Pearl turned to Robert Gilchrist, saying, "Mr. Gilchrist, the law is with you. The woman and the three children have no protection. Mr. Paine is willing that they should be turned out. It is up to you."

Mrs. Paine, who had come down the stairs with the deed in her hand, laid it on the table and waited. For some time no one spoke.

Sylvester Paine looked at the floor. He was a heavy-set man, with a huge head, bare-faced and rather a high forehead. He did not seem to be able to lift his eyes.

"I suppose," continued Pearl, "the people who made the laws did not think it would ever come to a show-down like this. They thought that when a man promised to love and cherish a woman—he would look after her and make her happy, and see to it that she had clothes to wear and a decent way of living—if he could. Of course, there are plenty of men who would gladly give their wives everything in life, but they can't, poor fellows—for they are poor; but Mr. Paine is one of the best off men in the district. He could have a beautiful home if he liked, and his wife could be the handsomest woman in the neighborhood. She is the sort of woman who would show off good clothes too. I suppose her love of pretty things has made her all the sorer, because she has not had them. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, before you closed the deal. Mrs. Paine would never tell you, and naturally enough Mr. Paine wouldn't. In fact he does not know just how things stand. But I feel that you should know just what you are doing if you take this farm. Of course, it is hardly fair to expect you to protect this woman's home and her children, and save her from being turned out, if her husband won't—you are under no obligation to protect her. She made her choice years ago—with her eyes open—when she married Sylvester Paine. It seems ... she guessed wrong ... and now ... she must pay!"

Mrs. Paine sank into a chair with a sob that seemed to tear her heart out. The auburn hair fell across her face, her lovely curly hair, from which in her excitement she had pulled the pins. It lay on the table in ringlets of gold, which seemed to writhe, as if they too were suffering. Her breath came sobbing, like a dog's dream.

Sylvester Paine was the first to speak.

"Pearl, you're wrong in one place," he said, "just one—you had everything else straight. But you were wrong in one place."

He went around the table and laid his hand on his wife's head.

"Millie," he said, gently.

She looked up at him tearfully.

"Millie!"

He stood awkwardly beside her, struggling to control himself. All the swagger had gone from him, all the bluster. When he spoke his voice was husky.

"Pearl has got it all straight, except in one place." he said. "She's wrong in one place. She says you guessed wrong when you married me, Millie."

His voice was thick, and the words came with difficulty.

"Pearl has done fine, and sized the case up well ... but she's wrong there. It looks bad just now, Millie—but you didn't make such a rotten guess, after all. I'm not just sayin' what I'll do, but—"

"The deal is off, Bob," he said to Mr. Gilchrist, "until Mrs. Paine and I talk things over."

And then Pearl quietly slipped into her coat and, motioning to Peter, who gladly followed her, went out.



CHAPTER XIV

THE SEVENTH WAVE

The big storm had demoralized the long-distance telephone service, so, that it was by night lettergram that George Steadman was commissioned by the official organizer of the Government to find P.J. Neelands, who had not been heard of since the morning of the storm. Mr. Steadman was somewhat at a loss to know how to proceed.

He was very sorry about Mr. Neelands and his reported disappearance. Mr. Neelands was one of the friendliest and most approachable of the young political set, and Mr. Steadman had often listened to his speeches, and always with appreciation. He wondered why Mr. Neelands had come to Millford now without telling him.

At the hotel, nothing was known of the young man, only that he had taken a room, registered, slept one night, and gone, leaving all his things. Mr. Steadman was conducted to Number 17, and shown the meagre details of the young man's brief stay. His toilet articles, of sterling silver with his monogram, lay on the turkish towel, which at once concealed and protected the elm top of the bureau; his two bags, open and partly unpacked, took up most of the floor space in the room. His dressing-gown was hung on one of the two hooks on the back of the door, suspended by one shoulder, which gave it a weary, drunken look. There was something melancholy and tragic about it all.

"In the midst of life we are in death," said George Steadman to himself piously, and shuddered. "It looks bad. Poor young fellow—cut off in his prime—he did not even have a fur coat! and went out never thinking."

He examined the telegram again—"On business for the Government," it said, "of a private nature. See 'Evening Echo' March 21st, Page 23." What could that mean?

George Steadman did not take the "Evening Echo." He hated the very sight of it. The "Morning Sun" was good enough for him. He remembered the thrill of pride he had felt when his Chief had said one day in debate, that he wanted nothing better than the "Sun" and the Bible. It was an able utterance, he thought, reminding one of the good old Queen's reply to the Ethiopian Prince, and should have made its appeal even to the Opposition; but the leader had said, in commenting on it, that he was glad to know his honorable friend was broad-minded enough to read both sides!

And now he was told to look up the Opposition paper, and the very page was given. His first thought was that it was a personal attack upon himself. But how could that be? He never opened his mouth in the house—he never even expressed an opinion, and as the campaign had not yet begun—he had not done anything.

He read the telegram again. In desperation he went back to the long distance booth, but found the line still out of order, and a wire had come giving the details of the damage done by the storm. It would be several days before communication could be established. There was no help coming from headquarters, and from the wording of the telegram there seemed to be a reason for their not giving clear details. He must get a copy of the paper.

Reluctantly he went to the printing office and made known his errand. Mr. Driggs was delighted to give him the paper—he had it some place, though he very seldom opened any of his exchanges. He evidently bore Mr. Steadman no ill-will for his plain talk two weeks ago. With some difficulty he found it, with its wrapper still intact. It was a loose wrapper, which slipped off and on easily. Mr. Steadman remarked carelessly that there was an editorial in it to which his attention had been drawn, on hearing which Mr. Driggs turned his head and winked at an imaginary accomplice.

Mr. Steadman went over to the livery stable to find a quiet, clover-scented corner in which he might peruse his paper. An intuitive feeling cautioned him to be alone when he read it.

In the office, Mr. Steadman found a chair, and opened his paper. Bertie, ever on the alert for human interest stories, watched from a point of vantage. He told Mrs. Crocks afterwards about it.

"The paper seemed to tangle up at first and stick to his fingers. He wrastled it round and round and blew on it, and turned over pages and folded it back—Gee, there was a lot of it. It filled the whole table, and pieces dropped on the floor. He put his foot on them, like as if he was afraid they'd get away. At last he found something, and he just snorted—I got as close as I could, but I couldn't see what it was. There was a picture of a girl—and he read on and on, and snorted out three times, and the sweat stood out on his face. Twice he cleared up his throat like your clock does when it gets ready to strike, and then he tore out a page of the paper and put it in his pocket, and he gathered up the rest of it and burned it, all but one sheet that was under the table, and I got it here."

Bertie brought home the news at six o'clock. Mrs. Crocks had a copy of the paper in her hands at six-fifteen.

Meanwhile, George Steadman, was feeling the need of counsel. His head swam, and a cruel sense of injustice ate into his heart. He was a quiet man—he did not deserve this. All his life he had sidestepped trouble—and here it was staring him in the face. In desperation he went to Driggs, the editor. He was a shrewd fellow—he would know what was best to be done.

He found Mr. Driggs still in a sympathetic mood. He threw back his long black hair and read the article, with many exclamations of surprise. In places he smiled—once he laughed.

"How can any one answer this, Driggs?" asked Mr. Steadman in alarm. "What can be done about it? I wish you would write something about it. I can't think who would do this. There were no strangers that day at the school—not that I noticed. None of our people would do it. What do you think about it, Driggs? Would the girl write it herself?"

"No," replied the editor honestly, "I am quite sure Pearl did not do this."

Suddenly Mr. Steadman thought of the telegram and the missing man. He resolved to take Driggs into his confidence.

Driggs was as quick to see the import of it as King James was to smell gunpowder on that fateful November day when the warning letter was read in Parliament.

"The Government have sent him out to investigate this in your behalf," he said.

"But where is he?" asked Mr. Steadman.

Mr. Driggs' bushy brows drew down over his eyes.

"There's one person can help us," he said. He threw on his jute-colored waterproof and his faded felt hat. Mr. Steadman followed him as he went quickly to the Horse Repository.

Bertie was hastily consulted, and Bertie as usual ran true.

"Sure I saw him," said Bertie. "Ain't he back yet? Gee! I'll bet he's froze! He'll be dead by now for sure. He had on awful nice clothes, but thin toes on his boots, sharp as needles, and gray socks with dots on them, and a waist on his coat like as if he wore corsets, and gray gloves—and a cane, Swell! He was some fine looker, you bet, but he wouldn't last long in that storm."

"Where did he go, Bertie," asked Mr. Steadman, trying to hold his voice to a tone of unconcern.

"He asked about teachers, and about how far it was to Watsons."

Mr. Driggs and Mr. Steadman's eyes met.

"If he's any place," said Bertie cheerfully, "he'll be there."

To the Watson's Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs determined to go, although, by this time the evening was well advanced.

The storm had piled the snow into huge drifts which completely filled the railway cuts, but fortunately for those who travelled the sleigh roads, the snow was packed so hard that horses could walk safely over it. Bridges over ravines were completely covered, people made tunnels to the doors of their stables, and in some cases had to dig the snow away from their windows to let the light in. But the sun had come out warm, and the weather prophets said it was the last storm of the season.

When Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs approached the Watson home, they found every window lighted and several sleighs in the yard. From the house came sounds of laughter and many voices.

"There is no funeral here," said Mr. Driggs lightly.

George Steadman shuddered, "he may never have reached here," he said in a voice of awe.

They knocked at the woodshed door, but no one heard them. Then they went quietly in, and finding the kitchen door open, went in.

