran from the dog's thick coat as it sat in the boat thumping a grateful tail in thanksgiving. Then she noticed that the dog had something tied round its neck which looked like a silk waist-belt, and that a handkerchief was knotted to the belt.

"Something is wrong!" she muttered to herself; then, reaching the other side, she moored her boat and proceeded to investigate the message wrapped About the dog's neck.

A scrap of paper with writing upon it was crumpled up in the handkerchief, and spreading this out she read:

"Please come and help me, for I have had a tumble down a steep rock and twisted my foot. I can't walk, and I am on a ledge deep down a gulch near the sea, on the rocks beyond the fish-flakes. MARY SELINCOURT."

"Deep down in a gulch near the sea," quoth Katherine to herself with a puzzled frown; then she jumped up with a cry. "I know where it is; that gulch is one of the tideholes, and she will be drowned if I don't make haste!"

Out of the boat she bounded, and rushed up the slope to the store. Springing over the confusion of canisters and boxes, she hurried into the house, where Mrs. Burton was sitting at work making new frocks for the twins.

"Nellie, will you look after the store for an hour? I should lock the door if I were you, and refuse to serve anyone who comes, for it is confusion thrice confounded in there, and I don't think you would be able to find things if you tried."

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Burton, looking up and seeing how frightened her sister seemed.

"Hero has just come home, and I have found tied to his neck a note from Mary, saying that she has sprained her ankle and is lying in one of the tide-holes beyond the fish-flakes. I must hurry down to Seal Cove as hard as I can row, for the tide is coming in now, and she may be in danger."

"Are there none of the portage men who could go with you to help you?" asked Mrs. Burton.

"I may find one at Seal Cove, but there are none here. One went down river early with Mary, the other rowed Mr. Selincourt down an hour or more ago. I will be back as soon as I can, dear; or it may be that Miles and Phil will get in first: but keep the store locked until someone comes."

"Indeed I will; trust me for that!" said Mrs. Burton, dropping her work and following Katherine to the door to see her start.

As Katherine turned back to say something, two steps from the threshold, a coil of strong cord hung on the house wall caught her attention, and after a moment's hesitation she reached up and took it down. It was the identical coil of rope that she and Phil had had in the boat that day when they came home from Fort Garry and found Mr. Selincourt in the muskeg. It had slipped aside and been forgotten until a day or two ago, when Katherine had found it, scrubbed it clean of muskeg mire, and hung it up to dry in the sunshine, and again forgotten it. She had flung on a coat, because her blouse showed signs of the hard, dirty work she had been doing, and had crammed a woollen cap on her head to hide the roughness of her hair.

"Are you going to take the dog? He will only make you more work," said Mrs. Burton, as Hero leaped into the boat and took his place as a complacent passenger, looking on at the work being done.

"Yes, I must. The old dog is very wise; he will guide us quickly to where Mary is lying," Katherine said. Then she threw off the mooring rope, rowed out to midstream, where she could get the full advantage of the current, and then began to row down river as fast as she could pull.

The sky was still overcast, the wind howled through the trees, and it was so chill that she was glad of her coat, despite the vigorous exercise which she was getting in rowing. Never had it taken so long to get to Seal Cove, or so it seemed in her impatient haste; and after the first half-mile the current did not help her, for the tide was coming in fast and making itself felt.

Seal Cove appeared to be deserted when she got there. Neither of the portage men was to be seen, although both the Selincourt boats were drawn up side by side on the beach near the fish shed. The office was locked and the key gone. Katherine looked round in despair and shouted at the top of her voice for help. Surely someone must be within hearing distance, although the place looked entirely devoid of life, except for some fishing boats a mile or two out from shore, and beating into harbour against the strong wind, which was blowing half a gale, perhaps more.

The shouts brought Mrs. Jenkin to the door of her house, with an ailing babe tucked under her arm and two small children clinging to her ragged skirt.

"Dear, dear, Miss Radford, what is the matter? Why, you look just awful!" exclaimed the good woman, jogging the wailing babe up and down, to still its fretful complaining.

"I can't find anyone, Mrs. Jenkin, and I want help so badly. Where are all the men? Miss Selincourt has hurt her foot out on the rocks beyond the fish-flakes, and I am afraid she may be caught by the tide before she can be rescued," Katherine said anxiously.

