"Hustle him out when you go along, Kemp. I'd sooner our chiefs down East had kept that young man. The job's not soft enough for him. However, I s'pose he lighted the lamp across the bridge?"

"Willis has friends," Kemp remarked meaningly, and indicated a reflection behind the trees. "The lamp's burning."

Lister glanced at the trembling light. "I expect it's good enough for the engineer, but the flame's not steady. Willis hasn't bothered to get the pressure right. It's possible he didn't wait until she warmed the oil."

The powerful lamp had been carried across the bridge in order to warn the engineer of the gravel train, who on his last journey had run to the end of the line. The light could be seen for some distance up the track.

"I got after Hardie about making good time. We must dump his load in the soft spot before we stop," Lister resumed.

"He's coming now; climbing the height of land," said Kemp. "He'll let her go all out when he makes the top."

A measured throb rolled across the woods, and as the noise got louder the beat of the exhaust marked the progress of the train. The explosive snorts indicated that the locomotive labored up the last steep pitch, and Lister sat down by the rails. He was tired and would not be needed until the gravel plough threw the rattling ballast off the cars. After a few moments he looked up, for a man came out of the gloom.

"Hello, Willis! I s'pose you've been taking a quiet smoke?"

"That's so," said the other. "I've hustled round since sun-up and imagined the gang could get along for half an hour without my watching. You want to leave something to your foremen."

Lister said nothing. He did not choose his helpers, but tried to make the best use of those the bosses sent. Willis had some useful qualities, but he was slack, and got sulky if one drove him hard. The young man had come from the drawing-office of a famous bridge-building works.

In the meantime, the rumble of the gravel train grew to a pulsating roar. The locomotive had crossed the divide and was running furiously down grade. The roughly-ballasted track was uneven, but the engineer had been on board since daybreak and no doubt wanted to finish his job.

"She's in the rock cut now," Kemp remarked. "Hardie ought to throttle down when he runs out and sees the light."

Lister listened. The swelling note indicated that the train had left the cut, but it did not look as if the engineer was pulling up.

"She's coming along pretty fast," said Willis. "If he doesn't snub her soon, she'll jump the steel and take the muskeg."

Next moment Lister was on his feet. Hardie was driving too fast; Lister doubted if he could stop before the heavy train plunged through the broken track. The unsteady white flicker behind the trees had sunk and changed to smoky red. If looked as if the oil was not vaporizing properly and the lamp was going out. When the engineer saw the light it would be too late.

"Get the boys off the track. I'll try to fix the lamp," Lister shouted, and started for the bridge.

The errand was not his. Willis had lighted the lamp: moreover, one might have sent a workman, but when a job was urgent Lister went himself. The job was urgent and dangerous. Unless he made good speed, he would meet the train on the bridge and the cylinders of the locomotive projected beyond the edge.

The track was rough and fresh gravel rolled under his feet. Now and then he struck a cross-tie and nearly fell. It had got dark and among the trees the gloom was deep; one could not see the ties. Yet he must run, and his breath got labored and his heart thumped. He did not know where the train was, only that it was near. The woods throbbed with a savage din; the big cars, loaded with rattling gravel, clanged and roared as they plunged down grade.

Lister hardly thought he could stop the train. It looked as if he would be caught on the trestle, but he meant to go on. He did not argue about it; he was rather moved by instinctive stubbornness. At moments of strain one does not argue and logic has no appeal. Character counts for all, and Lister followed his bent. His job was urgent and must be carried out.

When he reached the bridge he saw white threads of water between the timbers of the open frame. The spacing of the ties was not regular, and if he stepped short, or too far, he would go through. Then, if he did not strike a brace, he would fall upon the rocks in the stream. All the same, he saw the blaze of the head-lamp pick out the trees across the ravine and sprang on to the bridge.

Somehow he hit the ties; perhaps by subconscious judgment, and perhaps by good luck. Then he felt loose gravel under his feet and thrilled with a strange fierce satisfaction. His breath was labored and his body wet by sweat, but the moving beam had not reached the lamp. He was going to make it.

When the black front of a gravel car leaped out of the gloom he jumped off the track. The locomotive pushed the cars, the train was long, and the lamp was but a few yards off. It had not gone out, although the flame had sunk to a faint red jet that would not be seen in the dust. His hands shook, but he gave the pump a few strokes and turned the valve wheel. The red jet got white and leaped higher and Lister, pumping hard, looked up the track. Big cars, rocking and banging, rushed past in a cloud of dust. Bits of gravel struck him and rattled against the lamp. The blurred, dark figures of men who sat upon the load cut against the fan-shaped beam, and in the background he saw a shower of leaping sparks.

But the other light was growing and Lister turned the wheel. Burning oil splashed around him, a pillar of fire rushed up, and when a whistle screamed he let go the valve and turned from the blinding dust. He was shaking, but the heavy snorting stopped. The engineer had seen the light and cut off steam.

When Lister looked round the train was gone. He had done what he had undertaken, and after waiting for a few moments he started back. Now he could go cautiously, he stopped and tried to brace himself at the end of the bridge. Although he had run across not long since, he shrank from the dark, forbidding gaps. For all that, he must get back, and feeling carefully for the ties, he reached the other side and was for some time engaged at the muskeg where two cars had overrun the broken rails. At length he went to the log shack he used for his office and sleeping-room, and soon after he lighted his pipe Kemp came in.

"You made it," Kemp remarked. "When you stopped me at the bridge I saw you'd get there."

Lister laughed. "Now you talk about it, I believe I did shout you to go back. Anyhow, you were some way behind. Did Willis come?"

"He did not. Willis was badly rattled and started for the muskeg. Thought he might get the track thrown across the hole, perhaps! I'm rather sorry for the kid. But what are you going to do about it?"

"Report we had two cars bogged and state the cost of labor. That's all, I think."

Kemp nodded. "Well, perhaps there's no use in talking about the lamp. Our business is to make good, using the tools we've got. All the same, if they want a man somewhere else, I guess I'd recommend Willis."

He smoked quietly for a time, and then resumed: "We don't get forward much. In fact, if the new Western irrigation company would take me on, I think I'd quit."

Lister pondered. Since his short stop at Winnipeg he had been conscious of a strange restlessness. He wanted something the woods could not give, and had begun to think life had more to offer than he had known. Besides, he was not making much progress.

"Since the double track is to be pushed on across the plains, the department will need a bigger staff and there ought to be a chance for some of us," he said. "Then there's the new work with the long bridges on the lake section that will carry higher pay. We're next on turn and have some claim. They ought to move us up."

"I doubt. We didn't come from a famous office, and it's not always enough to know your job."

"Somebody will get a better post, and if I'm lucky I'll stay. If not, I think I'll try the irrigation works."

"I feel like that," Kemp declared. "But suppose the irrigation people turn our application down?"

"Then I'll lie off for a time. Except when I went, to McGill with money I earned on a wheat barge, I haven't stopped work since I was a boy. Now I'm getting tired and think I'll pull out and go across to look at the Old Country. My father was an Englishman, and I have some money to burn."

"A good plan," Kemp agreed. "After a change you come back fresh with a stronger punch. Well, if we're not put on to the lake section, we'll try the irrigation scheme."

He got up and went off, but Lister sat on his bunk and smoked. The bunk was packed with swamp-grass on which his coarse Hudson's Bay blankets were laid, and the shack was bare. Ragged slickers and old overalls occupied the wall, long gum-boots a corner. A big box carried an iron wash-basin, and a small table some drawing instruments. Lister was not fastidious, and, as a rule, did not stop long enough at one spot to justify his making his shack comfortable. Besides, he found it necessary to concentrate on his work, and had not much time to think about refinements.

All the same, he felt the shack was dreary and his life was bleak. He had not felt this until he went to Winnipeg. On the whole, he had liked the struggle against physical obstacles. It was his proper job, but the struggle was stern and sometimes exhausting, and his reward was small. Now he wanted something different, and gave himself to vague and brooding discontent.

Ruth Duveen had broken his former tranquillity. In a sense, she had awakened him, and he imagined she had meant to do so. All the same, to think she loved him was ridiculous; she was rather experimenting with fresh material. Yet she was accountable for his discontent. She had helped him to see that while he labored in the woods he had missed much. He wanted the society of cultivated women and men with power and influence; to use control instead of carrying out orders; and to know something of refinement and beauty. After all, his father was a cultivated Englishman, although Lister imagined he had inherited qualities that helped him most from his Canadian mother. It was all he had inherited, except some debts he had laboriously paid.

He admitted that to realize his ambitions might be hard, but he meant to try. Canada was for the young and stubborn. If his chiefs did not promote him, he would make a plunge, and if his new plan did not work, he would go over and see the Old Country. Then he would come back, braced and refreshed, and try his luck again.

Putting down his pipe, he got into bed. He was tired and in the morning the gravel cars must be pulled out of the muskeg. The job was awkward, and while he thought about it he went to sleep.



CHAPTER VIII

THE TEST

A boisterous wind swept the high plain and round, white-edged clouds rolled across the sky. The grass that ran back from the horizon was parched, and in the distance a white streak of blowing dust marked a dried alkali lake. Dust of dark color drove along the row of wooden stores and houses that fronted the railroad track, across which three grain elevators rose like castles. The telegraph posts along the track melted into the level waste, and behind the spot where they vanished the tops of a larger group of elevators cut the edge of the plain.