Mr. Watson, who stood at the door of the "room," shook hands with them quietly, and said in a whisper:—

"They're acting tableaux now, just step up to the door and see them. The children are having a party. Pearl will explain it in a minute. Just step in and watch; you're just in time—they're just goin' to do King Canute."

The two men looked in. About a dozen young people were in the room, which was well lighted by a gasoline hanging-lamp. The furniture was pushed into a corner to leave a good floor space. A curtain was suspended from one of the beams, and behind it there seemed to be great activity and whispered directions. Every one was so intently waiting, they did not notice that the audience had been augmented by the two men at the door.

In front of the curtain came Pearl to announce the next tableaux:—

"Ladies and gentlemen," she said solemnly, although her audience began to laugh expectantly, "we will now present to you a historical tableaux, a living picture of a foolish old king, who thought he could command the waves to stand still. Seated in his arm-chair on the shore you will see King Canute. Behind him are the rugged hills of the Saxon coast. Before him the sea tosses angrily. The tide is rolling in. Each wave is a little bigger than the last, the seventh wave being the largest of all. This tableaux, ladies and gentlemen, in the production of which we have spared no trouble and expense, teaches the vanity of human greatness. Careful attention has been given to detail, as you will observe."

She disappeared behind the curtain for a moment, and when it was pulled back by invisible hands—(broom wire handled by Mary) she was discovered sitting robed in purple (one of the girls had brought her mother's Japanese dressing-gown) with a homemade but very effective crown on her head. Her throne was an arm-chair, raised on blocks of wood. As King Canute, Pearl's eyes were eagle-like and keen, her whole bearing full of arrogance and pride. Dramatically she waved her right arm towards the sea, and in bitter words chided it for its restless tossing, and commanded it to hear the words of the ALL HIGH, Great and Powerful King, and stay—just—where—it—was!

But even as she spoke, a small wave came rolling in, gently lapping the shore. It was Danny Watson, with a small white apron tied around his person, which at each revolution, made a white crest of breaking foam.

The King re-doubled his imprecations, and commands, tearing his hair and threatening to rend his garments, but wave after wave came rhythmically to shore, growing in size and speed, until the seventh wave, crested with foam—a pillow-case torn across and fastened with safety-pins—came crashing to her feet, amid thunderous applause.

When the company, with the king at one end and the first and smallest wave at the other, stood up to take their applause, and respond to curtain calls, next to Pearl stood the seventh wave—crested with foam, dishevelled of hair—a four days' growth of whiskers on his face—but a happy-looking wave—nevertheless.

Mr. Steadman grabbed hold of his friend hysterically. He could not speak.

"Well, thank God, he's not dead anyway," he gasped at last.

"But I fancy," murmured Mr. Driggs, "that he is dead—to the cause!"

"Make a speech, Pearl," cried one of the company. "Mr. Neelands would like to hear you do that one of the Premier's, when he laid the cornerstone, about 'the generations yet unborn.' Go on, Pearl, that's a good one!"

"Don't forget 'the waves of emigration breaking at our feet'!" said Mary, handing Pearl one of Teddy's coats.

Pearl slipped on the coat, carefully adjusting the collar. Then fingering an imaginary watch-chain, she began. Her face grew grave—her neck seemed to thicken. Her voice was a throaty contralto.

"We are gathered here today." she declaimed, "to take part in a ceremonial, whose import we cannot even remotely guess! Whose full significance will be revealed, not in your time or mine, but to the generations yet unborn!"

Peter Neelands gave a shout of recognition! Mr. Driggs felt a strong hand on his arm. George Steadman whispered hoarsely. "Come away, Driggs. That girl frightens me. This is no place for us!"



CHAPTER XV

THE COMING OF SPRING

The Spring was late, cruelly late, so late indeed that if it had been anything else but a season, it would have found itself in serious trouble—with the door locked and a note pinned on the outside telling it if it could not come in time it need not come at all. But the Spring has to be taken in, whenever it comes—and be forgiven too, and even if there were no note on the door, there were other intimations of like effect, which no intelligent young Spring could fail to understand. Dead cattle lay on the river bank, looking sightlessly up to the sky. They had waited, and waited, and hung on to life just as long as they could, but they had to give in at last.

Spring came at last, brimful of excitement and apologies. It was a full-hearted, impulsive and repentant young Spring, and lavished all its gifts with a prodigal hand; its breezes were as coaxing as June; its head burned like the first of July; its sunshine was as rich and mellow as the sunshine of August. Spring had acknowledged its debt and the overdue interest, and hoped to prevent any unpleasantness by paying all arrears and a lump sum in advance; and doing it all with such a flourish of good fellowship that the memory of its past delinquency would be entirely swept away!

The old Earth, frozen-hearted and bleached by wind and cold, and saddened by many a blighted hope, lay still and unresponsive under the coaxing breezes and the sunshine's many promises. The Earth knew what it knew, and if it were likely to forget, the red and white cattle on the hillside would remind it. The Earth knew that these same warm breezes had coaxed it into life many times before, and it had burst into bud and flowers and fruit, forgetting and forgiving the past with its cold and darkness, and the earth remembered that the flowers had withered and the fruit had fallen, and dark days had come when it had no pleasure in them, and so although the sun was shining and the warm winds blowing—the earth lay as unresponsive as the pulseless cattle on its cold flat breast.

But the sun poured down its heat, and the warm breezes frolicked into the out-of-the-way places, where old snowdrifts were hiding their black faces, and gradually their hard hearts broke and ran away in creeping streams, and the earth returned to the earth that gave it; a mist too, arose from the earth, and softened its bare outlines, and soon the first anemone pushed its furry nose through the mat of gray grass, and scored another victory on the robin; the white poplar blushed green at its roots; the willows at the edge of the river reddened higher and higher, as the sap mounted; headings of mouse-ears soon began to show on their branches—a green, glow came over the prairie, and in the ponds, It millions of frogs, at the signal from an unknown conductor, burst into song.

Then it was that the tired old Earth stopped thinking and began to feel—a thrill—a throb—a pulsing of new life—the stirring of new hopes which mocked its fears of cold or frost or sorrow or death.

The Souris Valley opened forgiving arms to the repentant young Spring, and put forth leaves in gayest fashion. The white bones, fantastically sticking through faded red hides, were charitably hidden by the grass, so that the awakened conscience of the tender young Spring might not be unduly reminded of its cruelty and neglect.

The woman who lived alone at Purple Springs always expected great things of the Spring. She could not grow accustomed to the coldness of her neighbors, or believe that they had really cut her off from any communication, and all through the winter which had just gone she had kept on telling herself that everything would be different in the Spring. Looking day after day into the white valley, piled high with snow, she had said to herself over and over again: "There shall be no more snow—there shall be no more snow"—until the words began to mock her and taunt her, and at last lost their meaning altogether like an elastic band that has stretched too far. If she had been as close a student of the Bible as her mother, back in Argylshire, she would have known that her impatience with the snow, which all winter long had threatened and menaced her, and peered at her with its thousand eyes, was just the same feeling that prompted John on the Isle of Patmos, wearied by the eternal breaking of the waves on his island prison, to set down as the first condition in the heavenly city: "There shall be no sea."

Three years before, Mrs. Gray had come to the Souris Valley, and settled on the hill farm. It had been owned by a prospector, who once in a while lived on it, but went away for long periods, when it was believed he had gone north into that great unknown land of fabled riches. He had not been heard from for several years, and the people of the neighborhood had often wondered what would be done with the quarter-section, which was one of the best in the district, in case he never came back. The Cowan's, who lives nearest, had planted one of the fields, and used the land for the last two seasons. The Zinc's had run their cattle in the pasture, and two of the other neighbors were preparing to use the remaining portions of the farm, when there arrived Mrs. Gray and her seven-year-old son to take possession.

It was Mr. Cowan who demanded to know by what right she came, and when she had convinced him by showing him the deed of the farm, she came back at him by demanding that he pay her the rent for the acres he had used, which he did with a bad grace.

She had not been long in the neighborhood when there came to demonstrate a new sewing machine a drooping-eyed, be-whiskered man, in a slim buggy, drawn by a team of sorrel ponies. He claimed to have known Mrs. Gray in that delightfully vague spot known as "down East," and when he found how eagerly any information regarding her was received, he grew eloquent.

Mrs. Cowan departed from her hard and fast rule, and the rule of her mother before her, and asked him to stay for dinner, and being an honest man, in small matters at least, the agent did his best to pay for his victuals. He told her all he knew—and then some, prefacing and footnoting his story with the saving clause "Now this may be only talk—but, anyway, it is what they said about her." He was not a malicious man—he bore the woman, who was a stranger to him, no grudge; but that day as he sat at dinner in the Cowan's big, bare kitchen, he sent out the words which made life hard for the woman at Purple Springs.

So much for the chivalry of the world and the kindly protection it extends to women.

Vague rumors were circulated about her, veiled, indefinite insinuations. The Ladies' Aid decided they would not ask her to join, at least not until they saw how things were going. She might be all right, but they said a church society must be careful.

The women watched each other to see who would go to see her first. She came to church with her boy, to the little church on the river flat, and the minister shook hands with her and told her he was glad to see her. But the next week his wife, spending the afternoon at Mrs. Cowan's, "heard something," and the next Sunday, although he shook hands with her and began to say he was glad to see her, catching Mrs. Cowan's eye on him, he changed his sentence and said he was glad to see so many out.

All summer long the women at Purple Springs held to the hope that someone would come to see her. At first she could not believe they were wilfully slighting her. It was just their way, she thought. They were busy women; she often saw them out in their gardens, and at such times it was hard for her to keep from waving to them.