"Dear, dear, what is to be done? I don't believe there is a man about the place, unless it is Oily Dave. Mr. Ferrars went away in his boat at dawn, and I don't know that he is back yet. I'd go with you myself, dear, but I can't leave the babies," Mrs. Jenkin said, with so much concern and sympathy that Katherine gulped down something closely related to a sob before replying.

"Will you find Oily Dave and tell him to come on after me as fast as he can? Tell him there is money in the job, then perhaps he will hurry. If any more men come, send them on after me. And do have a kettle of water boiling, so that we can give Miss Selincourt a cup of coffee or something when we get her back here," said Katherine, then hurried away, the coil of rope flung over her arm, the dog following close at her heels.

It was a long way over a rough track to the rocks. The easier and shorter process would have been to go round by boat, if only there had been quieter water and less wind; but she knew very well that it would take more strength than her one pair of arms possessed to row a boat through such a sea, so she was forced to take the landward route.

When she reached the fish-flakes it was as much as she could do to stand against the wind, and in crossing the headland her pace was of the slowest. She had expected to find someone up here, the portage men perhaps, or some Indians attending to the hundreds and thousands of fish which were spread out drying in the sun and wind; but there was no one. She did not know, of course, that Mr. Selincourt had passed that way half an hour before, and had summoned the portage men to help him to search for Mary among the rocks. Looking back, she could see Oily Dave coming along at a shuffling pace behind her, and with an imperious wave of the hand to hurry his movements she sped onward now at a quicker pace, because the ground was descending, and the hill behind her broke the force of the wind. At the bottom of the hill there were two tracks, both of which led round among the gulches or tideholes, only by different ways and to different points, and it was here that Katherine knew she would be at fault.

Hero still trotted contentedly just behind, as if perfectly satisfied that she should take the lead. But a mistake now might be disastrous and waste hours of time; so, calling the dog forward, she began to talk to him in an eager, caressing fashion: "Good old Hero, clever old dog, go and find Mary! Mary wants you ever so badly; hurry up, old chappy, hurry up!"

The dog threw up its head with an eager whine, and looked round as if to make certain where Mary was to be found,

"Mary, Mary, find her, go along!" cried Katherine; then with a short bark Hero turned to the track leading seawards, and set off at a trot, looking neither to the right hand nor to the left.

Katherine groaned. The tideholes nearest the sea naturally filled first, and it could not be very far from high tide already. Looking back, she saw Oily Dave gaining upon her, and waved to him again to make haste. It was of no use to shout, because the wind was blowing from him to her, and so her voice would not carry. Then a dash of cold rain struck her from behind, and thankful she was that it was behind, for if it had struck her in the face she could hardly have stood against it. Right in front of her Hero was trotting forward with head carried well in the air, and an eager alertness in every limb. It was clear the creature felt no uncertainty about its movements, and the feeling that she was going right was an unspeakable comfort to Katherine, who toiled along in the rear.

Suddenly the dog stopped dead short, flung up its head with a weird, dismal howl, then bounded forward at a headlong pace.

What had it heard?

Katherine tried to run too, but the track was uphill now, and the force of the wind caught her the higher she got. Panting, breathless, her heart beating with fierce, irregular thumps, she toiled up the rocky track, and, crossing the summit, began to descend on the other side.

The gulch was before her now. When she had seen it last it was a rocky valley, deep in the cliffs, and floored with boulders. Now it was a long pool, for the tide was in, and the sea, working through the porous, frost-riven rocks, had half-filled it with water. Katherine, approaching the gulch from the landward side, was coming to the place from an opposite direction to that by which Jervis Ferrars had reached it, and her path downwards was much easier than his had been.

She was hesitating whether it was of any use to go in, thinking the dog must have led her wrong after all, when she caught sight of something bobbing up and down in the water—something that looked like a man's head, and at which Hero was barking furiously.

She ran then with flying, reckless feet, jumping from boulder to boulder, slipping and sliding, but, as she said afterwards, going too fast to fall. The person in the water had put up a wet hand, crying hoarsely for help, and the leaping, suffocating bound which her heart gave told her that it was Jervis Ferrars who needed her.

"Can you catch the rope if I throw it?" she cried, flinging the coil on the ground so that it might unwind easily.

"Yes," he said in an exhausted tone, which showed her that she had come only just in time.

As she threw the line she wondered with sick fear in her heart where Mary could be, then saw, to her surprise, that Jervis was holding something up in the water, and understood why he had been unable to land his burden on the steep, shelving bank.