The street was not paved, and the soil was deeply ploughed by wheels. The soil was the black gumbo in which the wheat plant thrives, but the town occupied the fringe of a dry belt and farming had not made much progress. Now, however, a company was going to irrigate the land with water from a river fed by the Rockies' snow. The town was square, and although it looked much smaller than real-estate agents' maps indicated, it was ornamented by four wooden churches, a Y.M.C.A. like a temple, and an ambitious public hall.

The Tecumseh Hotel occupied a corner lot at the end of the street and was not remarkably commodious or clean, but its charges were less than the Occidental's by the station, and Lister and Kemp were not fastidious. Some time had gone since they pulled the gravel cars out of the swamp and they had not been sent to the lake section. In consequence, they had applied to the irrigation company for a post, and having been called to meet the engineers and directors, imagined they were on the short list.

Lister lounged against the rails on the Tecumseh veranda. The boards were cracked and dirty; burned matches and cigar ends were scattered about, and a skeleton, gauze covered door that shut with a powerful spring kept some of the flies and mosquitoes out of the hotel.

"We'll know to-morrow," he remarked presently.

Kemp nodded. "I can't figure on our chances. Feel anxious about it?"

"Not much. In fact, I mean to use the thing to test my luck. If we're engaged, I'll stay in Canada; if they turn us down, I'll start for the Old Country."

"You have no particular plans, I reckon."

"No," said Lister, smiling. "I'm going to look about. I know our new Western towns, but I want to see old cities, churches, and cathedrals; the great jobs men made before they used concrete and steel. Then I'd like to study art and music and see the people my father talked about. Ours is a good country, but when it's all you know it gets monotonous." He indicated the row of wooden houses and lonely plain. "One wants more than the track and this."

"It's possible you may go across," said Kemp. "Looks as if the company's short list was pretty long. There's a gang of candidates in town, we have no pull on the directors, and I don't know if our advantages are very marked—" He stopped and laughed, for a man came round the corner. "Hello, Willis!" he exclaimed. "When did you arrive?"

"I came in on the last train. Got a notice to meet the Irrigation Board."

"Oh, well," said Kemp, "since the applicants are more numerous than the posts, I reckon another won't count. Do you expect they're going to take you on?"

"I expect my chance is as good as yours."

"I'll sell you my chance for ten dollars," Kemp rejoined.

"Nothing doing, at the price," said Willis, and went off.

Kemp laughed. Willis was marked by a superficial smartness his comrades sometimes found amusing and sometimes annoying. For the most part, they bore with him good-humoredly, but did not trust him when work that needed careful thought was done.

"The kid looks confident, but his applying for a job is something of a joke," Kemp remarked. "I'd put his value at fifty cents a day."

Lister agreed, and looked up the dusty street. The fronts of the small frame houses were cracked by the sun, and some were carried up to hide the roof and give the building a fictitious height. A Clover-leaf wagon stood in front of a store, the wheels crusted by dry mud, and the team fidgeted amidst a swarm of flies. Except for one or two railroad hands waiting by the caboose of a freight train, nobody was about. The town looked strangely dreary.

Yet Lister knew it stood for all the relief from labor in the stinging alkali dust one could get. One could loaf in a hard chair in front of the hotel, lose a dollar or two at the shabby pool-room, or go to a movie show and see pictures of frankly ridiculous Western melodrama. In the real West, the pictures were ridiculous, because romantic shootings-up did not happen. In fact, unless a stubborn labor dispute began, nothing broke the dull monotony of toilsome effort. Romance had vanished with the buffaloes. Lister admitted that he had not long felt the monotony. The trouble began when he stopped at Winnipeg.

"I think I'll go up the street," he said.

A rough plank sidewalk ran in front of the houses, and Lister imagined it was needed when the spring thaw and summer thunder-storms softened the gumbo soil. Opposite the Occidental he stopped, for Duveen occupied a chair on the veranda. While Lister hesitated Duveen beckoned him to come up.

"It's hot and dusty. Will you take a drink?" he said.

Lister refused with thanks and wondered whether Ruth was at the hotel. In a way, he would like to see her, but admitted that perhaps he had better not. When he asked if she was well Duveen said she had gone to Quebec, and gave Lister a cigar.

"It looks as if you had left the railroad," he remarked.

"I have not left yet," said Lister cautiously.

"Then, you won't go unless you get a better job? Did you know I had joined the Irrigation Board?"

Lister said he did not know, and got embarrassed when Duveen gave him a thoughtful glance. He wondered whether Ruth had talked to Duveen before she hinted he might get a better post.

"Perhaps I ought not to have come up. In fact, I hesitated—"

Duveen laughed. "So I remarked! You reckoned the Occidental stoop was pretty public and your talking to me might imply that you wanted my support? Well, I'll risk that. It's obvious you're on the short list. Do you want a post?"

For a moment or two Lister pondered. He did want a post; anyhow, he ought to try for it. On the whole he liked Duveen, and thought he might have liked Ruth better had she not been rich. All the same, Duveen was a shrewd manipulator of new industries and to take a post by his favor would be to own a debt, for which payment might be demanded. Yet Duveen had been kind and Lister hesitated.

"I asked for a post," he said. "If I'm engaged, I'll try to make good; but I must make good at the dam or on the ditch. Then I don't want to bother my friends. The company has my engineering record and must judge my usefulness by this. If they're not satisfied, I won't grumble much."

"You're an independent fellow, but I think I understand," Duveen rejoined with a twinkle. "A company director's duty is to judge an applicant for a post by his professional record. If you are appointed, you want us to appoint you because we believe you are the proper man?"

"Something like that," said Lister quietly.

Duveen nodded, and his glance rested for a moment on Lister's forehead.

"I see the mark you got on board the train hasn't altogether gone. Did you hear anything about the girl you helped?"

"I did not," said Lister, starting, for he had not imagined Duveen knew about the girl. "I have not seen her since she went off on the locomotive."

"Then she has not written to you since?"

"She could not write, because she doesn't know who I am, and I don't know her. We talked for a minute or two, that's all."

Duveen's face was inscrutable and Lister wondered whether he doubted his statement. He was annoyed because the other knew so much.

"Oh, well," said Duveen, "I expect you heard they didn't catch Shillito, and since he got across the frontier, it's possible the Canadian police won't see him again. But I must get ready for supper. Will you stay?"

Lister excused himself and went back to the Tecumseh, where the bill of fare was frugal and the serving rude. He imagined he had refused much more than a first-class supper, but was satisfied he had taken the proper line. For one thing, Duveen knew Ruth had given him her friendship and, since he knew his daughter, it was significant that he had not thought it necessary to meddle. Lister wondered whether he had meant to use him, and was glad he had kept his independence. If he got the post now, he would know he had rather misjudged Duveen, but he doubted. All the same, he liked the man.

After supper Kemp and he sat on the veranda and watched the green glow fade from the edge of the plain. They did not talk much, but by and by Kemp remarked: "I thought I saw you go into the Occidental."

"Duveen called me on to the stoop."

"Duveen?" Kemp exclaimed. "Then he's got his hand on the wires! If the Irrigation Company puts the undertaking over, a number of the dollars will go to Duveen's wad. If he's your friend, I expect you know he could get you the job."

"It's possible. All the same, I hinted I didn't want his help."

Kemp laughed. "You surprise me every time! I'm all for a square deal and down with scheming grafters and log-rollers, but I allow I hate them worst when they give another fellow the post I want."

"The thing's not fixed yet. The company's engineers are going to judge and our record's pretty good. They may engage us. We'll know to-morrow."

"Sure thing," Kemp remarked dryly. "I reckon we'll both pull out on the first train."

It began to get dark and Lister went off to bed. He must get water from a cistern in the roof and to carry the heavy jug was awkward when one could not see. At the Tecumseh the guests were expected to carry water for themselves, and Lister, groping along the shadowy passage with his load, thought his doing so had some significance. It was part of the price he must pay for freedom.

At the time fixed in the morning, he went to the Occidental and was shown into a room where a number of gentlemen occupied a table. One or two were smoking and the others talked in low voices, but when Lister came in and the secretary indicated a chair they turned as if to study him. Duveen sat next a man at the end of the table and gave Lister a nod. Somehow Lister thought he was amused.

Lister's heart beat. He felt this was ridiculous, because he had persuaded himself it did not matter whether he got the post or not. Now, however, when the moment to try his luck had come, he shrank from the plunge he had resolved to make if he were not engaged. After all, he knew and liked his occupation; to let it go and try fresh fields would be something of a wrench.

The gentlemen did not embarrass him. On the whole, they were urbane, and when the secretary gave the chairman his application one asked a few questions about the work he had done. Lister was able to answer satisfactorily, and another talked to him about the obstacles encountered when one excavated treacherous gravel and built a bank to stand angry floods. For all that, Lister was anxious. The others looked bored, as if they were politely playing a game. He thought they knew beforehand how the game would end, but he did not know. The inquiries that bored the urbane gentlemen had important consequences for him and the suspense was keen.

At length they let him go, and Duveen gave him a smile that Lister thought implied much. When he returned to the hotel Kemp remarked that he looked as if he needed a drink, and suggested that Lister go with him and get one.

