For all that, nothing occurred to excite suspicion, and after a while he felt inclined to smile at his nervousness. At length, one day when the trial was close at hand, and Edgar had gone to the Butte, the mail-carrier brought him a note from Grant.

It consisted of a couple of lines asking him to come over during the evening, and as supper had been finished two hours before, George realized that there was not much time to spare. Laying down the note, he walked to the door and called his Canadian hired man.

"Put the saddle on the brown horse, Jake; I'm going to Grant's."

The man did as he was bidden, and when George was about to mount handed him a repeating rifle.

"Better take this along; cylinder's full," he said. "It will be dark before you get there."

George hesitated. The rifle was heavy, but it was a more reliable weapon than a pistol, and he rode off with it. The sun had dipped when he started, the air was rapidly cooling, and after spending the day sinking holes for fence posts in the scorching sun, he found the swift motion and the little breeze that fanned his face pleasant. To the northwest, a flush of vivid crimson glowed along the horizon, but the sweep of grass was growing dim and a bluff he reached at length stood out, a sharp-cut, dusky mass, against the fading light. He pulled up his horse on its outskirts. A narrow trail led through the wood, its entrance marked by a dark gap among the shadowy trees, and it somehow looked forbidding. The bluff, however, stretched across his path; it was getting late, and George was a little impatient of the caution he had been forced to exercise. Laying his rifle ready across the saddle, he sent his horse forward.

It was quite dark in the bluff, though here and there he could see a glimmer of faint red and orange between the trees, and the stillness had a slightly disturbing effect on him. Not a leaf moved, the beat of his horse's hoofs rang sharply down the narrow trail above which the thin birch branches met. He wanted to get out into the open, where he could see about, as soon as possible. There was, however, no ostensible cause for uneasiness and he rode on quietly, until he heard a soft rustling among the slender trunks. Pulling up the horse, he called out, and, as he half expected, got no answer. Then he cast a swift glance ahead. There was a gleam of dim light not far away where the trail led out of the bluff. Throwing the rifle to his shoulder, George fired into the shadows.

The horse plunged violently and broke into a frightened gallop. George heard a whistle and a sharper rustling, and rode toward the light at a furious pace. Then his horse suddenly stumbled and came down. The rifle flew out of George's hand, and he was hurled against a tree. The next moment he felt himself rudely seized, and what he thought was a jacket was wrapped about his head. Shaken by his fall, he could make no effective resistance, and he was dragged a few yards through the bush and flung into a wagon. He tried to pull the jacket from his face, and failed; somebody brutally beat him down against the side of the vehicle when he struggled to get up. He heard a whip crack, the wagon swayed and jolted, and he knew the team was starting at a gallop.



CHAPTER XXIX

FLORA'S ENLIGHTENMENT

It was nearly midnight when Edgar returned from the settlement and saw, to his surprise, lights still burning in the homestead. Entering the living-room, he found Grierson sitting there with Jake, and it struck him that they looked uneasy.

"What's keeping you up?" he asked.

"I thought I'd wait for the boss," said the Canadian. "He went over to Grant's after supper, and he's not come back."

"That's curious. He said nothing about going."

"A note came by the mail. It's lying yonder."

Edgar picked it up and brought it near the lamp. The paper was good and printed with Grant's postal address, which was lengthy.

"I figured I'd go and meet him," Jake resumed, "Took the shot-gun and rode through the bluff. Didn't see anything of him, and it struck me Grant might have kept him all night, as it was getting late. He's stayed there before."

Edgar examined the note, for he was far from satisfied. George had only twice spent a night at Grant's, once when he was driving cattle, and again when it would have been risky to face the weather. The paper was undoubtedly Grant's, but Edgar could not identify the farmer's hand; the notes that had come over had been written by Flora. Then he remembered that George had bought some implements from Grant, and had filed the rancher's receipt. Edgar hurriedly found it and compared it with the letter. Then his face grew troubled, for the writing was not the same.

"I'm afraid Mr. Lansing never got to Grant's," he said. "I'll ride over at once."

"Then I'm coming," Jake said shortly. "I'll bring the gun along."

Grierson lifted a clenched brown hand.

"So am I! If Mr. Lansing's hurt, somebody's got to pay!"

Edgar was stirred by something in their looks and voices; George had gained a hold on these men's loyalty which the regular payment of wages could never have given him. He merely signified assent, and, running out, sprang into the saddle. The others had evidently had their horses ready, for he heard them riding after him in a minute or two, though he was galloping recklessly through the bluff when they came up. The homestead was dark when they reached it, and they shouted once or twice before Grant came down.

"Is George here?" Edgar asked.

"No," said Grant, "we didn't expect him."

"Then get on your clothes quick! There's work on hand!"

Grant brought him in and struck a light, then hurriedly left the room; and Flora came with him, fully dressed, when he reappeared. Edgar supposed she had heard his sharp inquiry at the door, and he noticed that her expression was strained. He threw the note on the table.

"After what you said, I needn't ask if you wrote that."

"I didn't," Grant told him. "It's not like my hand. I suppose Lansing started when he got it and has not come back?"

"You have guessed right. Where are they likely to have waylaid him, and where will they probably take him?"

"The bluff, sure. They might head north for empty country, or south for the frontier."

"The frontier," Flora broke in.

"It's what I think," said Edgar. "Shall I send a man for Flett, or will you?"

"That's fixed, anyway," said a voice outside the open door. "We're not going."