Directly he had caught the rope with his one free hand, she rushed a few steps back up the hill to wind the other end round a tall, upstanding boulder; then hurrying back she began to pull gently on the rope, which Jervis had managed to twist round his arm.

She had forgotten all about Oily Dave, and was fairly startled when his voice sounded close to her, saying: "I've got the rope; see if you can ketch 'old of the gal quick, for he's got cramp, sure as blazes!"

Katherine made a dash forward, entered the water nearly to her waist, and, seizing Mary with one hand, clutched at Jervis with the other, holding both until Oily Dave came to her aid and dragged Mary's unconscious form out of the water, while she stood clinging to Jervis, unable to lift him, and fearing that he would slip from her arms back into the water.

Then Oily Dave came back, and, with much puffing and snorting, assisted her in dragging Jervis out of the water also, while Hero barked like a wild thing, and capered round in mad delight because the rescue had been effected. The barking did good, too, for it brought Mr. Selincourt and the two portage men hurrying to the spot, where they found Katherine doing what she could for Mary, who still lay in limp unconsciousness, while Oily Dave worked with perspiring energy at rubbing the cramped limbs of Jervis.

"Miss Selincourt is not drowned, she has not been under water long enough," Jervis said faintly. "I think she has just swooned from sheer terror."

"That is what it looks like," said Mr. Selincourt, with a sudden great relief coming into his tone. Then he stripped off his jacket to wrap his daughter in: the other men stripped off their jackets also, the drenching rain wetting them to the skin in about two minutes; but Mary must be wrapped as warmly as possible, and some kind of a litter had to be improvised in which to carry her.

She stirred slightly, put up her hand, and showed signs of returning life, and then her father determined to wait no longer, but to carry her off to Seal Cove as quickly as possible, sending the men back afterwards to bring Jervis. But by this time, with the help of Oily Dave, Ferrars had managed to struggle to his feet, and declared that he would walk back to Seal Cove, if someone would help him.

Katherine came round to him then, saying simply: "If you will lean on me, the men can carry Miss Selincourt, and if you cannot get all the way I can stay with you until the men come back for you."

"Thank you, my dear, you are a brave, good girl," said Mr. Selincourt, and then he hurried away to help the two portage men and Oily Dave to carry Mary across the hills to Seal Cove.

The only litter they had was formed by spreading their jackets under her, then lifting her so and carrying her as best they could—no easy task, for she was well grown and well nourished, and in her present condition of collapse she lay a dead weight on their arms.

The progress of Jervis was at first but a feeble crawl, while the bitter wind seemed to go through him and the driving rain took his breath away. It was the middle of summer, but when the sun hid its face, and the wind blew from the north, it was hard to remember how hot it had been only yesterday.

"Can you bear it?" asked Katherine anxiously, as he shivered and shook, clinging to her because he had so little strength to stand against the blast.

"I must bear it," he answered; "at least it is safer than sitting still. Does the wind often come as chilly as this at midsummer?"

"There are occasional days like this, but the cold don't last long, and then the sun shines again. Do you think you would be a little warmer if I walked in front of you?" she asked wistfully, for his evident suffering, and her own impotence to relieve it, hurt her dreadfully.

"I don't think the gain of having you for a wind buffer would make up for losing you as a crutch," he said, as he hobbled slowly along in his stockinged feet. He had kicked off his shoes when he went to the aid of Mary, and the rising tide had floated them away.

"I am glad that I am so useful," she said, with a nervous little laugh. She was wet through herself, and shivering with cold and fright, yet despite these drawbacks the occasion was like a festival, and her heart was singing for joy.

"How did you know?" he asked, trying to understand how she chanced to be on hand at the critical moment with a rope.

"Mary had written a note and tied it round the dog's neck, then sent the creature for help. I found it howling on the other bank of the river, and went over to fetch the poor thing home; then I found the note, and came as quickly as I could," she answered.

"You came just in time for me," he said in a shaken voice. "I don't think that I could possibly have held out five minutes longer, because of cramp, and I could not lift Miss Selincourt out of the water."

"I don't think I could have done it either if it had not been for Oily Dave," Katherine answered, a quiver of mirth stirring her tones. "Fancy Oily Dave as a rescuer of people in direful straits! We shall have him posing as a public benefactor soon!"

"He has long been a private benefactor, or at least I have regarded him as such," Jervis said slowly.

"What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him in surprise, and wondering if he had forgotten the grim incident of the flood.