The woman who lived the nearest to her, geographically, was Mrs. Cowan, and one day—the first summer—she saw Mrs. Cowan beating rugs on the line, and as the day was breezy, it seemed as if she waved her apron. Mrs. Gray waved back, in an ecstacy of joy and expectation—but there came no response from her neighbor—no answering signal, and as the lonely woman watched, hoping, looking, praying—there rolled over her with crushing sadness the conviction that all her hopes of friendliness were in vain. The neighborhood would not receive her—she was an outcast. They were condemning her without a hearing—they were hurling against her the thunders of silence! The injustice of it ate deeply into her soul.

Then it was that she began to make the name "Purple Springs" out of the willow withes which grew below the house. She made the letters large, and with a flourish, and dyed them the most brilliant purple they would take, and set them on a wire foundation above her gate. The work of doing it gave solace to her heart, and when the words were set in place—it seemed to her that she had declared her independence, and besides, they reminded her of something very sweet and reassuring—something which helped her to hold her head up against the current of ill thoughts her neighbors were directing toward her.

That was the year the school was built, and no other name for it but "Purple Springs" was even mentioned, and when the track was extended from Millford west, and a mahogany-red station built, with a tiny freight shed of the same color, the name of Purple Springs in white letters was put on each end of the station. So, although the neighbors would not receive the woman, they took the name she brought.

Her son Jim, a handsome lad of seven, went to school the first day it was opened. Her mother heart was fearful for the reception he might get, and yet she tried to tell herself that children were more just than their elders. They would surely be fair to Jim, and when she had him ready, with his leather book-bag, his neat blue serge knickerbocker suit, his white collar and well-polished boots, she thought, with a swelling of pride, that there would not be a handsomer child in the school, nor one that was better cared for.

Down the hill went Jim Gray, without a shadow on his young heart. So long as he had his mother, and his mother smiled at him, life was all sunshine.

He gave his name to the teacher, and answered all her questions readily, and was duly enrolled as a pupil in Grade I, along with Bennie Cowan, Edgar Zinc and Bessie Brownlees, and set at work to make figures. He wondered what the teacher wanted with so many figures, but decided he would humor her, and made page after page of them for her. By noon the teacher decided, on further investigation, to put Master James Gray in Grade II, and by four o'clock he was a member in good standing of Grade III.

That night there was much talk of James Gray, his good clothes, and his general proficiency, around the firesides of the Purple Springs district.

The next day Bennie Cowan, who was left behind in Grade I, although a year older than Jim Gray, made the startling announcement:

"Jim Gray has no father."

He sang the words, gently intoning, as if he took no responsibility of them any more than if they were the words of a song, for Bennie was a cautious child, and while he did not see that the absence of a father was anything to worry over, still, from the general context of the conversation he had heard, he believed it was something of a handicap.

The person concerned in his announcement, being busy with a game of marbles, did not notice. So quite emboldened, Bennie sang again, "Jim Gray has no father—and never had one."

The marble game came to an end.

"Do you mean me?" asked Jim, with a puzzled look.

The others stopped playing, too. It was a fearsome moment. Jim Gray was the most unconcerned of the group.

"That's all you know about it," he said carelessly, as he shut one eye and took steady aim at the "dib" in the ring, "I've had two."

"Nobody can have two fathers—on earth," said Bessie Brownlees piously—"we have one father on earth and one in heaven."

"Mine ain't on earth," said Jimmy, "mine are both in heaven."

That was a poser.

"I'll bet they're not," said Bennie, feeling emboldened by Jim's admission of a slight irregularity in his paternal arrangements.

"How do you know?" asked Jim, still puzzled. It did not occur to him that there was anything unfriendly in the conversation—"You never saw them!"

"Well," said Bennie, crowded now to play his highest card, "anyway, your mother is a bad woman."

Jim looked at him in blank astonishment. His mother a bad woman, his dear mother! The whole world turned suddenly red to Jim Gray—he did not need any one to tell him that the time had come to fight.

The cries of Bennie Cowan brought the teacher flying. Bennie, with bleeding lip and blackened eyes, was rescued, and a tribunal sat forthwith on the case.

James Gray refused to tell what Bennie Cowan had said. His tongue could not form the words of blasphemy. The other children, all of whom had heard his history unfavorably discussed at home, did not help him, and the case went against the boy who had no friends. Exaggerated tales were told of his violence. By the end of the week he had struck Bennie Cowan with a knife. A few days later it was told that he had kicked the teacher. Nervous mothers were afraid to have their children exposed to the danger of playing with such a vicious child.

One day a note was given to him to take home. It was from the trustees, asking Mrs. Gray if she would kindly keep her son James at home, for his ungovernable temper made it unsafe for other children to play with him.

That was three years ago. Annie Gray and her son were as much a mystery as ever. She looked well, dressed well, rode astride, wore bloomers, and used a rifle, and seemed able to live without either the consent or good-will of the neighborhood.

In harvest time she still further outraged public opinion by keeping a hired man, who, being a virtuous man, who had respect for public opinion, even if she hadn't, claimed fifteen dollars a month extra for a sort of moral insurance against loss of reputation. She paid the money so cheerfully that the virtuous man was sorry he had not made it twenty!

It was to this district, with its under-current of human passions, mystery and misunderstanding, that Pearl Watson came. The miracle of Spring was going on—bare trees budding, dead flowers springing; the river which had been a prisoner all winter, running brimming full, its ice all gone, and only little white cakes of foam riding on its current. Over all was the pervading Spring smell of fresh earth, and the distant smoulder of prairie fires.



CHAPTER XVI

PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF CLAY

When the train came in from the west, Dr. Clay stepped off and walked quickly to his office. He called at the drug store before going to his private office, and inquired of the clerk:

"Any one wanting me, Tommy?"

"Sure—two or three—but nothing serious. Bill Snedden wanted you to come out and see his horse."

"See his horse!" exclaimed the doctor in surprise.

"Yes, Democracy hasn't been feeling well. Just sort of mopin' around the stall. Not sick—just out of sorts, you know, down-hearted like."

"Well, why doesn't he get Dr. Moody? Horses are not my line."

"O but he says this is different. Democracy is more like a human being than a horse, and Dr. Moody don't know much about a horse's higher nature. He says he's scared to have Dr. Moody come out anyway—every time he comes, a horse dies, and he's gettin' superstitious about it. T'aint that he has anything against Dr. Moody. He spoke well of him and said he was nice to have around in time of trouble, he's so sympathetic and all that, but he don't want to take any chances with Democracy. He would have liked awful well to see you, doctor. I told him you'd be home tonight, and he'll give you a ring. No, there was nothing serious. There was a young fellow here from the city came out to see Pearl Watson, they said, about some set of books or something. He got lost in the storm, and frozen pretty badly. He's out at Watsons yet, I think. But they didn't phone, or anything—at least, I didn't get it. I just heard about it."

"All right, Tommy," said the doctor, and went on.

In his own apartment he found everything in order. Telephone messages were laid beside his mail. His slippers and house-coat were laid out. The coal fire gleamed its welcome.

The doctor's heart was lighter than it had been. His interview with the old doctor had been very encouraging.

"You are looking better, Clay," the old man had said. "Have you gained in weight? I thought so. You are going a little easier, and sleeping out—that's right. And you see you can save yourself in lots of ways—don't you? Good! I'm pleased with you. I hear they are after you to run against the Government. You won't touch it, of course. No good for a man in your condition. Anyway, a doctor has his own work—and if you keep your head down, and get away every winter, you'll live to be an old man yet."

The doctor sat down to read his mail. There were the usual letters from old patients, prospective patients, people who had wonderful remedies and had been cruelly snubbed by the medical profession. He glanced through them casually, but with an absentmindedness which did not escape his housekeeper when she came in.

Mrs. Burns was determined to tell him something, so determined, that as soon as she entered, he felt it coming. He knew that was why she came. The bluff of asking him if he got his telephone messages was too simple.

Mrs. Burns was a sad looking woman, with a tired voice. It was not that Mrs. Burns was tired or sad, but in that part of the East from which she had come, all the better people spoke in weary voices of ladylike weakness.

"Well, Mrs. Burns," the doctor said, "what has happened today?" He knew he was going to get it anyway—so he might as well ask for it.

"George Steadman was in an awful state about the young fellow who came out from the city to see Pearl Watson. He got lost in the storm, and stayed three days at Paines, and then Pearl came over and took him home with her. Some say the Government sent him about the piece in the paper, and some say he's her beau. I don't know. Mrs. Crocks saw Pearl when she brought him in, and she could get nothing out of her. He's at the hotel still, though nobody seems to know what his business is."

"O well," laughed the doctor, "we'll just have to watch him. Don't leave washings on the line, and lock our doors—he can't scare us."

Mrs. Burns afterwards told Mrs. Crocks that "Doctor Clay can be very light at times, and it seems hardly the thing, considering his profession."

Mrs. Burns could never quite forgive herself for leaving so early that night, and almost lost her religion, because no still small voice prompted her to stay. Just as she left the office, the young man, the mysterious stranger, came to the door, and Mrs. Burns knew there was no use going back through the drug store and listening at the door. The doctor had heavy curtains at each door in his office, and had a way of leaving the key in the door, that cut off the last hope. So she went home in great heaviness of spirit.

P.J. Neelands presented his card, and was given a leather chair beside the fire. He asked the doctor if he might smoke, and was given permission.

"I am going to talk to you in confidence, Doctor Clay," he said, nervously. "I guess you're used to that."

The doctor nodded encouragingly: "That's what doctors are for. Go right on, Mr. Neelands."

"The fact of the matter is—I'm in love," said Peter, taking the head plunge first.