"I need three or four drinks, but mean to go without," said Lister grimly. "I begin to understand how some men get the tanking habit."

He started off across the plain, and coming back too late for lunch, found Kemp on the veranda. Kemp looked as if he were trying to be philosophical, but found it hard.

"The secretary arrived not long since," he said. "A polite man! He didn't want to let us down too heavily."

"Ah!" said Lister. "The Irrigation people have no use for us?"

Kemp nodded. "Willis has got the best job; they've hired up two or three others, but we're left out."

"Willis!" exclaimed Lister, and joined in Kemp's laugh.

"After all, the money he's going to get is theirs," said Kemp. "In this country we're a curious lot. We let grafters and wire-pullers run us, and, when we start a big job, get away with much of the capital we want for machines; but somehow we make good. We shoulder a load we needn't carry and hit the pace up hot. If we got clean control, I reckon we'd never stop. However, there's not much use in philosophizing when you've lost your job, and the East-bound train goes out in a few minutes. You'd better pack your grip."



CHAPTER IX

BARBARA PLAYS A PART

Lister returned to the railroad camp and stayed until the company sent a man to fill his post. In the meantime, he wrote to some of his father's relations, whom he had not seen, and their reply was kind. They stated that while he was in England he must make their house his home. When his successor arrived he started for Montreal, and one afternoon sat under a tree in the square by the cathedral.

The afternoon was calm. A thunderstorm that wet the streets had gone, and an enervating damp heat brooded over the city. After the fresh winds that sweep the woods and plains, Lister felt the languid air made him slack and dull. His steamer did not sail until daybreak, and since he had gone up the mountain and seen the cathedral and Notre Dame, he did not know what to do. The bench he occupied was in the shade, and he smoked and looked about.

Cabs rolled up the street to the big hotel across the square, and behind the trees the huge block of the C.P.R. station cut the sky. One heard whistles, the rumble of heavy wheels, and the tolling of locomotive bells. Pigeons flew down from the cathedral dome and searched the damp gravel.

A group of foreign emigrants picnicked in the shade. Their clothes were old and greasy; they carried big shapeless bundles and looked tired and worn. Lister could not guess their nationality, but imagined they had known poverty and oppression in Eastern Europe. It was obvious they had recently disembarked from a crowded steerage and waited for an emigrant train. They were going West, to the land of promise, and Lister wished them luck. He and they were birds of passage and, with all old landmarks left behind, rested for a few hours on their journey.

He studied the group. The men looked dull and beaten; the women had no beauty and had grown coarse with toil. Their faces were pinched and their shoulders bent. Only the children, in spite of rags and dirt, struck a hopeful note. Yet the forlorn strangers had pluck; they had made a great adventure and might get their reward. Lister had seen others in the West, who had made good, breaking soil they owned and walking with the confident step of self-respecting men. On the plains, stubborn labor was rewarded, but one needed pluck to leave all one knew and break custom's familiar but heavy yoke.

By and by Lister remembered he wanted to take his relations a few typically Canadian presents. He had seen nothing that satisfied him at Winnipeg, and had better look about the shops at Montreal. Anyhow, it would amuse him for an hour or two. He got up, went along the path for a few yards, and then stopped.

Across the clanging of the locomotive bells and the roll of trolley cars at the bottom of the hill he heard sweet voices. The music was faint and somehow ethereal, as if it fell from a height. One lost it now and then. It came from the cathedral and Lister stopped and listened. He did not know what office was being sung, but the jaded emigrants knew, for a child got up and stood with bent head, holding a greasy cap, and a ragged woman's face got gentle as she signed herself with the cross. It looked as if the birds of passage had found a landmark in a foreign land. Lister was moved, and gave the child a coin before he went off.

He strolled east, past Notre Dame, towards the post office, about which the stately banks and imposing office blocks stand. This quarter of the city drew him, for one saw how constructive talent and imagination could be used, and he wondered whether England had new buildings like these. Sometimes one felt the Western towns were raw and vulgar, but one saw the bold Canadian genius at its best in Montreal.

After a time he stopped in front of a shop in a short side street. Indian embroidery work and enameled silver occupied the window, and although Lister was not an artist he had an eye for line and knew the things were good. The soft, stained deerskin was cleverly embroidered; he liked the warm colors of the enamel, and going in was shown a tray of spoons.

The shop, shut in by high buildings, was dark and smelt of aromatic wood and leather, but a beam from a window pierced the gloom and sparkled on the silver. This was emblazoned with the arms of the Provinces; the Ship, the Wheatsheaves, and the red Maple Leaf. Lister picked up the articles, and while he did so was vaguely conscious that a girl at the opposite counter studied him. He, however, did not look up until he had selected a few of the spoons, and then he started.

The light that touched the girl's face did not illuminate it all. Her profile was sharp as an old daguerreotype: he saw the flowing line from brow to chin, drawn with something of austere classic beauty, the arched lips and the faint indication of a gently-rounded cheek. The rest was in shadow, and the contrast of light and gloom was like a Rembrandt picture. Then the enameled spoons rattled as Lister put down the tray. He knew the picture. When he last saw the girl, her face was lighted like that by the blaze of a locomotive head-lamp.

"I'll take these things," he said, and crossed the floor.

The girl moved back, but he indicated a bundle of deerskin articles he thought her business was to sell. Her color was high; he noted the vivid white and pink against the dull background of stained leather.

"What does one do with those bags?" he asked.

"They're useful for keeping gloves and handkerchiefs," she replied. "The pattern is worked in sinews, but we have some with a neat colored embroidery." She paused and signed to a saleswoman farther on. "Will you bring this gentleman the Revillon goods?"

Lister's object for stopping her was not very plain, but he did not mean to let her go.

"Please don't bother. I expect to find something in this bundle," he said to the approaching saleswoman. Then he turned to the girl in front. "Let me look at the bag with the arrow-head pattern."

She gave him the bag, and although her glance was steady he knew she was embarrassed.

"If you will wrap it up, I'll keep this one," he resumed. "I expect you have not forgotten me. When I came into the shop I didn't imagine I should meet you, but if you'd sooner I went off, I'll go."

"I have not forgotten," she admitted, and her color faded and came back to her delicate skin.

"Very well! Since I sail to-night on the Allan boat, it's plain you needn't be afraid of my bothering you. All the same, we were partners in an adventure that ought to make us friends. Can't I meet you for a few minutes when you stop work?"

She hesitated, and then gave him a searching glance.

"Come to the fountain up the street in an hour. This is my early evening."

Lister went off with the bag and spoons, and when he returned to the fountain saw her crossing the square in front. She was dressed like the shop-girls he had seen hurrying on board the street cars in the morning; her clothes were pretty and fashionable, but Lister thought the material was cheap. He felt she ought not to wear things like that. While she advanced he studied her. She was attractive, in a way he had hardly remarked on board the train. One rather noted her quick, resolute movements, the sparkle in her eyes, and her keen vitality. Lister began to think he had unconsciously noted much.

"I'm going to take you to supper, and you can send me off when you like afterwards," he said and started across the square. A famous restaurant was not far off.

"No," she said, as if she knew where he was going. "If I go with you, it must be the tea-rooms I and my friends use." She gave him a rather hard smile and added: "There's no use in my going where I don't belong."

Lister said nothing, but while they walked across the town she talked with a brightness he thought forced, and when they stopped at a small tea-room in a side street he frowned. He was persuaded she did not belong there. She was playing a part, perhaps not very cleverly since he had found her out. She wanted him to think her a shop-girl enjoying an evening's adventure; her talk and careless laugh hinted at this, but Lister was not cheated.

They went in. The room was small and its ornamentation unusual. Imitation vines crawled about light wooden arches, cutting up the floor space into quiet corners. The room was rather dark, but pink lamps shone among the leaves and the soft light touched the tables and clusters of artificial grapes. Lister thought the plan was well carried out, for the grapes were the small red Muskokas that grow in Canada. When he picked up the menu card he understood why girls from the stores and offices used the place.

Lister ordered the best supper the French-Canadian landlady could serve, and then began to talk while he helped his companion. The corner they occupied was secluded and he owned that to sup with an attractive girl had a romantic charm. He noted that she frankly enjoyed the food and he liked her light, quick laugh and the sparkle in her eyes. Her thin summer clothes hinted at a slender, finely-lined form, and her careless pose was graceful.

He wondered whether she felt her meeting him was something of an adventure, but he was persuaded she was playing a part. Her frankness was not bold, the little, French-Canadian gestures were obviously borrowed, and some of the colloquialisms she used were out of date. Except for these, her talk was cultivated. For a time Lister tried to play up, and then resolved to see if he could break her reserve.

"It looks as if you made Malcolm all right on board the gravel train," he remarked.

She gave him a quick glance and colored. "Yes, I made it and got the East-bound express. The engineer was kind. I expect you told him he must help?"

"When I put you on board the locomotive I knew Roberts would see you out. He's a sober fellow and has two girls as old as you."

"You don't know how old I am," she said with an effort for carelessness.

"Anyhow, it's plain you are young enough to be rash," Lister rejoined.

She put down her cup and her glance was soft. He saw she was not acting.