"I feel grateful to him, and always shall, because he left me in the lurch that day when the water came in. I had to owe my life to you that day; and but for you and your rope I must have perished to-day, Katherine. I am really very much in your debt. Do you think I shall ever be able to repay you?"

"Of course; if not me, then someone else. Such things are always passed on," she said lightly.

"Of choice I would rather pay my debt in this case, if indeed it can be paid, to the person to whom I owe it," he said, with a slow emphasis which made her heart beat tumultuously. Then she remembered that it was her duty to stand aside for Mary's sake, and that she must not let this man love her if Mary had set her own affections upon him, as Nellie had more than hinted.

A cold shiver shook Katherine then, for now the chill came from within as well as without, and the dreary day wrapped her exhausted body in its dismal discomfort.

"Don't talk," she said with a touch of authority in her tone. "Save your strength for enduring. See, here comes a man running down from the fish-flakes; he has come to help us, and now we shall get on faster, you will find."



CHAPTER XXI

Matter for Heartache

Three days had passed away, and life had dropped into its accustomed monotony again. Mrs. Burton said there never was anything to vary the sameness of existence at Roaring Water Portage unless someone was in danger of his or her life, and really events had a way of proving her to be right. When Katherine had rushed off in such a hurry that day, to help Mary Selincourt out of her fix, Mrs. Burton had left her sewing, and, taking her sister's work in hand, had finished cleaning the shelves, then restored to them the various canisters and boxes according to her own ideas of neatness, instead of with any remembrance as to how they had been arranged previously.

On reaching home that afternoon, wet, cold, weary, and with chill foreboding in her heart, Katherine's first sensation was one of lively gratitude to Nellie for having dispersed the confusion she had left behind when she departed so hurriedly. But when a customer came in a little later for a quarter of a pound of mustard, and it took half an hour of hard searching to find it, Katherine began to wonder whether after all it would not have been easier to have been left to deal singlehanded with the confusion on the floor, for at least she had known where to find things.

Then someone wanted corn-flour, which entailed a still longer search; but the culminating point came when Mrs. M'Kree sent down in hot haste for carbonate of soda and dried mint, to make some remedy for an unexpected attack of dyspepsia. It took exactly one hour and ten minutes by the clock to find the carbonate of soda, followed by ten minutes' active search for the mint. After this experience Katherine decided that tidiness might be too dearly bought, and set to work to re-arrange matters after a more practical pattern.

But all this took time, and, with her other work added on, effectually prevented her having time for moping, which was of course a very good thing. She had not seen Jervis since the slow walk from the rocks to Seal Cove; but she knew that he had spent the next day in bed with a bad chill and some fever. Mary was at Seal Cove for two days, but had been brought up river on the previous evening, and was now being looked after by Mrs. Burton, who was never quite so happy as when she had some invalid to care for.

Miles and Phil had gone over to Fort Garry that morning. Katherine ought to have gone, but in view of the confusion which still existed on the shelves it hardly seemed safe to leave Miles in charge, because he had a habit, when he could not find the right thing, of supplying something else which looked almost like it. So when Katherine found him tying up an ounce of caustic soda, in place of the tartaric acid which had been ordered, it seemed high time to interfere, and she had sent him off with Phil to do her work, while she remained at home sorting out the contents of the shelves.

Mrs. Burton had been over the river to look after Mary, and had come back again, leaving Hero as a sort of deputy nurse and caretaker, in addition to the portage man who was on duty that day. Mr. Selincourt had been down to Seal Cove, and had returned; then Katherine, at work on her knees in the far corner of the store, heard someone enter, and, coming out of her corner, found that one of the portage men had brought her a note from Mary. It ran:—

"Dear Katherine, Can you come over and spend an hour with me this evening when the store is closed? I feel that I want to see you more than anyone else in the world. Please come. MARY."

"Miss Selincourt said that a message would do for answer," said the man who had brought the note.

Katherine hesitated about what that answer should be. In her heart of hearts she knew very well that she did not want to go away that evening. Jervis had not been up the river for three days, so he would be almost sure to come that evening, and she wanted to be at home when he came, to see for herself that he was none the worse for the long immersion in the water, and the painful barefooted walk to Seal Cove.

But the hesitancy did not last long, and, setting her face in sterner lines than usual, Katherine told the man that she would certainly pay Miss Selincourt a visit that evening when her work was done.

If the work dragged a little after that, and the day lost something of the zest which had marked it before, no one guessed it but herself. She was bright and cheerful, teasing Miles, when he came home, about some fancied indignity which he had received at the hands of the Indians, and rallying Mrs. Burton on the awful confusion wrought by her reforms in the store.