"O that's nothing," said the doctor. "I mean—that's nothing to worry about."

"But she does not care a hang for me. In fact, she laughs at me."

Peter's face was clouded in perplexity.

"But I'll begin at the beginning: I belong to the Young Men's Political Club in the city, and I was sent out here—at least, I mean I asked to come on a delicate mission. I'm speaking to you confidentially, of course."

"Of course," said the doctor, "have no fears."

"Well, perhaps you saw this." He produced the article that had caused the fluttering in the Governmental nest.

The doctor suddenly came to attention.

"Do you know who wrote it? No! Well anyway, I came out to see about it—to investigate—look over the ground. But, doctor, I got the surprise of my life. This girl is a wonder."

"Well," the doctor's sympathetic manner had gone. He was sitting up very straight in his chair now, and his eyes were snapping with suppressed excitement. "What did you think you could do about it? Did you think you could stop her—hush her up—or scare her—or bribe her—or what?"

"I did not know," said Peter honestly. "But I want to tell you what happened. I was three days at Paine's—caught by the storm—do you know them? Well, it's a good place to go to see what women are up against. I was mad enough to throw old Paine out of his own house, and I found out he was going to sell the farm over her head, and By Jove! I see why the women want to vote, don't you?"

"I've always seen why," replied the doctor. "I thought every one with any intelligence could see the justice of it." The doctor's manner was losing its friendliness, but Peter, intent on his own problems, did not resent it.

"Well, just when this man Gilchrist came to sign the papers, the morning I left, she came in—Pearl Watson, I mean—and Doctor, I never heard anything like it. Talk about pleading a case! She did not plead—she just reviewed the case—she put it up to Gilchrist—it was marvellous! If she had asked me to shoot the two of them, I would have done it. She had me—she has me yet—she's the most charming, sweet-souled and wonderful girl I ever saw."

The doctor endeavored to speak calmly:

"Well, what about it?" he said. "I agree with you—she is all of that."

"I am going back to resign from the party. I am going to throw my weight on the other side," Peter spoke with all the seriousness of youth. "The girl has shown me what a beastly, selfish lot the politicians are, and I am going back to denounce them, if they won't change. But I want to ask you something, Doctor—you won't think I am cheeky, will you? She gave me absolutely no hope—but girl's sometimes change their minds. I would wait for years for her. I simply can't live without her. I thought from the way she spoke there was some one else—if there is—I will just crawl away and die—I can't live without her!"

"O shut up," said the doctor impatiently. "Better men than you have to live without—the women they love—that's foolish talk."

"Well, tell me, doctor," cried Peter desperately, "I just have to know. Is there any reason why I can't hope to win her? Do you know of any reason—you know Pearl well. Is there any reason that you know of? Has any one any right—to stop me from trying?"

The doctor considered. Here was just the situation he had told Pearl he hoped would arise. This young fellow was clean, honest, and there was no doubt of his deep sincerity. He had told Pearl she must forget him. He had tried to mean it, and here it was—here was the very situation he said he hoped for. He would play up—he could make himself do what was right, no matter how he felt.

He heard himself say mechanically:

"There is no reason, Mr. Neelands; Pearl is free to decide. No one has the smallest claim on her."

Peter sprang up and caught his hand, wondering why it should be so cold. He also wondered at the flush which burned on the doctor's cheeks.

"Thanks, old man," he cried impulsively, "I cannot tell you how I thank you. You have rolled a house off me—and now, tell me you wish me well—I want your good word."

The doctor took his outstretched hand, with an effort.

"I wish you well," he said slowly, in a voice that was like a shadow of his own.

When Peter had gone, the doctor rose and paced the floor.

"I'm a liar and a hypocrite," he said bitterly. "I don't wish him well. I said what was not so when I said I hoped to see her married to some one else—I don't—I want her myself. I can't give her up! I won't give her up!"

The next morning, before the doctor started to make his calls, Robert Gilchrist, President of the Political Club, came to see him, again.

"I am not satisfied with that interview we had with you, doctor," he said, "the day the organizer was here. That fellow made a mess of everything, and I don't blame you for turning it down. But I tell you, there's more in it than this fellow thinks. There is a real moral issue to be decided, and I am here to admit I've had a new look at things in the last few days. I am going into the city to see our leader, and I want to see how he feels. But, doctor, some of our laws are simply disgraceful; they've got to be changed."

He went on to tell the doctor of the day he went to buy Sylvester Paine's farm.

"I never felt any meaner than when Pearl told me what it meant, and what I was doing. Doctor, if you had seen the look in Mrs. Paine's face when Pearl was putting it up to me; Lord, it was tragic. It was as if her hope of Heaven was in dispute, and didn't Pearl put it to me? Say, doctor, that girl can swing an election. No one can resist her arguments—she's so fair about everything—no one can get away from her arguments. The reason these laws have been left the way they are, is that no one knows about them. Did you know that a man can sell everything, and do what he likes with the money, no matter what his wife says—and did you know a man can take his children away from the mother—Did you know about these?"

"I did," said the doctor, "in a vague way. Fortunately they do not often come up—men are better than the laws—and they would need to be."

"Well, doctor, I'll tell you what I want to say. I believe it is your duty to run. The women need a few members there to stick up for them. Pearl thinks our party is all right too—she says they'll grant the vote—if they get in—and she was at the big meeting where the women asked them to make it a plank in their platform. She says some of the old hide-bound politicians gagged a little, but they swallowed it—they had to." "I wish you could hear Pearl talk, doctor. She seemed disappointed when I told her you weren't going to run."

"You haven't thought of any one else, Bob?" the doctor asked, after a pause. "You wouldn't consider it yourself?"

"Any one else but you will surely lose his deposit. The bridge at Purple Springs will hold them over there, and they have taken off a slice on the east of the riding and put it in Victoria—where it is sure to go against the Government anyway. No, this will go to Steadman by acclamation, unless you let us nominate you."

"Well, I'll reconsider," said the doctor, "and phone you inside of twenty-four hours."

When Mr. Gilchrist had gone, the doctor sat with his hands behind his head. His eyes were very bright, and a flush mantled his cheek. His heart thumped so hard, he could hear it.

"Keep away from excitement, Clay," he could hear the old doctor saying, "excitement eats up your energy and does not give the builders a chance. With care, and patience, you may win—but if you will not save yourself, and nurse yourself, and go slow—you are a dead man!"

He pressed his hands tightly to his head.

"Pearl had been disappointed," Bob had said. It would be a disgrace to let this riding go by default. There was the liquor question which had hung fire for fourteen years, while the Government had simply played with it, and laughed at the temperance people. If women had the vote, what a power Pearl would be!

Still, one vote in Parliament was nothing—one man could do but little—and besides, the old doctor had found him improved—he might be able to beat out the disease yet—by being careful. A campaign would mean late hours, long drives, meeting people—making speeches—which he hated—the worst kind of excitement—to move a vote of thanks tired him more than a week's work.

Still, Pearl would be pleased—he hadn't done much for Pearl. He had won her love—and then had to turn it away—and had seen those eyes of her's cloud in disappointment. It had been a raw deal.

Looking through the window, he saw Bertie, with his team, waiting outside the door. He was letting Bertie take full care of his horses now, and saving himself in that way.

The sorrel horse on the side next him tossed his head, and chewed the bit, with a defiant air that set waves of memory in motion. He had bought this fine four-year-old, because he had reminded him of old Prince—the same color—the same markings, and the same hard mouth and defiant red eye.

Usually, he did not keep Bertie waiting—but this morning it did not matter—there were other things to be decided. The sorrel horse seemed to be looking at him through the office window.

"There was another sorrel horse to take your place, Prince," said the doctor, looking at the big sorrel, but thinking of his predecessor; "although that did not influence you in any way—you left that to me to find out—you considered that my business. I believe I will be safe in leaving it to some one higher up to get another doctor to take my place—doctors—and sorrel horses—there are plenty of them. You had the right philosophy, Prince. No one else could have saved the woman's life—so you did that—and let me rustle for another horse. I'll do the same—after all—it is not individuals who count—it is the race. We do our bit—and pass on. Straight ahead of me seems to be a piece of work I can do—and if I have to pay for the privilege of doing it—I'll pay—without regrets."

He reached for the telephone, and called Mr. Gilchrist.

"Hello Bob," he said steadily, "I've reached a decision. No, it didn't take me long. Yes, I will. I'll accept the nomination. All right Bob—I hope so. Thank you for your good opinion—All right."



CHAPTER XVII

PETER'S REPORT

When Peter J. Neelands returned to the city, he sought an interview with his Chief. It was a bold stroke, Mr. Neelands knew, but the circumstances warranted it. He must lay the matter before his superior officer; as a loyal member of the party, he must bring in a warning. He must make the Government understand.

The old leader was one of the most approachable of men, genial, kindly, friendly. The interview was arranged without difficulty, and Peter, with his heart beating uncomfortably, was shown by the old retainer who kept guard in the outside office through the blue velvet hangings into the Chief's private office.

At a long oaken table, on which were scattered a few trade journals and newspapers, he found the great man. An unlighted cigar was in his mouth, and he sat leaning back in a revolving chair.

"Well, Peter, my son—how are you?" he said gaily, extending his hand. "And so you feel you must see the old man on business of importance, vital importance to our country's welfare. That's good; glad to see you, take a chair beside me and tell uncle who hit you."

The Chief was a man of perhaps sixty years of age, of florid countenance, red mustache, turning gray, splendidly developed forehead, dark gray eyes with wire-like wrinkles radiating from them, which seemed to have been caused more by laughter than worry; a big, friendly voice of great carrying power, and a certain bluff, good fellowship about him which marked him as a man who was born to rule his fellowmen, but to do it very pleasantly.