"I don't think I really was rash—not then. It's something to know when you can trust people, and I did know."

Lister was embarrassed, but her gentleness had charm. He did not want her to resume her other manner. Then he was tempted to make an experiment.

"You know Shillito got away?"

Her lips trembled and the blood came to her skin, but she fronted him bravely and he felt ashamed.

"Yes," she said. "I think I would sooner he had been caught! But why did you begin to talk about Shillito?"

"Perhaps I oughtn't; I'm sorry."

She studied him and he thought she pondered, although it was possible she wanted to recover her calm.

"Unless you are very dull, you know something," she resumed with an effort. "Well, I was rash, but just before I saw you on the platform I found out all I'd risked. I think I was desperate; I meant to jump off the train, only it was going fast and water shone under the bridge. Then you pushed me from the step and I felt I must make another plunge and try to get your help. Now I'm glad I did so. But that's all."

Lister understood that the thing was done with. She would tell him nothing more, and he was sorry he had indulged his curiosity.

"Oh, well," he said, "there's not much risk of my bothering you about the fellow again. I start for England in a few hours."

Her glance got wistful. She moved her plate and her hand trembled.

"You are English?" he resumed.

"I met you first on board a Canadian train and now you find me helping at a Montreal store. Isn't this enough? Why do you try to find out where I come from?"

"I'm sorry. All the same, you're not a Canadian."

"I am a Canadian now," she rejoined, and then added, as if she were resolved to talk about something else, "There's a mark on your forehead, like a deep cut. You hadn't got it when I saw you on the platform."

"No," said Lister. "I fell down some steps not long afterwards."

She looked at him sharply and then exclaimed: "Oh! the newspapers said there was a struggle on the train! Somebody helped the police and got hurt. It was you. Shillito knew you had meddled. You got the cut for me!"

"We agreed we wouldn't talk about Shillito. I got the cut because I didn't want to see a young police trooper knocked out. People who meddle do get hurt now and then. Anyhow, it's some time since and I think we'll let it go. Suppose you tell me about Montreal and your job at the store?"

She roused herself and began to talk. Lister thought it cost her something, but she sketched her working companions with skill and humor. She used their accent and their French-Canadian gestures. Lister laughed and led her on, although he got a hint of strain. The girl was not happy and he had noted her wistful look when she talked about England. At length she got up, and stopping at the door for a moment gave him her hand.

"Thank you. I wish you bon voyage," she said.

"Can't we go somewhere else? Is there nothing doing at the theaters?" Lister asked.

"No," she said resolutely; "I'm going home. Anyhow, I'm going where I live."

Lister let her go, but waited, watching her while she went up the street. Somehow she looked forlorn and he felt pitiful. He remembered that he did not know her name, which he had wanted to ask but durst not.

When he returned to his hotel he stopped at the desk and gave the clerk a cigarette. As a rule, a Canadian hotel clerk knows something about everybody of importance in the town.

"I bought some souvenirs at a curiosity depot," he said, and told the other where the shop was. "Although they charged me pretty high, the things looked good."

"You haven't got stung," the clerk remarked. "The folks are French-Canadians but they like a square deal. If you put up the money, they put up the goods."

"The shop hands looked smart and bright. If you study the sales people, you can sometimes tell how a store is run."

"That's so. Those girls don't want to grumble. They're treated all right."

"Oh, well," said Lister, "since I don't know much about enameled goods and deerskin truck, I'm glad I've not got stung."

When he went off the other smiled, for a hotel clerk is not often cheated, and he thought he saw where Lister's remarks led. Lister, however, was strangely satisfied. It was something to know the storekeepers were honest and kind to the people they employed.



CHAPTER X

VERNON'S CURIOSITY

Silky blue lines streaked the long undulations that ran back to the horizon and the Flaminian rolled with a measured swing. When her bows went down the shining swell broke with a dull roar and rainbows flickered in the spray about her forecastle; then, while the long deck got level, one heard the beat of engines and the grinding of screws. A wake like an angry torrent foamed astern, and in the distance, where the dingy smoke-cloud melted, the crags of Labrador ran in faint, broken line. Ahead an ice-floe glittered in the sun. The liner had left Belle Isle Strait and was steaming towards Greenland on the northern Atlantic course.

Harry Vernon occupied a chair on the saloon-deck and read the Montreal Star which had been sent on board at Rimouski. The light reflected by the white boats and deck was strong; he was not much interested, and put down the newspaper when Lister joined him. They had met on the journey from Winnipeg to Montreal, and on boarding the Flaminian Lister was given the second berth in Vernon's room. Vernon liked Lister.

"Take a smoke," he said, indicating a packet of cigarettes. "Nothing fresh in the newspapers. They've caught the fellow Porteous; he was trying to steal across to Detroit."

Lister sat down and lighted a cigarette. Porteous was a clerk who had not long since gone off with a large sum of his employer's money.

"Canada is getting a popular hunting ground for smart crooks. It looks as if our business men were easily robbed."

"There are two kinds of business men; one lot makes things, the other buys and sells. Some of the first are pretty good manufacturers, but stop at that. They concentrate on manufacturing and hire a specialist to look after finance."

"But if the specialist's a crook, can't you spot him when he gets to work?"

"As a rule, the men who get stung know all about machines and material but nothing about book-keeping," Vernon replied. "A bright accountant could rob one or two I've met when he was asleep. For example, there was Shillito. His employers were big and prosperous lumber people; clever men at their job, but Shillito gambled with their money for some time before they got on his track. I expect you read about him in the newspapers?"

Lister smiled and, pushing back his cap, touched his forehead.

"I know something about Shillito. That's his mark!"

"Then you were the man he knocked out!" Vernon exclaimed. "But he hasn't got your money. Why did you help the police?"

"It isn't very obvious. Somehow, I didn't like the fellow. Then, you see, the girl—"

"The girl? What had a girl to do with it?"

Lister frowned. He had not meant to talk about the girl and was angry because he had done so, but did not see how he could withdraw his careless statement. Moreover Vernon looked interested, and it was important that both were typical Canadians. The young Canadian is not subtle; as a rule, his talk is direct, and at awkward moments he is generally marked by a frank gravity. Vernon was grave now and Lister thought he pondered. He had not known Vernon long, but he felt one could trust him.

"I met a girl on board the train," he said. "She was keen about getting away from Shillito."

"Why did she want to get away?"

"I don't know. Looked as if she was afraid of him. When I first saw her she was on the car platform and I reckoned she was bracing herself to jump off. Since we were running across a trestle, I pulled her from the steps. That's how the thing began."

"But it didn't stop just then?"

"It stopped soon afterwards," Lister replied. "She wanted to get off and go East; the train was bound West, but we were held up at a side-track, and I put her on board a gravel train locomotive."

"Then she went East!" said Vernon thoughtfully, and studied the other.

Lister sat with his head thrown back and the sun on his brown face. His look was calm and frank; his careless pose brought out the lines of his thin but muscular figure. Vernon felt he was honest; he knew Lister's type.

"She went off on board our construction locomotive," Lister replied.

"But I don't see yet! Why did you meddle? Why did she give you her confidence?"

"She didn't give me her confidence," Lister said, and smiled. "She wanted to get away and I helped. That's all. It's obvious I wasn't out for a romantic adventure, because I put her off the train."

Vernon nodded. Lister's argument was sound; besides, he did not look like a philanderer.

"Then you don't know who she is?"

"I don't know. She didn't put me wise and my business was not to bother her."

"What was she like? Did you guess her age? How was she dressed?"

Lister lighted a fresh cigarette. Vernon's keenness rather puzzled him, but he thought he had told the fellow enough. In fact, he doubted if the girl would approve his frankness. He was not going to state that he had met her at Montreal. Anyhow, not yet. If Vernon talked about the thing again and gave proper grounds for his curiosity, he might perhaps satisfy him.

"She was young," he answered vaguely. "Attractive, something of a looker, I think. I don't know much about women's clothes."

"Oh, well!" said Vernon. "You helped her off and Shillito found this out and got after you?"

"He got after me when he saw he was corraled," Lister replied, and narrated his struggle on the platform. He was now willing to tell Vernon all he wanted to know, but saw the other's interest was not keen and they presently began to talk about something else.

"What are you going to do in the Old Country?" Vernon asked.

"I have no plans. For a time, I guess I'll loaf and look about. Then I want to see my father's folks, whom I haven't met."

"Your father was English?"

"Why, yes," said Lister, smiling. "If you reckon up, you'll find a big proportion of the staunchest Canadians' parents came from the Old Country. In fact, I sometimes feel Canada belongs to us and the boys of the sourdough stock. Between us we have given the country its stamp and made it a land for white men; but we'll soon be forced to make good our claim. If we're slack, we'll be snowed under by folks from Eastern Europe whose rules and habits are not ours."

Vernon nodded. "It's a problem we have got to solve. But are you going back to the railroad when you have looked about?"

"I'm going back some time, but, now I have pulled out, I want to see all I can. I'd like to look at Europe, Egypt and India."

"Wandering around costs something," Vernon remarked.

"That is so. My wad's small, but if I've not had enough when it's used up, I'll look for a job. If nothing else is doing, I'll go to sea."