Not even to herself would Katherine admit how much she dreaded the simple friendly visit she had promised to pay that evening. She was afraid that she would see some look or sign of what she feared most to know. Mary Selincourt was a reserved, self-controlled girl, but it is her sort of nature which sometimes betrays itself most completely in moments of emotional strain, and Katherine at this time was very much like an ostrich, being disposed to believe that the thing she could not see did not exist.

'Duke Radford spent most of his days sitting in the sunshine. He talked cheerfully, withal a trifle incoherently, to all of his friends and neighbours who came to gossip with him; but he was always at his best when Mr. Selincourt or Jervis Ferrars was there to talk to him, for they spoke of things right away from the ordinary course of daily life, and his mind was clearest about the matters which in other days had concerned him least. But neither Mr. Selincourt nor Jervis Ferrars had been near for three days, and the invalid plainly moped, missing the companionship that cheered him most.

"I am so glad you are going over to sit with Mary to-night, because that will probably mean that Mr. Selincourt will come here, and he will be sure to cheer Father up," Mrs. Burton said, when Katherine came in for a hurried cup of tea before finishing her work in the store.

"He does look tired and sad to-day," Katherine answered wistfully. She could bear her father's condition better when he was cheerful and at ease, but when, as to-day, life seemed a burden to him, then her heart ached at the sight of his suffering.

The last half-hour in the store that evening was harder than the whole of the day which had gone before. The heat was intense, the flies swarmed black in every direction, and, failing other food, appeared anxious to make a meal from Katherine's face; while the customers who thronged the store in unusual numbers seemed all to require the articles most awkward and uncomfortable to serve. There was a run on pickled pork, on brawn canned in Cincinnati, on soap, molasses, and lard; while at least four customers demanded rock brimstone, flour of sulphur, or some other variety of that valuable but homely remedy common to every back-country store.

They were all disposed of at last, however, and then, bidding Miles shut the door quickly before anyone else came, Katherine went away to change her dress and get ready for her visit to Mary. Her best frock went on to-night. She had so few frocks, and these few had to be chosen with so much regard to utility, that there was a uniformity about them which might well pall upon a girl who loved pretty things. The best frock was a severely plain garment of dark-blue woollen stuff, but it was relieved by a shirt of soft white muslin, and, because a pretty girl always looks charming in a plain frock, Katherine in her dark blue was simply bewitching.

Phil rowed her over the river, bragging all the way of the manner in which he was beginning to handle the oars. And then, at Katherine's suggestion, he waited to see if Mr. Selincourt would go over and visit the store for an hour or so.

Katherine found Mary lying on a couch under the open window, looking pale and worn, with a very tired expression. Mr. Selincourt was reading to her, but when Katherine suggested the waiting boat, and 'Duke Radford's loneliness, she at once declared her father ought to go over and pay the invalid a visit.

"You have been shut up with a fractious convalescent nearly the whole day, dear Daddy, and I am sure it will be a pleasant change to go and chat with Mr. Radford, who is always serene," she said urgently; and so, more to please her than himself, her father said he would go.

"Come down and see me into the boat, Miss Katherine; it won't hurt Mary to be alone, and I want to say thank you for coming to the rescue so promptly the other day," he said.

"I don't want to be thanked, but I will show you the way to the boat with pleasure, if you are afraid of getting lost en route," Katherine said with a laugh, but falling into his mood, because she saw he wished to say something to her alone.

When they were beyond earshot of the open window, he said anxiously: "Don't you think Mary looks very badly?"

"She looks fearfully tired," Katherine answered.

"Yes, that is it. And the tiredness comes from mental strain. Poor Mary! It seems so hard for her to be happy, yet in all her life she has never lacked anything she wanted save one, and even that I am in hopes she will get yet, if only she has the patience to wait for it."

Katherine's heart gave a painful bound. What was this one thing that Mary Selincourt wanted but could not have—yet? But she could not answer the question with any satisfaction to herself, and she stood silently watching while Mr. Selincourt took his place in the boat. Then she turned and went back up the path again: but her feet dragged in spite of herself; it was as if some instinct told her she was going to meet a heartache.

Mary welcomed her back with a smile, and, reaching out her arm, dragged a comfortable chair nearer the couch. "Come and sit here, you poor, tired Katherine. What a shame that you should have had to toil all day, until your very feet ache with tiredness, while I have lain here and sighed because the hours crept along so slowly!"