Peter was complimented to be received so cordially. He was sure he could make this genial, courteous, kindly old gentleman see certain questions from a new view-point. He must see it.

"Perhaps you have heard of a girl at Millford who is making somewhat of a stir along the lines of the Woman Suffrage question," Peter began.

The great man nodded, and having begun to nod, absent-mindedly continued, much to Peter's discomfiture. Peter hastily reviewed the case, though he could see his listener was bored exceedingly.

"Now, what I want you to do, sir," he said earnestly, "is this. Let this girl come and address the members of the Government and the Legislature—I mean our members—privately, of course. Let her show you the woman's side of the question. I know, sir, you turned them down when the delegation came, but a man can always change his mind. The thing is inevitable; the vote is coming. If this Government does not give it—the Government will go down to defeat."

The Chief stopped nodding, and the amiability of his face began to cloud over. He sat up very suddenly and spread his plump hands on the table.

"The Opposition have endorsed Woman Suffrage, sir," said Peter earnestly. "They are making it a plank in their platform."

"Sure they have," cried the Premier, with a laugh, "sure they have. They are big enough fools to endorse anything! What do we care what they endorse?"

"But I want to get this over to you, Mr. Graham, that we are losing our opportunity to do a big thing, something that will live in history, if we fail to give women the vote. Women are human, they have a right to a voice in their own government, and if you would just let this girl come out and talk to you—and the members."

"Look here, Peter," said the great man tolerantly, "I like enthusiasm—the world is built on it. But I'm an old man now, and have been a long time dealing with the public and with politics. Politics is a dirty mess—it's no place for women, and I certainly do not need to be instructed by any eighteen-year-old girl, pleasant as the process might be. I believe all you say about her—and her charm. You had better go and marry her—if you want to."

Peter's face colored. "I would be very happy to do so, but she turned me down, sir."

"Don't be discouraged, lad; a woman's 'no' generally means 'yes'," said his Chief. "Now, even if she could talk like the Angel Gabriel, I won't let her at the members of this Government—I'll tell you why. I have these fellows trotting easy. They're good boys—they do as they're told. Now what's the use of getting them excited and confused. Peter, you know how it is with the Indians—in their wild state, eating rabbits and digging roots—they're happy, aren't they? Sure they are. If you bring them into town, show them street-cars and shop windows and take them to theatres, you excite them and upset them, that's all. O no, Peter, I'll take no chances on spoiling my simple-hearted country members by turning loose this orb-eyed young charmer who has thrown you clean off your trolley."

"But, sir, consider the case yourself; won't you admit, sir, that the laws are fearfully unjust to women?" Peter began to explain, but the Premier interrupted:

"Peter, the world is very old; certain things are established by usage, and the very fact that this is so argues that it should be so. Women are weaker than men—I did not make them so—God made them so. He intended them to be subject to men. Don't get excited over it. It sounds well to talk about equality—but there's no such thing. It did not exist in God's mind, so why should we try to bring it about? No, no, Peter, women are subject to men, and always will be. It would not do to make them independent in the eyes of the law, independent economically. If they were they would not marry. Look at the women in the States—where in some places they vote—look at the type that develops. What does it bring?—race-suicide, divorce—free love. I'm an old-fashioned man, Peter, I believe in the home."

"So do I," said Peter, "with all my heart."

The great man began to show signs of impatience.

"Before I go," said Peter earnestly, "let me make one more appeal to you. This is a live issue. It cannot be dismissed by a wave of the hand. Will you listen to a debate on it—will you let it be discussed in your hearing?"

The old man considered a moment—then he said:

"This will wear off you, Peter. I, too, have been young. I understand. Forget it, boy, and get back to normal. No, I will not hear it discussed. I know all about it—all I want to know. I don't know why I am wasting so much time on you and your particular type of foolishness, Peter. I have people like you seeing me every day. Usually they are dealt with by Mr. Price, in the outer office. He has orders to put the can on them and open the door. O no, Peter, there will be no radical measures while I sit at the helm—I am too old to change my mind."

Peter began to put on his gloves. The older man held out his hand.

"Well, good-bye, Peter," he said kindly, "come again—come any time—always glad to see you."

"I will not be back," said Peter quietly, "this is good-bye. If I cannot show you that you are wrong, I will go out and help the women to show the people that you are wrong. Pearl says if the Premier is too old to change his mind we will do the next best thing."

"And what is that?"

"Change the Premier," Peter replied, steadily.

The old man laughed, with uproarious mirth.

"Peter, you're funny, all right; you're rich; I always did enjoy the prattle of children, but I can't fool away any more time on you—so run along and sell your papers."

Peter went through the blue velvet hangings, past the worthy henchman, who sat dozing in his chair, and made his way to the front door. The mural decorations in the corridor caught his eye—the covered wagon, drawn by oxen plodding patiently into the sunset—the incoming settlers of the pioneer days.

"I wonder if the women did not do their full share of that," he thought. "They worked, suffered, hoped, endured—and made the country what it is. I wonder how any man has the nerve to deny them a voice in their own affairs."

While Peter was taking his departure, and before he had reached the front gate, one of the many bells which flanked the Premier's table was wildly rung.

"Send Banks to me," he said crisply, to the lackey who appeared.

The genial mood had gone; his brows were clamped low over his eyes. He had chewed the end off his cigar.

"Every time the women raise ructions it sets me thinking of her. I wonder what became of her," he murmured. "The ground seems to have swallowed her. She might have known I did not mean it; but women don't reason—they just feel."

The news of P.J. Neelands' resignation from the Young Men's Political Club made a ripple of excitement in Government circles, and brought forth diverse comments.

"There's a girl in it, I hear," said one of the loungers at the Maple Leaf Club; "some pretty little suffragette has won over our Peter."

"He does not deny it," said another, "he'll tell you the whole story—and believe me, Peter is an enthusiastic supporter of the women's cause now. I see in this morning's paper he made a speech for them last night called 'The Chivalry of the Law.' Peter has the blood of the martyrs in him for sure—for he was in a straight line for the nomination here in 'Centre.'"

"Peter Neelands makes me tired," said a third gloomily. "Why does he need to get all fussed up over the laws relating to women—they have too much liberty now—they can swear away a man's character—that's one thing I'd like to see changed. It's dangerous, I tell you."

The first man finished the discussion:

"I always liked Peter, and am sorry he's quit us. He'll have a following, too, just because he does believe in himself."

Though the loungers at the Maple Leaf Club took the news of Peter Neeland's secession with composure, mingled with amusement, the chief organizer, Mr. Banks, viewed it with alarm, and voiced his fears to the head of his department, who sat in his accustomed chair, with a bottle of the best beside him. The Honorable member listened, but refused to be alarmed. It was past the third hour of the afternoon, and the rainbow haze was over everything.

"I tell you," said Mr. Banks, "something is going to break if we can't get this thing stopped. The women are gaining every day. Their meetings are getting bigger, and now look at Peter Neelands. This Watson girl has got to be canned—got rid of—if we have to send her to do immigration work in London, England."

The honorable member did his best to hold his head steady.

"Do what you like, Banks," he said thickly, "only save the country. My country if she's right; my country if she's wrong; but always my country! 'Lives there a man with soul so dead,' eh, Banks? That's the dope—what? Damn the women—but save the home—we gotta' save the home."

Oliver Banks looked at him in deep contempt, and shook his head. "These birds make things hard for us," he murmured. "He looks like a Minister of the Crown now, doesn't he? Lord! wouldn't he make a sight for the women! I'd like to hear their description of him just as he sits now."

The minister sat with his pudgy hands spread out on the arms of his chair. His head rolled uncertainly, like a wilting sunflower on a broken stalk. His under lip was too full to fit his face. If he had been a teething infant one would have been justified in saying he was drooling.

The organizer called a waiter and instructed him to phone to the gentleman's house and speak to his chauffeur.

"Tell him to take the old man home," he said briefly, "he seems to be—overtaken."

"Very good, sir," said the waiter, without a flicker of an eyelash.

Then the organizer went to a telephone booth and called George Steadman, of Millford, requesting him to come at once to the city on important business.



CHAPTER XVIII

THE WOMAN OF PURPLE SPRINGS

None of us has lived long without discovering that everything he has he pays for; that every gain has a corresponding loss; that a development even of one of our own faculties, is at the expense of the others. The wild wheat is small and dwarfed in size in its native state, but very hardy. Under persistent cultivation it grows bigger and more productive, but, unfortunately, susceptible to the frost. The wild rabbit when domesticated grows bigger and more beautiful, but loses his speed and cleverness. So it is all through life—it all comes in the bill—we cannot escape the day of reckoning.

If Pearl Watson had not had a taste for political speeches and debates; if she had read the crochet patterns in the paper instead of the editorials, and had spent her leisure moments making butterfly medallions for her camisoles, or in some other ladylike pursuit, instead of leaning over the well-worn railing around the gallery of the Legislative Assembly, in between classes at the Normal, she would have missed much; but she would have gained something too.

For one thing, she would have had an easier time getting a boarding-house in the Purple Springs District, and would not be standing looking disconsolately out at the Spring sunshine, one day at the end of April, wondering, with a very sore heart, why nobody wanted to give her board and shelter. It was a new and painful sensation for Pearl, and it cut deeply.