Vernon's smile was sympathetic and he looked ahead, over the dipping forecastle to the far horizon. The sea shone with reflected light and an iceberg glimmered against the blue. He felt the measured throb of engines and the ship leap forward. Vernon was a young Canadian and sprang from pioneering stock. The vague distance called; he felt the lure of going somewhere.

"If the thing was possible, I'd go with you," he said. "All the same, I'm tied to business and the old man can't pull his load alone. My job's to stick to the traces and help him along. But do you know much about the sea?"

"I was engineer on board a Pacific coasting boat and a wheat barge on the Lakes."

"Well," said Vernon thoughtfully, "I know an English shipping boss who might help you get a berth. I'd rather like you to meet him, but we'll talk about this again. Now let's join those fellows at deck-quoits."

Their friendship ripened, but it was not until the last day of the voyage Vernon said something more about the English ship-owner. Flaminian was steaming across the Irish Sea, with the high blue hills of Mourne astern and the Manx rocks ahead. Vernon lounged on the saloon-deck and his face was thoughtful as he looked across the shining water.

"We'll make Liverpool soon after dark, and if I can get the train I want, I'll pull out right then," he said. "You allowed you might try a run on board an English ship before you went back?"

"It's possible," said Lister. "Depends on how my wad holds out and on somebody's being willing to give me a post."

Vernon nodded. "That's where I'm leading." He stopped, and Lister wondered why he pondered. The thing did not seem worth the thought his companion gave it.

"I reckon you don't know Cartwright of the Independent Freighters, but he could put you wise about getting a ship," Vernon resumed. "I'm stopping for a week or two at his country house. The freighters are small boats, but Cartwright's worth knowing; in fact, to know him is something of an education. In the West we're pretty keen business men, and I've put across some smart deals at the Winnipeg Board of Trade, but I'll admit Cartwright would beat me every time. Where do you mean to locate?"

Lister said he was going to the neighborhood of a small country town in the North of England, and was puzzled by Vernon's start.

"That fixes it! The thing's strangely lucky. Cartwright's country house is not far off. You had better come along by my train. Soon after I arrive I'll get Mrs. Cartwright to ask you across."

"I mustn't bother your friends," said Lister. "Besides, I really don't know if I want to go to sea."

"All the same, you'll come over to Carrock. You ought to know Cartwright and I reckon he'll like to know you. I have a notion you and he would make a good team."

Lister wondered whether Vernon had an object for urging him to meet his friend, but this looked ridiculous.

"What's Cartwright like?" he asked carelessly.

"My notion is, Cartwright's unique. You imagine he's something of a highbrow Englishman, rather formal and polite, but he has an eye like a fish-hawk's and his orders go. Hair and mustache white; you don't know if his clothes are old or new, but you feel they're exactly what he ought to wear. That's Cartwright, so to speak, on top; but when you meet him you want to remember you're not up against a Canadian. We're a straight type. When we're tough, we're very tough all the time; when we're cultivated, you can see the polish shine. In the Old Country it's harder to fix where folks belong."

"You imply that you have got to know Cartwright before you fix him?"

Vernon laughed. "I haven't quite fixed him yet. At one time he's a sober gentleman of the stiff old school; at another he's as rough as the roughest hobo I've met in the West. I reckon he'd beat a business crook at the other's smartest trick, but if you're out for a straight deal, you'll find Cartwright straight."

He went off to change some money and Lister went to his cabin and began to pack his trunk. When he came up they had passed the Chicken Rock and a long bright beam touched the sea astern. In the East, water and sky faded to dusky blue, but presently a faint light began to blink as if it beckoned. The light got brighter and gradually drew abeam. The foaming wake glimmered lividly in the dark, the beat of screws seemed quicker, and Lister thought the ship was carried forward by a stream of tide.

Other lights began to blink. They stole out of the dark, got bright, and vanished, and Lister, leaning on the rails, felt they called him on. One knew them by their colors and measured flashes. They were beacons, burning on a well-ordered plan to guide the navigator, but he did not know the plan. In a sense, this was important, and he began to muse.

Now he would soon reach the Old Country, he felt he had made a momentous plunge. Adventure called, he knew Canada and wanted something fresh, but he wondered whether this was all. Perhaps the plunge had, so to speak, not been a thoughtless caprice. In a sense, things had led up to it and made it logical. For example, it might not have been for nothing he met the girl on the train and got hurt. His hurt had kept him at Winnipeg and stopping there had roused his discontent. Then he had met Vernon, who wanted him to know the English ship-owner. It was possible these things were like the flashes that leaped out of the dark. He would know where they pointed when the journey was over. Then Lister smiled and knocked out his pipe.

When he went on deck again some time afterwards the ship was steering for a gap between two rows of twinkling lights. They ran on, closing on each other, like electric lamps in a long street, and in front the sky shone with a dull red glow. It was the glimmer of a great port, they were entering the Mersey, and he went off to get up his luggage.

PART II—THE RECKONING



CHAPTER I

VERNON'S PLOT

Lister occupied the end of a slate-flag bench on the lawn at Carrock, Mrs. Cartwright's house in Rannerdale. Rannerdale slopes to a lake in the North Country, and the old house stands among trees and rocks in a sheltered hollow. The sun shone on its lichened front, where a creeper was going red; in the background birches with silver stems and leaves like showers of gold gleamed against somber firs. Across the lawn and winding road, the tranquil lake reflected bordering woods; and then long mountain slopes that faded from yellow and green to purple closed the view.

While Lister waited for the tea Mrs. Cartwright had given him to cool he felt the charm of house and dale was strong. Perhaps it owed something to the play of soft light and shade, for, as a rule, in Canada all was sharply cut. The English landscape had a strange elusive beauty that gripped one hard, and melted as the fleecy clouds rolled by. When the light came back color and line were as beautiful but not the same.

There was no grass in Canada like the sweep of smooth English turf, and Lister had not thought a house could give the sense of ancient calm one got at Carrock. Since his boyhood he had not known a home; his resting place had been a shack at a noisy construction camp, a room at a crowded cheap hotel, and a berth beside a steamer's rattling engines. Then the shining silver on the tea-table was something new; he marked its beauty of line, and the blue and gold and brown pattern on the delicate china he was almost afraid to touch. In fact, all at Carrock was marked by a strange refinement and quiet charm.

He liked his hosts. Mrs. Cartwright was large, rather fat, and placid, but he felt the house and all it stood for were hers by rightful inheritance. Her son and daughter were not like that. Lister thought they had cultivated their well-bred serenity and by doing so had cultivated out some virile qualities of human nature. Grace Hyslop had beauty, but not much charm; Lister thought her cold, and imagined her prejudices were strong and conventional. Mortimer's talk and manners were colorlessly correct. Lister did not know yet if Hyslop was a prig or not.

Cartwright was frankly puzzling. He looked like a sober country gentleman, and this was not the type Lister had thought to meet. His clothes were fastidiously good, his voice had a level, restrained note, but his eye was like a hawk's, as Vernon had said. Now and then one saw a twinkle of ironical amusement and some of his movements were quick and vigorous. Lister thought Cartwright's blood was red.

Vernon, lounging at the opposite end of the bench, talked about a day Hyslop and he had spent upon the rocks, and rather struck a foreign note. He had not Hyslop's graceful languidness; he looked alert and highly-strung. His thin face was too grave for Carrock and his glance too quick. Lister, listening to his remarks, was surprised to note that Hyslop was a bold mountaineer.

"Oh, well," he said, with a deprecatory smile, when Vernon stopped, "this small group of mountains is all the wild belt we have got, and you like to find a stranger keen about your favorite sport. Then your keenness was flattering. In your country, with its lonely woods and rivers running to the North, you have a field for strenuous sport and adventure."

"The woods pull," Vernon agreed. "All the same, I'm a business man. Betting at the Board of Trade is my proper job and I've got to be satisfied with a week at a fishing camp now and then. Adventure is for the pioneers, lumber men and railroad builders like my friend."

Lister looked up. He did not see why Vernon talked about him.

"My adventures don't count for much," he said. "Sometimes a car went into a muskeg and we had to hustle to dig her out. Sometimes the boys made trouble about their pay. Railroad building is often dull."

"I don't know if we're all modest in Canada, but my partner is," Vernon observed. "If you want a romantic tale, persuade him to tell you how he got the mark on his head."

"Oh shucks!" said Lister. "I had sooner you had cut that out." He turned to the others apologetically. "It was a dispute with a fellow on board a train who threw me down the steps. I don't want to bore you with the tale."

"The man was the famous crook, Shillito," Vernon remarked.

Cartwright lifted his head and looked at Vernon hard. Then he looked at Lister, who felt embarrassed and angry. He saw Grace and Mrs. Cartwright were curious and thought Hyslop's glance got keen.

"If it will not bother Mr. Lister, we would like to hear his narrative," said Cartwright quietly, but Lister got a hint of command.

He narrated his adventure on the train, and although he tried to rob the story of its romance, was surprised when he stopped for a moment. Vernon was carelessly lighting a cigarette, but Lister saw his carelessness was forced. When he got a light he crossed the grass, as if he meant to throw the match over the hedge. Lister thought Cartwright watched Harry with dry amusement. Mrs. Cartwright's look was obviously disturbed, but she had not altogether lost her calm. One felt her calm was part of her, but the Hyslops' was cultivated. Lister imagined it cost them something to use control.