"But that is only because you could not use your foot; you don't find time drag when you are able to get about," Katherine remarked, setting her head back against the cushions with a sigh of content, for the chair was of a restful pattern, and she was tired enough to feel the cushions a welcome luxury.

"No, indeed, I can always make sure of interest and amusement when I have two feet available for service, but I was not cut out for the peaceful avocation of the couch invalid, and I just loathe inaction. I would rather have had your day," Mary said with a sigh.

"Are you sure? To begin with, you don't know what sort of a day I have had, and to continue, you have never had to work for your living, and don't know how it feels," Katherine rejoined, thinking of the stuffy heat of the store, the flies, the pickled pork, and the molasses, which had all tried her patience so sorely in the latter part of the day.

Mary's face took on an injured expression. "Do you think it is quite kind of you to taunt me with never having tasted the sweets of independence?" she asked.

"But you are independent of the necessity to toil," said Katherine.

"That is not true independence. Riches might take to themselves wings, banks might break, investments fail, then where should I be? I am only independent because fate has given me the use of money I have never earned. But you are different; you can carve your own destiny, and are master of yourself."

"Am I? Don't indulge in any such mistaken ideas, I beg of you," broke in Katherine, with a little grimace as in fancy she smelled again the soap and the brimstone which had offended her so much in the store. "I set out to be a school teacher, and came home from Montreal with my head packed full of theories concerning how teaching ought to be done, and how I meant to do it. The first disappointment came when I found there were no children of school age obtainable, except Miles and Phil; for it is very hard to theorize upon one's own kith and kin, at least I found it so. Night school, also, is not an easy practice-ground for new methods, which was disappointment number two; and then came Father's illness, which has settled once and for all the question of my teaching, and has caged me up to the business of the store, whether I would or no. So how can I carve my own destiny, pray?"

Mary clapped her hands. "Why, can't you see that is what you are doing all the time? In spite of adverse circumstances you have done your very utmost, and consequently your very best. You have been brave, patient, cheerful, and always you have spent yourself for others until——"

"Oh, spare me any more, and let us talk about something else!" cried Katherine impatiently; her cheeks were getting hot, and her memory was pointing to many a time when she had been neither brave, nor patient, nor cheerful.

"Yes, of course we will talk of something else, and now you shall have the reverse of the picture, for I want to talk about myself," Mary said, with a quick flush which made the heart of the other turn chill and cold, with dread of what might be coming next.

"Self is a sorry subject for over-much meditation, don't you think? And introspection is very bad for invalids," Katherine said nervously.

"I'm not an invalid, not in that sense at least; I am only incapacitated through having twisted my ankle. But I simply must confide in somebody, or I don't know what will happen to me. I can't open my heart to my daddy; he has had cares enough concerning me already; while if I tried to tell Mrs. Burton she would be so shocked that she would refuse to come and look after me any more; then whatever would become of me until I can get about and look after myself again?"

Katherine laughed, although her heart was heavy as lead. It was plain she would have to be taken into confidence whether she would or no. It was equally plain that she would have to face the consequences afterwards, for she was not the sort of girl who would be untrue to herself.

"So you have no scruples about shocking me? Or is it that you think I am not easily shocked?"

"A little of both, I think," Mary replied with a sigh of relief. "The fact is, you are so strong and brave that you inspire confidence."

"Is that meant for a compliment, and do I have to feel grateful?" asked Katherine.

"That is as you please. But tell someone I must, or I think the miserable business will wear me out, for I cannot sleep. Katherine, I was nearly suicide and murderer too on that awful morning in the tide-hole."

"What nonsense! What will you be saying next?" cried Katherine with forced cheerfulness; but the colour faded from her cheeks.

"I am not talking nonsense, but unvarnished truth. I might have been saved easily enough, and Mr. Ferrars need have suffered no inconvenience save a wetting, but for my own fault; for he was there long before the water reached the place where I had fallen."

"But why——?" began Katherine, then stopped short, remembering that she did not want to ask questions, nor to seek information.

"But why wasn't I saved before, were you going to say?" said Mary. "Because I would not let myself be. The fact is, down at the bottom I am a coward, just that and nothing more. My life has been so sheltered and easy, too, that there has been nothing to stir into activity any latent bravery that I might have had. Mr. Ferrars could not reach me, or it is probable he would have pulled me from the ledge where I was lying by sheer force. As it was, he waited in the water for a long lime, until the tide rose high enough for him to reach me. It was almost high enough; I realized that in another moment I should be dragged into the water, whether I would or no, and I just felt that I could not bear it: so I sprang up with a wild impulse to rush somewhere, anywhere—but I had forgotten my twisted ankle, the pain from which was so intense that I reeled, lost my balance, and was into the water all in a moment."