Mrs. Zinc could not keep her beyond May the first, for relatives were coming from the East. Mrs. Cowan could not take her, for she had too much to do as it was—and could not get help that wasn't more trouble than it was worth. They would waste more than their wages, and what they did not waste they would steal. Mrs. Cowan's tongue was unloosed by the memory of her wrongs, and it was half an hour before Pearl could get away. Mrs. Cowan had surely suffered many things at the hands of help of all nationalities. She had got them from employment bureaus, government and private; from the Salvation Army and from private friends in the old country. Her help had come from everywhere except from the Lord! No indeed, she couldn't take any one to board.

A careful canvass of the neighborhood had resulted in disappointment; not one home was available. Embarrassment had sat on the faces of many of the women when they talked with her about it, and Pearl was quick to see that there was something back of it all, and the antagonism of the unknown lay heavily on her heart.

The yellow Spring sun, like liquid honey, fell in benediction on the leafless trees, big with buds, and on the tawny mat of grass through which the blue noses of anemones were sticking. Cattle eagerly cropped the dead grass and found it good, and men were at work in the fields. They all had homes and beds, Pearl thought, with a fresh burst of homelessness.

She had prepared her blackboards for the next day, and made her desk tidy, and was just about to leave for the day and walk the mile to Mrs. Howser's to see if she could make it her abiding place, when Bessie Cowan came running with a letter.

"Please, teacher," said Bessie, out of breath from running, "Ma thought this might be an important letter, and you should have it right away. It came in our mail."

Pearl took it, wonderingly. It bore the official seal of the Department of Education. Only once had she received such a letter, and that was when she received permission to attend the Normal. When she opened it, she read:

"Dear Madam:—You have been recommended to us by the Principal of the Normal School for special work required by this Department, and we will be pleased to have you come to our office inside of the next week for instructions. We will pay you a salary of one hundred dollars a month, and travelling expenses, and we believe you will find the work congenial. Kindly reply as soon as possible."

Pearl's heart was throbbing with excitement. Here was a way of escape from surroundings which, for some unknown reason, were uncomfortable and unfriendly.

Bessie Cowan watched her closely, but said not a word. Bessie was a fair-skinned little girl, with eyes far apart, and a development of forehead which made her profile resemble a rabbit's.

"Thank you, Bessie" said Pearl, "I am glad to have this." She sat at her desk and began to write. Bessie ran home eagerly to tell her mother how the letter had been received.

Pearl decided to write an acceptance, and to 'phone home to her mother before sending it.

When the letter was written she sat in a pleasant dream, thinking of the new world that had opened before her. "Travelling expenses," had a sweet sound in her young ears—she would go from place to place, meet new people, and all the time be learning something—learning something—and forgetting.

Pearl winced a little when she recalled Mrs. Crock's words when she came through Millford on her way to Purple Springs:

"The doctor should be the candidate, but I guess Miss Keith won't let him. They say he's holdin' off to run for the Dominion House next Fall. You maybe could coax him to run, Pearl. Have you seen him lately? Miss Keith was down twice last week, and he went up for Sunday. It looks as if they were keepin' close company—oh well, he's old enough to know his own mind, and it will be nice to have the Senator's daughter livin' here. It would give a little style to the place, and that's what we're short of. But it's nothing to me—I don't care who he marries!"

Pearl had hurried away without answering. Mrs. Crocks' words seemed to darken the sun, and put the bite of sharp ice in the gentle spring breeze. Instead of forgetting him, every day of silence seemed to lie heavier on her heart; but one thing Pearl had promised herself—she would not mope—she would never cry over it!

She read the letter over and tried to picture what it would mean. A glow of gratitude warmed her heart when she thought of the Normal School Principal and his kindness in recommending her. She would fulfil his hopes of her, too. She would do her work well. She would lose herself in her work, and forget all that had made her lonely and miserable. It was a way of escape—the Lord was going to let her down over the wall in a basket.

There was a very small noise behind her, a faint movement as if a mouse had crossed the threshold.

She turned quickly, and gave a cry of surprise and delight.

At the door, shyly looking in at her, was a little boy of perhaps ten years of age, with starry eyes of such brilliance and beauty she could see no other feature. He looked like a little furry squirrel, who would be frightened by the slightest sound.

For a moment they looked at each other; then from the boy, in a trembling voice, clear and high pitched, came the words:

"Please, teacher!"

The tremble in his voice went straight to Pearl's heart.

"Yes, dear," she said, "come right in—I want you—I'm lonesome—and I like little boys like you."

His eyes seemed to grow more luminous and wistful.

"I can't come in," he said. "I can't come into the school at all—not the least little bit—I have an ungovernable temper."

"I'm not afraid," said Pearl gravely, "I am very brave that way, and don't mind at all. Who says you have?"

"The trustees," he said and his voice began to quiver. "They sent mother a letter about me."

"O, I know you now, James," said Pearl, "come in—I want to talk to you. I was going to see you just as soon as I got settled."

Cautiously he entered; the out-door wildness was in his graceful movements. He stooped a few feet away from her and said again:

"Please, teacher."

Pearl smiled back, reassuringly, and his eyes responded.

"Did you get a place yet?" he asked eagerly.

"No, I didn't," she answered. She was going to tell him that she would not need a place, for she was going away, but something stopped her. Somehow she could not dim the radiance of those eager eyes.

"Teacher!" he cried coming nearer, "would you come and live with us? My mother is just sweet, and she would like to have you. She is away today, to Millford, and won't be home till eight o'clock. I stayed at home because I wanted to see you. My mother watched you going to the houses—we can see all of them from our house—and every time you came away from them—she was glad. We have a spy-glass, and we could see—that's how we knew how nice you were, teacher"—he was almost near enough to touch her now. "You can have my bed if you will come."

Pearl wanted to draw him to her and kiss the fear forever from his face, but she was still afraid he might vanish if she touched him.

"My mother thinks you are nice," he said softly. "We saw you patting Cowan's dog and walking home with the children. One day we saw you walking home with Edgar Zinc. He held your hand—and my mother got to thinking that it might have been me that you had by the hand, and she cried that day, and couldn't tell why. It wasn't because she was lonely—because she never is lonely. How could she be when she has me? She tells me every day she is not lonely. But we'd like fine to have you live with us, teacher, because you're nice."

Pearl's arm was around him now, and he let her draw him over to her.

"Tell me all about yourself," she said, with a curious tugging at her heart.

"We're orphans," he said simply, "mother and I—that means our people are dead. We had no people, only just our daddy. We didn't need any people only him, and he's dead. And then we had Mr. Bowen—and he's dead. Don't it beat all how people die? Are you an orphan?"

Pearl shook her head.

James continued: "We're waiting here until I get bigger and mother gets enough money—and then we're going back. It's lovely to be going back. This isn't the real Purple Springs—we just called it that for fun, and because we love the name. It makes us happier when we say it. It reminds us. Mother will tell you if you live with us."

"At night we light the fire and watch it crackling, and I sit on mother's knee. Ain't I a big boy to sit on a lady's knee?—and she tells me. At Purple Springs there's pansies as big as plates—mother will draw them for you—and the rocks are always warm, and the streams are boiling hot, and nobody is ever sick there or tired. Daddy wouldn't have died if we'd stayed there. But there's things in life no one understands. We'll never leave when we go back."

The boy rambled on, his eyes shining with a great excitement. Pearl thought she was listening to the fanciful tales with which a lonely woman beguiled the weary hours for her little son It was a weirdly extravagant fairy story, and yet it fascinated Pearl in spite of it's unlikeness to truth. It had all the phantasy of a midsummer night's dream.

The boy seemed to answer her thoughts.

"Ain't it great to have something lovely to dream over, teacher? I bet you've got sweet dreams, too. Mother says that what kills people's souls is when they have no purple springs in their lives. She says she's sorry for lots of people They live and walk around, but their souls are dead, because their springs have dried up."

Pearl drew him closer to her. He was so young—and yet so old—so happy, and yet so lonely. She wanted to give him back a careless, happy, irresponsible childhood, full of frolicking fun and mischief, without care or serious thought. She longed to see him grubby-fisted bare-footed, tousle-haired, shouting and wrestling with her young tykes of brothers. It was not natural or happy to see a child so elfin, so remote, so conscious of the world's sorrows.

"Will you come with me now, teacher?" he asked eagerly.

Pearl could not resist the appeal. The sun hung low in an amber haze as they left the school and took the unfrequented road to the brown house on the hill—the house of mystery.

The air was full of the drowsy sounds of evening; cattle returning after their day's freedom in the fields, cow-bells tinkling contentedly. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked; and on the gentle breeze came the song of a hermit thrush, with an undertone of cooing pigeons. The acrid smell of burning leaves was in the air.

The river valley ran into the sunset with its bold scrub-covered banks, on the high shoulder of which the railway cut made a deep welt, purple now with evening. Every day the westbound train, with its gray smoke spume laid back on its neck like a mane, slid swiftly around the base of the hill until the turn in the river made it appear to go into a tunnel, for the opposite bank obscured it from view. It re-appeared again, a mile farther west, and its smoke could be followed by the eye for many miles as it made its way to the city. This year it was the Government's promise that the river would be bridged at Purple Springs and the road made more direct.

"Mother says no one could be lonely when they can see the trains," said James Gray. "Mother just loves the trains—they whistle to us every day. They would stop and talk to us only they're in such a hurry."

When her young escort led Pearl Watson into the living-room she gave an exclamation of delight. A low ceiling, with weathered beams; a floor covered with bright-colored, hand-made rugs, bookcases filled with books, a few pictures on the wall, and many pieces of artistically constructed furniture.

"Mother makes these in the winter, she and I. We work all evening, and then we make toast at the fireplace and play the phonograph and pretend we have visitors. Ever since we knew you were coming you've been our visitor, and now tonight I'll hide you, and mother will think I'm just pretending, and then you'll come out, and mother will think she's dreaming again."