"Go on," said Cartwright, rather sharply.

Lister resumed, but presently Cartwright stopped him.

"You imagined the girl was afraid of Shillito! What were your grounds?"

"She was disturbed and declared she must get off the train. I think she meant to jump off, although we were going fast. Then she asked me if the conductor could be bribed to stop."

"Perhaps we can take it for granted she wanted to get away from somebody. Why did you surmise the man was Shillito?"

"He came through the car afterwards, as if he tried to find the girl, and gave me a keen glance. When he came back I thought him angry and disappointed. By and by I had better grounds for imagining he suspected I had helped her."

Cartwright pondered, but Lister did not think he doubted. It rather looked as if he weighed something carefully. The lines on his face got deeper and his look was thoughtful.

"I understand the girl did not give you her name," he said. "What was she like? How was she dressed?"

Lister was rather surprised to find he could not answer satisfactorily. It was not the girl's physical qualities but her emotions he had marked. He remembered the pluck with which she had struggled against the fear she obviously felt, her impulsive trust when he offered help, and her relief when she got into the locomotive cab. Although he had studied her at Montreal, it was her effort to play a part that impressed him most.

"She was young, and I think attractive," he replied. "She wore a knitted cap and a kind of jersey a girl might use for boating. I thought she came from a summer camp."

Cartwright's face was inscrutable, but Lister saw the others' interest was keen. Mrs. Cartwright's eyes were fixed on him and he got a hint of suspense. Although Grace was very quiet, a touch of color had come to her skin, as if she felt humiliated. Mortimer's pose was stiff and his control over done. Then Cartwright turned to his step-daughter.

"Have you told Jones about the box of plants for Liverpool?"

Grace's look indicated that she did not want to go, but Cartwright's glance was insistent and she got up. Lister looked about and saw Vernon had not come back. He was studying the plants in a border across the lawn. When Grace had gone Cartwright asked:

"Can you remember the evening of the month and the time when you first saw the girl?"

Lister fixed the date and added: "It was nearly ten o'clock. The porter had just gone through the car and when he said my berth was ready I looked at my watch. He went to the next Pullman, and I thought he was getting busy late."

Cartwright nodded and Mortimer glanced at him sharply, but next moment looked imperturbable. Mrs. Cartwright's relief, however, was obvious. Her face had become animated and her hands trembled.

"Thank you," said Cartwright. "Go on."

Lister narrated his putting the girl on board the gravel train and Mrs. Cartwright interrupted.

"Do you know if she had money?"

"She had some. Enough to buy a ticket East."

"It's strange," said Mrs. Cartwright, and then exclaimed: "You mean you gave her some?"

"Oh, well," said Lister awkwardly, "I'd seen her look at her purse and frown, and as I helped her up the locomotive steps I pushed a few bills into her hand. I don't think she knew they were paper money. She was highly-strung and anxious to get off before Shillito came along."

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a look that moved him. Her eyes shone and he knew she was his friend.

"The poor girl was strangely lucky when she met you," she said.

Lister resumed his narrative, but it was plain the climax had passed. The others' interest was now polite, and he went on as fast as possible. He had begun to see a light and wanted to finish and get away. He did not, however, see that while he told his artless tale he had drawn his character. When he stopped Cartwright said:

"Then you did not know her name?"

"I don't know it yet," said Lister, as coolly as he could, but got embarrassed when he saw Cartwright's smile.

"You don't imagine Shillito rejoined her afterwards?"

"No," said Lister firmly, "I think it's impossible. The gravel train was going East, and when the police boarded the cars we had run some distance West." He stopped for a moment, because he saw he was very dull. If his supposition were correct, there was something the others ought to know. "Besides," he resumed, "I met her not long since at Montreal."

"At Montreal!" Mrs. Cartwright exclaimed.

"At a shop where they sold souvenirs," Lister replied. "I didn't expect to meet her; I went in to buy some enameled things. It was a pretty good shop and the hotel clerk declared the people were all right. She knew me and we went to a tea-room. She left me at the door, and I think that's all."

He got up. "I don't know if I have bored you, but I felt you wanted me to talk. Now I must get off, and I want to see Harry before I go."

"Mr. Vernon does not seem to be about," Cartwright remarked with some dryness. "I'll go to the gate with you."

Mrs. Cartwright gave Lister her hand and her glance was very kind. "You will come back? So long as you stop here I hope you will feel our house is open to you."

Hyslop got up, but Cartwright stopped him with a sign. He was quiet while they crossed the lawn, but when they reached the wood by the road he said, "I imagine you know we owe you much. After a time, your efforts to use some tact were rather obvious. Well, the girl you helped is my step-daughter."

"At the beginning, I did not know this," Lister declared.

"It was plain," said Cartwright, "Well, I agree with her mother—Barbara was very lucky when she met you, but since you look embarrassed, we'll let this go. Did she repay your loan?"

"She wanted to pay me," said Lister. "I refused."

"Why?" Cartwright asked, looking at him hard.

Lister hesitated, "For one thing, I didn't know the sum. Then I knew her wages were not high. You ought to see I couldn't take the money."

"You ought to have taken the money, for the girl's sake."

"Oh," said Lister, "I think she knew I didn't refuse because I wanted her to feel she owed me something."

"It's possible she did know," said Cartwright dryly. "You must try to remember the sum when you come again. Now I want the name of the shop at Montreal."

Lister told him and added: "You mean to write to Miss Hyslop?"

Cartwright smiled. "I'm going across as soon as possible to bring my step-daughter home."



CHAPTER II

BARBARA'S RETURN

When Lister had gone Cartwright returned to the tea-table and looked at Hyslop, who got up and went off. Hyslop did not altogether want to go but he had cultivated discretion, and it was plain his step-father meant to get rid of him. Then Cartwright gave his wife a sympathetic glance. Mrs. Cartwright was calm, but when she put some cups together her hand shook.

"Leave the things alone," said Cartwright in a soothing voice. "Vernon's plot was clever."

"Do you think Harry planned that Lister should tell us?"

"It looks like that," said Cartwright dryly. "He was keen about bringing his friend over, but was cautious enough to wait until the fellow began to know us. When he talked about Lister's adventures I wondered where he was leading. The other was puzzled, and didn't see until near the end."

"But why didn't Harry, himself, tell us all he knew?"

"Vernon's a good sort and more fastidious than one thinks; he saw he'd be forced to venture on rather awkward ground, and there was some doubt. He wanted us to weigh the story and judge if the clew he gave us ought to be followed. This was not Vernon's job, although I think he was satisfied."

"But you are satisfied?"

"Yes," said Cartwright "Lister's portrait of Barbara was lifelike and his own was pretty good. I think he drew himself and her better than he knew, and perhaps it's lucky we have to deal with fellows like these. A good Canadian is a fine type. However, we must bring Barbara back."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Cartwright, "I want her back! One must hide one's hurt, but to hide it is hard—" She pulled herself up and added: "Will you send a cablegram?"

"I think not. The girl is proud and as wild as a hawk. She thinks she has humiliated us, and if she's startled, she'll probably run away."

"You don't think she has humiliated us?" Mrs. Cartwright said in a hesitating voice.

Cartwright smiled. "It's plain that her escapade must not be talked about but we can trust these Canadians and I know Barbara. In a sense, Lister's narrative wasn't necessary. The girl is headstrong, but I was persuaded she would find the rascal out. Looks as if she did so soon after they got on board the cars, and I imagine Shillito had an awkward few moments; Barbara's temper is not mild. Then it's important that she was desperately anxious to escape from him. There's no more to be said."

Mrs. Cartwright gave him a grateful look. Her husband had never failed her and he had justified her trust again.

"If you don't send a cablegram, how shall we get Barbara back?"

"I'll go myself," said Cartwright "If she can't be persuaded, I'll bring her by force. It's lucky I can charge the cost to the office. The new wheat is coming down to Montreal, and the Conference people have a plan to get it all, but I expect to beat them and engage some cargo for our boats before the St. Lawrence freezes. However, since I'm going, I must get to work."

He started for the house and met his step-son at the porch. Mortimer looked thoughtful, and held an unlighted cigarette. Cartwright studied him with scornful amusement.

"Have you been speculating about the proper way of handling an awkward situation?"

"I have been talking to Grace," Hyslop replied in an even voice.

"I rather think Grace has been talking to you, but expect you agreed. You have, no doubt, decided the best plan is to leave your headstrong sister alone?"

"We did agree about something like that," said Hyslop coolly, although when Cartwright fixed his eyes on his he turned his head. "We thought if Barbara were given an allowance, she might, for example, stay with the Vernons. Grace's notion—"

Cartwright's mouth got hard and his mustache bristled. When he was moved his urbanity vanished and his talk was very blunt.

"We'll let Grace's notion go. My form is not my step-children's, but I try to moderate my remarks about women. We'll admit Grace is a woman, although I sometimes doubt. Anyhow, you are not a man; you haven't a drop of warm blood in your veins! You're a curled and scented fine lady's lap-dog pup!"

"I don't see much use in talking about my qualities, sir."