"Anyone might have felt like that, and acted just the same under the circumstances," said Katherine, pitifully. This confession was so utterly different from anything she had expected to hear that her heart grew lighter in spite of herself.

Mary laughed in a dreary, mirthless fashion. "Do you know it is a bitter humiliation to me to owe my life to Jervis Ferrars?" she said brusquely.

"Why?" demanded Katherine, the question dragged from her in spite of herself.

A wave of hot colour surged over Mary's face; it was not often she blushed, but now she was crimson. "I don't think I can tell you that," she replied unsteadily. "In any case it is immaterial to the story, except that he once asked me a boon I would not grant; and for that I have been sorry ever since, which shows the contrary-mindedness of women, don't you think?"

Katherine nodded; speak she could not. This was worse than anything she had expected. Mrs. Burton had suggested that Mary was in love with Jervis, but here was Mary herself plainly intimating that Jervis had once asked for her love, but that she had refused him, only to regret her refusal ever since.

"He is such a good fellow," went on Mary, with a yearning note in her voice which stabbed Katherine like actual pain. "When Father asked him about the affair in the tidehole, he never once said anything about my fearful panic, which so nearly cost him his life; and the very fact of his reticence has made me feel the meanest creature on the face of the earth. I can scarcely look my father in the face, and when he pities me for having been in such sore straits I feel like sinking through the couch from very shame."

"Why don't you tell Mr. Selincourt then?" asked Katherine bluntly. "He would understand how panic had unnerved you, and certainly he would not judge you harshly."

"I can't tell him; I am not brave enough. I told you I was a coward, and so I am, especially in matters of that sort. It is an awful thing to me to lose anyone's good opinion. My pride, I suppose; but really I can't help it," Mary answered with a shrug.

"Yet you have told me," said Katherine, forcing a smile. "Were you not afraid of losing my good opinion, or was it that you did not care?"

"I was just desperate; I had to own up to someone, and so, from love of contrast I suppose, I turned to you, who are always brave," Mary said.

Katherine shook her head: "You make a great mistake; I am a horrible coward underneath. I think all girls are; it is one of the weaknesses of our nature which neither training nor hardship will overcome."

"Do you expect me to believe you when you talk like that?" asked Mary. "What about that time when you got on to the ice to get Jervis Ferrars out of Oily Dave's flooded house? Do you think a girl who was a coward could have done that?"

"I could not have done it if I had stayed to think about it," replied Katherine, a soft flush stealing into her cheeks. "But there was no time to think about oneself, the thing had to be done quickly, so it was easy enough. If I had set out from home that morning, knowing what was in front of me, I could not possibly have faced it, of that I am quite sure."

"In other words, what it really amounts to is this: we are all cowards by nature, but it is possible, by cultivating the grace of self-sacrifice, so to forget ourselves in our care for others that we can rise above our natural cowardice, and become as brave or braver than men," said Mary.

"It sounds like a sermon put that way," Katherine replied with a laugh. "Why don't you take to writing books, if you can express yourself so much to the point?"

"Because, before writing books successfully, one must have lived, not merely existed, as I have done," Mary answered a little sadly. Then she said in a different tone; "You have done me a lot of good, and I shall sleep to-night like a top—the first real rest I have had since that miserable morning on the rocks."

"I shall sleep too, I hope, for I have a big day's work to-morrow," Katherine said, rising to go.

"Give me a kiss, dear, just to show me that you don't despise me for being a coward, or rather for remaining a coward," Mary said, drawing Katherine's head down.

There was a wild desire in Katherine's heart to push off those caressing hands, and rush away in all haste: but she did not yield to it, realizing that this also was a time for self-forgetting; so, stooping, she kissed Mary on both cheeks.



CHAPTER XXII

A Business Offer

A fortnight slipped away. August had come in, with lengthening nights, which sometimes had a touch of Arctic cold in them. But it was glorious summer still, and although in those uncultivated wastes there was little harvest from the land, the harvest of the sea went merrily on. Mary Selincourt was out and about again, limping a little at first, and leaning on a stick, but soon gaining strength enough to go about as usual; only now, made wise by experience, she took good care to avoid places of danger like the tideholes.