Pearl helped her young friend to milk the two fine cows that came up to the bars expectantly, after which the evening meal was prepared, and Pearl was amazed at the deft manner in which the boy set about his work. He told her more about calories and food values and balanced meals than the Domestic Science Department at the Normal School had taught her.

"How do you know all this?" she asked him in surprise.

"Mother reads it in books and tells me. Mother learns everything first, and tells me—she is determined," said the boy gravely, "that I will have just as good a chance as other children. She says if she ever did anything that wasn't right, and which made it hard for me—she'll make it up. Mother says God is often up against it with people, too. He has to let things happen to them—bad things—but He can always make it up to them—and He will! Do you think that too, teacher?"

"I am sure of it," said Pearl, with a catch in her throat and a sudden chill of doubt. Were there some things which even God could not make up to us?

The fireplace was laid with red willow wood, and when everything was ready, and the hour had come when Mrs. Gray was expected home, Pearl and James waited in the big chair before the fire, which darted tongues of purple flame and gave a grateful heat, for the evening was chilly. They did not light the lamp at all, for the light from the fire threw a warm glow over the room.

A great peace seemed to have come to Pearl's heart. The neighbors of Purple Springs, with their inhospitable hearts, seemed far away and unreal. That thought in some occult way came to her with comforting power from the spirit which dwelt in this home.

For three years no friendly foot had come to this threshold, no one had directed a friendly thought to the woman who lived here, nor to the child; yet woman and child had lived on happily in spite of this, and now to Pearl, on whom the taboo of the neighborhood had also fallen, there came the peace of mind which could set quietly at defiance the opinion of the little world which surrounded her.

So intent were Pearl and James on the story that Pearl was telling they did not hear the buggy, which drove up to the house. Mrs. Gray got out and took out her parcels at the front door. The leaping flames from the fire-place in the pretty room, made a picture she loved well. It was so significant of home—and it is those who have not always had a home who love it best. She stopped to watch the light as it danced on the shelves of books and the brightly colored hangings and rugs.

Seeing Pearl in the big chair, with her arm around the boy, Annie Gray's heart gave a leap of rapture. Her boy had a companion—a human comrade other than herself. It had come at last! The dream had come true! She watched Pearl, fascinated, fearful. Was it a dream, or was there really a human being, and such a lovely one, a guest at her fireside?

With a quick movement she flung open the door James ran to his mother with a welcoming shout. Then Pearl stood up, and the two women shook hands without a word. They looked long into each other's eyes; then with a quick impulse, and a sudden illumination, Pearl put her arms around the older woman and kissed her.

Annie Gray held her away from her, so she could look at her again. Then with a laugh that was half a sob, she said:

"Prayers—are—sometimes—answered," and without any warning, surprising herself even more than she did the others—she began to cry. Three years is a long time.



CHAPTER XIX

THE END OF A LONELY ROAD

When Pearl opened her eyes the next morning it was with a delicious sense of well-being, which increased as she looked about her. It may have been the satiny smoothness of the sheets, the silk eiderdown quilt, with its plumy yellow chrysanthemums, the pale yellow scrim curtains, across whose lower borders young brown ducks followed each other in stately procession; the home-made table with its gray linen runner, across which a few larger ducks paraded, and which held a large lamp, with a well-flounced shade; the soft buff walls, with their border of yellow autumn woods, sun-sweet and cool, with leaf-strewn paths that would be springy to walk on. It may have been these, for Pearl's heart could easily be set tingling by a flash of color that pleased her. But there is no doubt the room had a presence, a strong, buoyant, cheerful presence. It had been furnished to defy loneliness. Who could be lonely looking down at a thick plushy rug of woolly white sheep, shading into yellow, lying on the very greenest of grass, beside a whimsical little twisting stream that you were just sure had speckled trout in it, darting over its gravelly bottom, if your eyes were only quick enough to catch the flash of them; and who wouldn't be glad to wash in a basin that was just lined with yellow roses, with a few of them falling out over the sides; and who wouldn't accept the gift of a towel from a hospitable oak hand, which held out a whole bouquet of them—one on each finger; towels with all sorts of edgings and insertions and baskets of flowers and monograms on them just begging you to take your choice. And if anything else were needed to keep the heart from dull gray loneliness, or ugly black fear, on the wall over the bed was a big gilt-framed picture of an amber-eyed, white-collared, blessed collie dog, with the faintest showing of his red tongue, big and strong and faithful, just to remind you that though changes befall and friends betray and hopes grow cold, faithfulness and affection have not entirely vanished from the earth.

Pearl's sense of freedom, of power, of comfort, seemed to increase as she lay watching the spot of sunshine which fell on the rug with its flock of sheep and seemed to bring them alive. The whole room seemed to fit around her, the ceiling bent over her like a kind face, the walls, pictures, and furniture were like a group of friends encouraging her, inspiring her, soothing her.

Pearl searched her mind for a word to describe it. "It feels like—Saturday—" she said at last, "—freedom, rest, plans, ambitions—it has them all, and it has something deeper still in it—it is like a section of a tree, in which history can be read, storms and winds and sunshine," for Pearl knew instinctively that it was a tower-room that Annie Gray had made for an armor for her soul, so it would not be pierced by the injustice and unkindness of the world.

"They do not understand," Pearl said again, "that's all—they do not mean to be so horrid to her—it's queer how badly people can treat each other and their conscience let them get away with it. Even if Mrs. Gray had been all they said, she had not done any wrong to them—why should they feel called upon to punish her? Well, I can tell them a few things now."

A fire burned in the fireplace, and the breakfast-table was set in front of it. Mrs. Gray, in an attractive mauve house-gown, came in from the kitchen. She was a tall woman, with steel gray eyes, with pebblings of green—the eyes of courage and high resolve. Her features were classical in their regularity, and reminded Pearl of the faces in her history reproduced from the Greek coins, lacking only the laurel wreath. Her hair was beginning to turn gray, and showed a streak at each side, over her temples. A big black braid was rolled around her perfectly round head; a large green jade brooch, with a braided silver edge, fastened her dress. Her hands were brown and hard, but long, shapely and capable looking.

The boy was sleeping late, so Pearl and her hostess ate their breakfast alone.

"Will you let me stay with you, Mrs. Gray," Pearl asked, when breakfast was over. "I will make my own bed, keep my things tidy, try not to spill my tea. I will wipe my feet, close the screen door, and get up for breakfast."

Mrs. Gray looked across the table, with her dear eyes fastened on her guest. Suddenly they began to grow dim with tears.

"Pearl," she said, laughing, "I don't know what there is about you that makes me want to cry. I've gone through some rough places in life without a tear, but you seem to have a way all your own to start me off."

"But I don't hurt you, do I?" Pearl asked, in distress. "Surely I don't—I wouldn't do that for the world."

"Not a bit of it," laughed her hostess, as she wiped her eyes, and then, blinking hard to clear away the last traces of grief, she said:

"Pearl, before you come to board with me you should know something about me; you have no doubt heard some strange things."

Pearl did not deny it.

"And you should know the whole story, and then judge for yourself whether you consider I am a fit person to live with."

"But I do already," said Pearl. "I consider you a very proper and delightful person to live with. I don't want to know a thing about you unless you care to tell me. You don't know anything about me either—we both have to take a chance—and I am willing if you are."

"But there will be an insurrection in the neighborhood. They won't let you, Pearl. They can't forgive me for coming here without reference or character, and with a child, too."

"Well, he's a pretty fine child," said Pearl, "and, I should say, a sort of certificate for his mother."

"Well, no matter how fine a child he is—no matter what care a mother has taken in his training—nothing can atone, in the eyes of society for the failure of conforming to some of their laws. Society's laws, not God's laws. Society is no friend to women, Pearl."

"But it is just because people do not think," said Pearl, "They have made certain laws—and women have not made any protest, so the men think they are all right."

"And do you know why, Pearl?" she asked. "Women who are caught in the tangle of these laws, as I was, cannot say a word—their lips are dumb. The others won't say a word for fear of spoiling their matrimonial market. The worst thing that can be said of a woman is that she's queer and strong-minded—and defies custom. If you want to be happy, Pearl, be self-centered, virtuous, obey the law, and care nothing for others."

"You don't mean that," said Pearl. "You've been hard hit some way I do not want to know until you want to tell me. But I am going to stay with you if you will keep me. I am determined to stay."

Annie Gray's steely eyes clouded over again, like a sun-kissed lake when a cloud passes over it. They grew deeper, grayer, and of misty tenderness.

"You are doing something for me, Pearl, that I thought could never be done; you are restoring my faith. Remember, I have not been as unhappy as you may think. I had my happiness—that's more than some women can say. I have had the rapture, the blessedness of love—I've had it all—the rapture of holding and the agony of loss—I'm only thirty-one, but I've lived a thousand years. But, Pearl, you've done something for me already; you have set my feet again on something solid, and I am a different woman from yesterday. Some day I'll tell you a strange story until then, you'll trust me?"

"Until then—and far beyond it—forever," said Pearl. "I'll trust you—I have an idea you and I are going to stick together for a long time."

Pearl went back to the school and found her letter of acceptance in the desk. She tore it up and wrote another, thanking the department for their kindness in offering her such a splendid position, but explaining that she had decided to stay at the school at Purple Springs. She made her decision without any difficulty. There was a deep conviction that the threads of destiny were weaving together her life and Annie Gray's, and she knew, from some hidden source in her soul, that she must stand by. What she could do, was vague and unformed in her mind, but she knew it would be revealed to her.