"You don't see," Cartwright agreed. "That's your drawback! You see nothing that's rude and human; you're afraid to look. All that's obvious is, Barbara must not come home to throw an awkward reflection on Grace's Puritanical virtue. People might find out something and talk? If anybody talks while I'm about, I'll ram the implication down his throat! You don't see, or perhaps you don't mind, the drawbacks to separating Barbara from her mother and banishing her from home? She's trustful, rash, and fiery, and not a statue like Grace. Anyhow, Barbara is coming back, and if you don't approve, I'll expect you to be resigned. Now get off before I let myself go!"

Hyslop went. One gained nothing by arguing with a brute like Cartwright, and since Mrs. Cartwright's infatuation for her husband could not be disturbed Hyslop knew he must acquiesce. Cartwright, rather braced by the encounter, went to the library and wrote some letters to Liverpool. A few days afterwards, he packed his trunk and was driven to the station in Mrs. Cartwright's car. Grace got up an hour earlier than usual in order to see him off, and when she brought his scarf and gloves Cartwright accepted her ministrations with politeness. Although he knew she disapproved of him, she thought her duty was to do things like this, and he played up.

When the throb of the car was getting faint she met Mortimer going to the lake. He stopped and looked up at the valley, which was streaked by a thin line of dust.

"For three or four weeks we'll be undisturbed," he said. "I admit I like Carrock better when my step-father is away."

"Barbara's coming back with him," Grace remarked. "In some ways, her return will be awkward, but perhaps she ought to come."

Mortimer gave her a surprised glance. "This was not your view!"

"Oh, well, I have been thinking. Barbara is rash and very young. In Canada, she would be free from all control, and one must not weigh drawbacks against one's duty. Perhaps Cartwright takes the proper line, although of course it costs him nothing. You didn't tell me what he said the other evening."

Mortimer shrugged. "As a rule, my step-father's remarks won't bear re-stating. He was a little franker than usual."

"He is coarse," said Grace. "One feels he gets coarser, as if his thoughts had begun to react on his body. There is a link, and, of course, with his habits—"

"I rather think you mean with his appetites. Cartwright does not often let himself go when he's at home, but when he is away he's another man."

Grace looked thoughtful. "One likes restraint. All the same, I sometimes think rude, primitive people have a vigor we have not. It's strange, but indulgence seems to go with force. One feels our friends are rather bloodless—I'm using Cartwright's phrase."

"Our Canadian friends are not bloodless. I expect you have remarked that Barbara's the type they like."

"She has an appeal for men like that," Grace agreed, and mused.

It was hard to own, but she began to see that when she thought Barbara ought to stop in Canada she was inspired by jealousy. Barbara's charm for men was strong and when she was about they left Grace alone. Still she had a vague perception that her sister's charm was not altogether physical. She herself had a classical beauty that did not mark the younger girl; it looked as if Barbara had attractive qualities that were not hers. Lister, for example, was not a brute like Cartwright, but it was plain that Barbara had attracted him. Grace approved his soberness and frank gravity; and then she pulled herself up. She must not be jealous about her sister.

"Cartwright's power is stronger because he does not use our money," Mortimer resumed. "I don't know if it was cleverness or scruples that urged him to refuse. All the same, if he were forced to ask mother's help, his influence would be less."

"But his needing help is not probable. He's managing owner of the line."

Mortimer smiled. "He gets a commission on the boat's earnings, but does not hold many shares. Then the fleet is small and the boats don't earn very much. Things are not going smoothly and some shareholders would like to put Cartwright off the Board. At the last meeting, one fellow talked about the need for fresh blood. However, I expect Cartwright's clever enough, to keep off the rocks, and when one can't get rid of a drawback one must submit."

Lighting a cigarette, he started for the lake and Grace returned thoughtfully to the house. Mortimer hated Cartwright and Grace admitted he had some grounds. Although her brother was indolent and philosophical, he did not forget. Rude disputes jarred him, but if by some chance he was able to injure the other, Grace thought he would do so. Grace, herself, strongly disapproved of Cartwright. All the same, he was her step-father and she had tried to cultivate her sense of duty. She was prejudiced, cold, and censorious, but she meant to be just and did not like Mortimer's bitterness.

Cartwright was occupied for some time at Montreal, and the birch leaves had fallen when he returned. The evening was dark, and chilly mist rolled down the dale, but a big fire burned in the hall at Carrock and tall lamps threw a cheerful light on the oak paneling. A flooded beck roared in the hollow of a ghyll across the lawn and its turmoil echoed about the hall. Mrs. Cartwright stood by the fire, Grace moved restlessly about, and Mortimer appeared to be absorbed by the morning's news.

"I wish you would sit down, mother," he said presently. "You can hear the car, you know, and the train is often late."

For a few minutes Mrs. Cartwright did not move, and then she started and fixed her eyes on the door. She heard an engine throb, there was a noise in the porch, and a cold wind blew into the room. Then the door opened and Cartwright entered, shaking the damp from his fur coat. He turned, beckoning somebody behind, and Barbara came out from the arch. Her face was flushed, her eyes were hard, and she stopped irresolutely. Mortimer advanced to take the coat she carried and Grace crossed the floor, but Barbara waited, as if she did not see them. Then her strained look vanished, for Mrs. Cartwright went forward with awkward speed and took her in her arms.

Cartwright saw his wife had forgotten him, and turning to the others with a commanding gesture, drove them and the servants from the hall. When they had gone he gave Mrs. Cartwright a smile.

"I've brought her back," he said. "Not altogether an easy job. Barbara's ridiculous, but she can fight."

He went off and Barbara clung to her mother. She was shaking and her breath came hard.

"You were ridiculous," said Mrs. Cartwright in a gentle voice. "I expect you were very obstinate. But he was kind?"

"He's a dear; I love him!" Barbara replied. "He understands everything. I think he ought to have stopped at Liverpool; the secretary met us and talked about some business, but if he hadn't come with me, I could not have borne—"

She stopped, and resting her head on Mrs. Cartwright's shoulder, began to cry. Mrs. Cartwright said nothing, but kissed and soothed her with loving gentleness.

When, some time afterwards, Barbara came down the stairs that occupied one side of the hall she was composed, but tea by the fire was something of a strain. It was plain that Grace's careless talk was forced and Mortimer's efforts to keep on safe ground were marked. Now and then Cartwright's eyes twinkled and Barbara thought she knew why he sometimes made a joke that jarred the others. When the meal was over he took them away.

"I imagine your sister understands Grace and you are willing to take her back and forget the pain she gave you," he said to Hyslop. "Your handling of the situation was tactful and correct, but you can leave her to her mother."

Mrs. Cartwright stopped with Barbara, who brought a footstool to the hearthrug, and sitting down leaned against her knee.

"I have been an obstinate, selfish, romantic fool!" she broke out.

Mrs. Cartwright touched her hair and smiled, for she felt comforted. This was the tempestuous Barbara she thought she had lost.

"My dear!" she said. "It's not important since you have come back.''

"I oughtn't to have come back. If you had not sent father, I would not have come. He's determined, but he's gentle. You know he sympathizes."

"Although I wanted him to go, I did not send him," Mrs. Cartwright replied. "He went because he loves you, but we can talk about this again." She hesitated for a moment and went on: "It was not long, I think, before you found Shillito was a thief? Mr. Lister's story indicated this."

A wave of color came to Barbara's skin, but she looked up and her eyes flashed.

"At the beginning, I did not know he was a thief; I found out he was a cunning brute. Afterwards, when I read about his escape in the newspapers, I rather wished the trooper who shot at him had not missed—" She shook with horror and anger and it was a moment or two before she resumed: "I can't tell you all, mother. I was frightened, but anger gave me pluck. He said I must stick to him because I could not go back. I think I struck him, and then I ran away. People were going to their berths in the Pullman and he durst not use force. When I got to the car platform and was going to jump off I saw Mr. Lister—but he has told you—"

Mrs. Cartwright nodded, for she was satisfied.

"My dear," she said, "it's done with. Still I wonder why you were willing to leave us."

"Sometimes I wonder. To begin with, I have owned I was a fool; but things were dreary and I wanted a thrill. Then I had begun to feel nobody at home wanted me. Father and you were kind, but he seemed to think me an amusing, willful child. Grace always disapproved, and Mortimer sneered. They knew I was not their sort and very proper people are cruel if you won't obey their rules. I hated rules; Grace's correctness made me rebel. Then Louis came and declared I was all to him. He was handsome and romantic, and I was tired of restraint. I thought I loved him, but it was ridiculous, because I hate him now. Mortimer's a prig, but Louis is a brute!"

Mrs. Cartwright sighed. She liked tranquillity and the girl's passion jarred. She tried to soothe her, and presently Barbara asked in a level voice: "Where is Harry Vernon?"

"He went to town a few days since."

"When he knew I would soon arrive? His going is significant. I shall hate Harry next!"

"You must not be unjust. I imagine he thought to meet him would embarrass you."

"It would have embarrassed me, but Harry would not have known," Barbara declared. "If I have been a fool, I can pay. Still I ought to have stayed in Canada. Father's obstinate and I wanted to come home, but things will be harder than at Montreal."

Mrs. Cartwright kissed her. "My poor child, the hurt is not as deep as you think. We will try to help you to forget."