Since that evening of confidential talk with Katherine, Mary had honestly striven for the grace of self-forgetfulness; but the virtue is not learned in one lesson, nor yet in two, and she would probably have given up striving, through disgust at her own failures, if her pride had not been deeply stirred, and the obstinate part of her nature brought into full play.

Pleading hard work as an excuse, Katherine avoided her after that evening, from a secret dread of any more confidences. This was easier than it otherwise would have been, owing to Mrs. Burton having taken the twins over to Fort Garry to spend a week with Mrs. M'Crawney, which left Katherine with the burden of housekeeping on her shoulders in addition to the business of the store.

Jervis Ferrars came up sometimes in the evening to sit and talk with the invalid on every subject under the sun, from lunar rainbows to earthquakes, but he got little chance of speech with Katherine, who was always feverishly busy over some task which absorbed her whole attention.

The day after Mrs. Burton came back from Fort Garry another vessel arrived from Liverpool to anchor off Seal Cove. Only one more boat would be likely to get in before winter came again, and when an occasion is so rare it is likely to be made much of. The captain held a sort of reception on board, to which everyone in Seal Cove was invited. The M'Krees came down from the second portage with all their babies; Mrs. Jenkin appeared in finery which no one even dreamed she possessed; and Oily Dave was magnificent in a frock-coat of shiny black cloth, worn over a football sweater of outrageous pattern.

Katherine and her father were the only stay-at-homes, but 'Duke Radford was not fit for excursions of that sort, and if Katherine had gone Miles must have stayed at home, which would have been rather hard on a boy as fond of ships as he was. But although everyone went to the reception, some of them did not stay long, and one of the first to leave was Mr. Selincourt, who had himself rowed up river and landed at the store to ask Katherine if she would give him a cup of tea.

"With great pleasure. Please go in and talk to Father; I shall be free in a few minutes, and then I will come and make tea for you both," Katherine answered, holding open the door between house and store, while she smiled upon the visitor, who was more welcome than he knew. She was serving an Indian squaw, who demanded bright calico, 'bacco, and as much of anything else as she could get, for fourteen beaver skins partly dressed, and as soft as velvet.

Beaver, even in that district, was becoming very scarce. Indeed, Katherine was sure that these skins must have come a long distance, probably seventy or eighty miles, from some part of unknown Keewatin, where no foot of white man ever trod, and where even the red man only went at trapping time. She bought the skins, of course, adding to the purchase price a box of chocolates with a picture on the lid, a treasure which set the red woman in a state of the most complacent satisfaction.

When the squaw had departed, Katherine carefully locked away the skins before going in to make tea, for the Indians were adepts at roguery, and if by any means the woman could have stolen them, she would probably have returned to the store to offer them in barter again within the next hour. Katherine had been caught like that often enough to have become exceedingly careful. She was talking about the exceeding beauty of the skins as she watched the kettle beginning to boil, and Mr. Selincourt immediately said that he should like to see them.

"Will you wait until to-morrow or the next day? Then I will show you all that we have got. But it is rather dirty work pulling them out and unrolling them, and I have just put on a clean frock," Katherine said, laughing at the idea of putting a possible customer off in such a fashion.

"I will wait certainly, and if the day after tomorrow will suit you, I will come then and see if you have anything which Mary might like me to buy for her. By the way, my men are behind with the mail this time, a week late, and I am still uncertain whether or no we shall have to go down to Montreal for the winter," Mr. Selincourt said, as he helped Katherine to put cups and saucers on the table.

"If they had come in time, would you have left by this boat?" Katherine asked. The question of winter quarters had been constantly talked of during the last week or two, but nothing had as yet been decided upon, owing to the delay in the coming of the two men with the expected mail.

"No, this boat will go straight to Liverpool. The next will come round from Quebec, and return there before going to England; and that must be our way south, I think, unless we decide to return as we came, by river and trail."

"We shall all miss you very much," Katherine said regretfully; for the pleasant, kindly man whom she had feared so greatly at first had been such a good neighbour that his absence would be keenly felt.

"I should not like it if I were not missed; but I am not going for long, remember. With the opening of the waters I shall be back again, to settle for good, I hope. England is a fine country to be born in, but Canada is the land of my choice, and I have never yet seen a part of it that I like better than these Keewatin wilds; it is unspoiled nature here," Mr. Selincourt said, rubbing his hands with great enthusiasm.