Pearl, child of the prairie, never could think as clearly when her vision was bounded by walls. She had to have blue distance—the great, long look that swept away the little petty, trifling, hampering things, which so slavishly dominate our lives, if we will let them. So she took her way to a little lake behind the school, where with the school axe she had already made a seat for herself under two big poplar trees, and cut the lower branches of some of the smaller ones, giving them a neat and tidy appearance, like well-gartered children dressed for a picnic.

There were a few white birches mixed with the poplars, so delicately formed and dainty in their slender branches and lacy leaves, they looked like nice little girls with flowing hair, coming down to bathe in the blue lake, timidly trying out the water with their white feet. The trees formed a semi-circle around the east side of the lake, leaving one side open to view, and she could see the prairie falling away to the river, which made a wide detour at this point.

Pearl settled herself in her rustic seat, putting the newspaper, which she had left for the purpose, behind her back as she leaned against the tree, to keep the powdery bark from marking her blue coat, and leaning back contentedly, she drank in the spring sounds.

The sun, which stood almost at noon, seemed to draw the leaves out like a magnet; she could almost believe she saw them unfolding; above her head there was a perfect riot of bird's song, and a blue-bird, like a burst of music, went flashing across the water. A gray squirrel chattered as he ran up a tree behind her, and a rabbit, padding over the dead leaves on his way to the lake, made a sound like a bear.

Up through the tree tops there had climbed a few blue rags of smoke, for behind her a sleepy prairie fire was eating backward toward a ploughed fire-guard, and the delightful acrid smell brought back the memory of past prairie fires, pleasant enough to think of, as life's battles are, if they end victoriously. Not a breath stirred in the trees, and the prairie fire that smouldered so indolently was surely the gentlest of its race.

Suddenly there came a gust of wind through the trees, which set them creaking and crackling with vague apprehension, for the wind is always the mischief maker—the tattler—the brawler who starts the trouble—and the peaceful, slumbering absent-minded prairie fire, nibbling away at a few dead roots and grass, had been too much for it. Here was a perfectly good chance to make trouble which no wind could resist.

A big black cloud went over the sun, and all in a minute the placid waters of the lake were rasped into a pattern like the soles of new rubbers—the trees were bending—crows cawing excitedly, and the fire, spurred by the wind, went racing through the lake bottom and on its way up the bank toward the open country. The cattle, which had been feeding at the east side of the lake, sniffing danger, turned galloping home to furnish an alibi in case of trouble.

But the excitement was short-lived owing to a circumstance which the wind had overlooked. The wind had made a mistake in its direction, and so the fire had one wild, glorious race up the bank only to find its nose run right into a freshly ploughed fire-guard, steaming damp and richly brown. The fire sputtered, choked and died down, black and disappointed, leaving only a few smoking clumps of willows.

Then the wind, seeing no further chance of trouble, went crackling away over the tree tops, and the sun came back, brilliant and warm as ever, and there was nothing to show that there had been any excitement, save only the waves on the lake. The wind was gone, laughing and unrepentant, over the tree-tops; the sun had come back as genially as if it had never been away—but the lake could not forget, and it fretted and complained, in a perfectly human way, pounding the bank in a futile attempt to get back at some one. The bank had not been to blame, but it had to take the lake's repinings, while the real culprit went free and unreproached.

Pearl could tell what the lake was saying, as it lashed itself foaming and pounding just below her feet. It called to the world to listen.

"Look how I'm used," it sobbed, "and abused—and confused."

Pearl put her hands in the silk-lined pockets of her coat, and thought about what she had just seen.

"Life is like this," she said at last, "human nature is full of mischief. It loves to start trouble and fan a fire into a destructive mood; and there's only one way to stop it—plough a fire-guard. I wish there had been some one here to plough a fire-guard when the fires of gossip began to run here three years ago."

"I'll go now and dress up, and break the news to the neighborhood that I am going to the house at Purple Springs to board. There will be a row—there will be a large row—unless I can make the people understand, and in a row there is nothing so sustaining as good clothes—next to the consciousness of being right, of course," she added after a pause. An hour later, Pearl Watson, in her best dress of brown silk, with her high brown boots well polished, and her small brown hat, made by herself, with a band of crushed burnt orange poppies around the crown, safely anchored and softened by a messaline drape; with her hair drawn over the tops of her ears, and a smart fawn summer coat, with buttons which showed a spot of red like a pigeon-blood ruby. Pearl looked at herself critically in the glass:

"These things should not count," she said, as she fastened a thin veil over her face and made it very neat at the back with a hairpin, "but they do."



CHAPTER XX

ANNIE GRAY'S STORY

The Purple Springs district was going through a period of intense excitement. Housework languished, dough ran over, dish-water cooled. The news which paralyzed household operations came shortly after one o'clock, when Mrs. Cowan phoned to Mrs. Brownless that the teacher had just been in, and said she was going to board with the woman who lived alone. The teacher had said it, according to Mrs. Cowan, in the "most off-hand manner, just as if she said she had found her jackknife or her other rubber—just as easy as that, she said she had found a boarding house. Mrs. Howser could not take her, but Mrs. Gray could, and she was moving over right away."

Mrs. Cowan, according to her own testimony, nearly dropped. She did not really drop, but any one could easily have knocked her down; she could have been knocked down with a pin feather. She could not speak—she just stared. She went all "through other," and felt queer.

"Do you know that woman has a child?" she managed to say at last, and the teacher said, "Sure—one of the nicest I've ever seen—a perfect beauty."

Mrs. Cowan admitted to Mrs. Brownlees, who sympathized with her, that she did not know what to say then.

At last she said, "But she has no right to have a child," and the teacher said:

"Why not if she wants to. She's good to him, dresses him well and trains him well. My mother had nine—and got away with it—and likes them all. Having a child is nothing against her." Now, wasn't that an awful way for her to talk?

Mrs. Brownlees said it certainly was fierce! and the other listeners on the phone, for the audience had been augmented as the conversation proceeded, politely said nothing, but hung up their receivers with haste, and acquainted the members of their household with the disquieting news.

Mrs. Switzer threw her apron over her head and ran out to the pump, where Bill was watering his three-horse team. Bill received the news in that exasperating silence which is so hard to bear. When urged for an opinion, he said crustily: "Well, what's the girl goin' to do? None of you women would take her—she can't starve—and she can't sleep in the school woodpile. Mrs. Gray won't bite—she's a fine lookin' woman, drives a binder like a man, pays her debts, minds her own business. I don't see why it wouldn't be a good boardin' place."

In telling about it afterwards to Mrs. Howser, Mrs. Switzer said, "You know what men are like; in some ways they are hardly human—they take things so easy."

Pearl was surprised at the storm that burst, but soon realized the futility of further speech. They would not listen—they were so intent on proving the woman's guilt, they would hear no defence. From what they said, Pearl gathered that they knew nothing about Mrs. Gray except what the sewing-machine agent had told them, and even he had not claimed that he had any definite knowledge. The worst count against her was that she would not tell anything about herself. That she would not tell anything about herself, could only have one explanation! There must be nothing good to tell!

On Sunday, at the little stone church in the valley of the river Pearl took her place among the worshippers. The attendance was unusually large. A new bond of interest was binding the neighborhood together, and they spoke of it as they congregated in the church-yard before the service. Pearl sat inside and watched them as they talked together excitedly. Snatches of their conversation came to her. "Well-behaved people should stay with well-behaved people, I say"—this was from Mrs. Switzer.

The men did not join in the conversation, but stood around, ill at ease in their stiff collars, and made an attempt to talk about summer fallowing and other harmless topics. Their attitude to the whole affair was one of aloofness. Let the women settle it among themselves.

From the window where she sat Pearl could see far down the valley. The river pursued its way, happily, unperturbed by the wrongs or sorrows of the people who lived beside it. Sometimes it had reached out and drowned a couple of them as it had done last year—but no one held it against the river at all.

The rejuvenation of nature was to be seen everywhere, in springing grass and leafing tree. Everything could begin life over again. Why were the people so hard on Annie Gray, even if all they believed about her were true? Pearl wondered about the religion of people like the group who were so busily talking just outside the window. Did it not teach them to be charitable? The Good Shepherd, in the picture above the altar, had gone out to find the wandering sheep, even leaving all the others, to bring back the lost one, sorry that it had been wayward, not angry—but only sorry—Pearl hoped that they would look at it when they came in. She hoped too, that they would look at the few scattered tombstones in the churchyard, over which the birds were darting and skimming, and be reminded of the shortness of life, and their own need of mercy—and she hoped that some of the dead, who lay there so peacefully now, might have been sinners who redeemed the past and died respected, and that they might plead now with these just persons who needed no repentance.

But when the service was over, and a brief sermon on Amos and his good deeds, the congregation separated, and Pearl went back to the brown house with a heavy heart, and the cry of her soul was that God would show her a way of making the people understand. "Plough a fire-guard, O Lord," she prayed, as she walked, "and let these deadly fires of gossip run their noses square into it and be smothered. Use me if you can—I am here—ready to help—but the big thing is to get it done."

Around the open grate-fire that night, after James had gone to bed, Pearl and Mrs. Gray sat long before the pleasant wood fire For the first time Annie Gray felt she had found some one to whom she could talk and tell what was in her heart, and the story of the last eleven years was revealed, from the time that pretty Annie Simmons, fresh from Scotland, arrived at the Hudson's Bay post at Fort Resolution, coming by dog-train the last two hundred miles to her cousin, the factor's wife—the thin-lipped daughter of the Covenanters—who kept the pretty young cousin closely at work in the kitchen with her pots and pans when the traders came in, for Mrs. McPherson had no intention of losing Annie and her capable help after bringing her all the way from the Isle of Skye.