CHAPTER III

LISTER CLEARS THE GROUND

The sun was on the rocks and the lichen shone in rings of soft and varied color. Blue shadows filled the dale, which, from the side of the Buttress, looked profoundly deep. A row of young men and women followed a ledge that crossed the face of the steep crag; Mortimer Hyslop leading, a girl and Vernon a few yards behind, Lister and Barbara farther off.

Hyslop knew the rocks and was a good leader. He was cool and cautious and did not undertake a climb until he was satisfied about his companions' powers. The slanting edge looked dangerous, but was not, although one must be steady and there was an awkward corner. At the turning, the ledge got narrow, and one must seize a knob and then step lightly on a stone embedded in mossy soil.

When they reached the spot Hyslop stopped and told Vernon what to do; the girl immediately behind him was a clever mountaineer. They went round and Lister watched from a few yards off. For a moment or two each in turn, supported by one foot with body braced against the rock, grasped the knob and vanished round the corner. It was plain one must get a firm hold, but Lister thought this was all. He was used to the tall skeleton trestles that carried the rails across Canadian ravines.

After the others disappeared Lister seized the knob. He thought the stone he stood on moved and he cautiously took a heavier strain on his arm. He could get across, but he obeyed an impulse and gave the stone a push. It rolled out and, when he swung himself back to the ledge, plunged down and smashed upon the rocks below. For a few moments the echoes rolled about the crags, and then Hyslop shouted: "Are you all right? Can you get round?"

Lister said he thought not, and Hyslop replied that it did not matter. Barbara would take him up a grassy ridge and the others would meet them at the top. A rattle of nailed boots indicated that he was going off and Lister turned and glanced at Barbara. She had sat down on an inclined slab and her figure and face, in profile, cut against the sky. A yard or two beneath her, the sloping rock vanished at the top of a steep pitch and one saw nothing but the crags across the narrow dale. Yet Lister thought the girl was not disturbed.

"I expect I was clumsy,'' he apologized.

"Well," she said, "it looks like that!"

He gave her a quick glance and pondered. Although he had gone to Carrock since she came home, she had been strangely cold and, so to speak, aloof. He had imagined their meeting might embarrass her, but she was not embarrassed. In fact, she had met him as if he were a friend, but he had not seen her afterwards unless somebody was about. Now he meant to force her to be frank.

"I was clumsy," he resumed. "All the same, when I felt the stone begin to move I might have pulled myself across by my hands. I expect the block would have been firm enough to carry you."

"Yes, I know," said Barbara. "You didn't want me to get across!"

Lister studied her. He doubted if it was altogether exertion that had brought the blood to her skin and given her eyes the keen sparkle. Clinging to the rock, with the shadowy gulf below, she looked strangely alert and virile. Her figure cut against the sky; he noted its slenderness and finely-drawn lines. She was not angry, although he had admitted he pushed down the stone, but he felt as if something divided them and doubted if he could remove the obstacle.

"I wanted to talk and had found I could not get near you unless the others were about," he said. "It looked as if I had unconsciously given you some grounds for standing me off. Well, I suppose I did put your relations on your track."

"It wasn't that," said Barbara. "I imagine Harry Vernon helped you there. You were forced to tell your story."

"I was forced. All the same, I think Harry's plan was good."

"He went away a few days before I arrived!" Barbara remarked.

Lister thought he saw where she led and knitted his brows. He was on awkward ground and might say too much, but to say nothing might be worse.

"Harry's a good sort and I expect he pulled out because he imagined you'd sooner he did so," he said. "For all that, I reckon he ought to have stayed."

Although her color was vivid, Barbara gave him a searching glance. "In order to imply I had no grounds for embarrassment if I met him? Harry was at the camp in the woods."

"He knew you had no grounds for embarrassment," Lister declared. "I knew, and Harry's an older friend."

Barbara turned her head, and when she looked back Lister thought his boldness was justified. In a sense she had been very frank, although perhaps this situation made for frankness. They were alone on the face of the towering crag. All was very quiet but for the noise of falling water, and the only living object one could see was a buzzard hovering high up at a white cloud's edge. One could talk in the mountain solitude as one could not talk in a drawing-room. For all that, Lister felt he had not altogether broken the girl's reserve.

"One envies men like you who build railways and sail ships," she said, and now Lister wondered where she led. "You live a natural life, knowing bodily strain and primitive emotions. Sometimes you're exhausted and sometimes afraid. Your thought's fixed on the struggle; you're keenly occupied. Isn't it like that?"

"Something like that," Lister agreed. "Sometimes the strain gets monotonous."

"But it's often thrilling. Men and women need to be thrilled. People talk about the modern lust for excitement, but it isn't modern and I expect the instinct's sound. Civilization that gives us hot water before we get up and food we didn't grow is not all an advantage. Our bodies get soft and we're driven back on our emotions. Where we want action we get talk. Then one gets up against the rules; you mustn't be angry, you mustn't be sincere, you must use a dreary level calm."

Lister was puzzled and said nothing, but Barbara went on: "Perhaps some girls like this; others don't, and now and then rebel. We feel we're human, we want to live. Adventure calls us, as it calls you. We want to front life's shocks and storms; unsatisfied curiosity drives us on. Then perhaps romance comes and all the common longings of flesh and blood are transfigured."

She stopped, and Lister began to see a light. This was her apology for her rashness in Canada, all she would give, and he doubted if she had given as much to others. On the whole, he thought the apology good.

"Romance cheats one now and then," he remarked, and pulled himself up awkwardly, but Barbara was calm.

"I wonder whether it always cheats one!"

"I think not," he said. "Sometimes one must trust one's luck, and venture. All the same, philosophizing is not my habit, and when I didn't step lightly on the stone—"

"You mean, when you pushed the stone down?" Barbara interrupted.

"Oh, well. Anyhow, I didn't mean to philosophize. I wanted to find out why you kept away from me."

"Although you knew why I did so? You admitted you knew why Harry went off!"

"I see I've got to talk," said Lister. "Shillito was a cheat, but when you found him out you tried to jump off the train. You let me help because I think you trusted me."

"I did trust you. It's much to know my trust was justified. For one thing, it looks as if I wasn't altogether a fool."

"Afterwards, when I met you at Montreal, you were friendly, although you tried to persuade me you were a shop girl."

Barbara smiled. "I was a shop girl. Besides, you were a stranger, and it's sometimes easy to trust people one does not expect to see again."

"My plan's to trust the people I like all the time," Lister replied. "When I found you on the car platform I knew I ought to help, I saw you meant to escape from something mean. Then at Montreal it was plain you were trying in make good because you were proud and would not go back. I liked that, although I thought you were not logical. Well, I told your story because Vernon bluffed me, but if I'd known your step-father as I know him now, I'd have told the tale before."

"Then, it was in order that I might understand this you sent the stone down the crag?"

"I think it was," said Lister. "I hope I have, so to speak, cleared the ground."

Barbara gave him a puzzling smile. "You're rather obvious, but it's important you mean to be nice. However, I expect the others are waiting for us and we must join them, although we won't go by the grass ridge," She indicated the slope of cracked rock in front. "The hold is pretty good. Do you think you can get up?"

Lister doubted. He was athletic and steady, but the climb looked awkward for a beginner.

"If you are going, I'll try."

"You imagine you can go where I can go?"

"Something like that," Lister admitted. "If I'm beaten, you're accountable and will have to help."

He was satisfied by Barbara's frank laugh. Her mood was changeable. Not long since he had, with awkward sympathy, thought her a proud humiliated woman; now she was marked by the humor of a careless girl. He could, however, play up to her later mood, and when they set off he began to joke.

The rock slanted, and cracks and breaks gave a firm hold, but there was not a crack wherever one was needed and the pitch was steep. Then in places the slabs were slippery with wet lichen and Lister's ordinary walking boots could get no grip. His jokes stopped and the sweat began to dew his face. His breath got hard and he felt his heart beat. It was obvious that climbing needed study.

For all that, he went on and found a strange delight in watching Barbara. Her clothes harmonized with the soft colors of lichen and stone; her movements were confident and light. He got no sense of effort; her pose was seldom strained and the lines of her limbs and body flowed in easy curves. He thought she rather flitted than labored up the rock. Practice no doubt accounted for much, but something was due to temperament. Barbara did not hesitate; she trusted her luck and went ahead.

At length she stopped, pressed against the stone in the hollow of a gully, while Lister crept obliquely across a long wet slab. He looked up and saw her face, finely colored after effort, against a background of green and gold. The berries on a small mountain-ash in a cranny harmonized with the carmine of her skin. She looked down and smiled with careless amusement.

Then Lister's foot slipped and he could get no hold for his hands. His smooth boots drew a greasy line across the wet slab as he slid down. Perhaps the risk was not very daunting, but he knew he must not roll down far. At the bottom of the slab he brought up with his foot braced against a knob, and he saw Barbara coming after him. When she stopped her glance was apologetic.

"I forgot you hadn't proper boots. Give me your hand and try again."

"No, thanks," said Lister. "Do you think I'm going to let you pull me up?"

"Why not?" she asked with a twinkle.

"To begin with, I'm obstinate and don't mean to be beaten by a bit of greasy rock. Then I expect I'm heavier than you think."

"You're ridiculously proud. It would hurt to let a girl help," Barbara rejoined. "After all, you're a conventionalist, and I rather thought you were not."