It was obvious that the hired men had followed them as far as the passage, for Grierson, entering the room, explained:

"He means we've made up our minds to look for Mr. Lansing."

Grant nodded in assent.

"Then my man goes. Turn out the boys, Jake; you know the place. I want three horses saddled, quick."

"Four," said Flora, firmly. "I'm coming."

Grant did not try to dissuade her.

"Write to Flett," he said.

He went out hastily in search of blankets and provisions, and when he returned, his hired men had gathered about the door and the note was finished. He threw it to one of them.

"Ride with that as hard as you can," he said, and called another, "You'll come with us."

"We're a strong party already," Edgar broke in. "You're leaving the place poorly guarded, and the rustlers may have counted on something of the kind. Suppose they finish their work by driving off every beast that's left as soon as we have gone."

"I've got to take my chances; we'll want the boys to make a thorough search."

Grant swung round toward the remaining men.

"You two will watch out behind the woodstack or in the granary. No stranger's to come near house or stable."

"The woodpile," said Flora, with a hard white face and an ominous sparkle in her eyes. "You would command the outbuildings there. If anybody tries to creep up at night, call once, and then shoot to kill."

Edgar saw that she meant her instructions to be carried out; but he forced a smile.

"And this is the Canadian wheat-belt, which I was told was so peaceful and orderly!"

"It looks as if you had been misinformed," Flora rejoined with a cold collectedness which he thought of as dangerous. "One, however, now and then hears of violent crime in London."

They were mounted in a few minutes, and after a hard ride the party broke up at dawn, dispersing so that each member of it could make independent search and inquiries at the scattered homesteads. Meeting places and means of communication were arranged; but Flora and her father rode together, pushing on steadily southward over the vast gray plain. Little was said except when they called at some outlying farm, but Grant now and then glanced at the girl's set face with keenly scrutinizing eyes. In the middle of the scorching afternoon he suggested that she should await his return at a homestead in the distance, but was not surprised when she uncompromisingly refused. They spent the night at a small ranch, borrowed fresh horses in the morning, and set out again; but they found no trace of the fugitives during the day, and it was evening when Edgar and Grierson joined them, as arranged, at a lonely farm. The two men rode in wearily on jaded horses, and Flora, who was the first to notice their approach, went out to meet them.

"Nothing?" she said, when she saw their dejected faces.

"Nothing," Edgar listlessly answered. "If the people we have seen aren't in league with the rustlers—and I don't think that's probable—the fellows must have gone a different way."

"They've gone south!" Flora insisted. "We may be a little too far to the east of their track."

"Then, we must try a different line of country tomorrow."

The farmer's wife had promised to find Flora quarters, the men were offered accommodation in a barn, and when the air cooled sharply in the evening, Edgar walked out on to the prairie with the girl. She had kept near him since his arrival, but he was inclined to believe this was rather on account of his association with George than because she found any charm in his society. By and by, they sat down on a low rise from which they could see the sweep of grass run on, changing to shades of blue and purple, toward the smoky red glare of sunset on its western rim. To the south, it was all dim and steeped in dull neutral tones, conveying an idea of vast distance.

Flora shivered, drawing her thin linen jacket together while she buttoned it, and Edgar noticed something beneath it that broke the outline of her waist.

"What's that at your belt?" he asked.

"A magazine pistol," she answered with a rather harsh laugh, producing the beautifully made weapon,

"It's a pretty thing. I wonder whether you can use it?"

"Will you stand up at about twenty paces and hold out your hat?"

"Certainly not!" said Edgar firmly. "I wouldn't mind putting it on a stick, only that the shot would bring the others out. But I've no doubt you can handle a pistol; you're a curious people."

He thought the last remark was justified. Here was a girl, as refined and highly trained in many ways as any he had met, and yet who owned a dangerous weapon and could use it effectively. Then there was her father, an industrious, peaceable farmer, whose attention was, as a rule, strictly confined to the amassing of money, but who was nevertheless capable of riding or shooting down the outlaws who molested him or his friends. What made the thing more striking was that neither of them had been used to alarms; they had dwelt in calm security until the past twelve months. Edgar, however, remembered that they sprang from a stock that had struggled sternly for existence with forest and flood and frost; no doubt, in time of stress, the strong primitive strain came uppermost. Their nature had not been altogether softened by civilization. The thought flung a useful light upon Flora's character.

"If the trial's a lengthy one and these fellows hold him up until it's over, it will be a serious thing for George," he resumed, by way of implying that this was the worst that could befall his comrade. "The grain's ripening fast, and he hasn't made his arrangements for harvest yet. Men seem pretty scarce around here, just now."

"It's a good crop; I'm glad of that," said Flora, willing to avoid the graver side of the topic. "Mr. Lansing was anxious about it, but this harvest should set him on his feet. I suppose he hasn't paid off the full price of the farm."

"As a matter of fact, he hasn't paid anything at all."

"Then has he only rented the place?"

There was surprise and strong interest in the girl's expression and Edgar saw that he had made a telling admission. However, he did not regret it.

"No," he said; "that's not the case, either. The farm is still Mrs. Marston's."

"Ah! There's something I don't understand."

Edgar was sorry for her, and he felt that she was entitled to an explanation. Indeed, since George was strangely unobservant, he thought it should have been made earlier; but the matter had appeared too delicate for him to meddle with. Now, however, when the girl's nature was strongly stirred, there was a risk that, supposing his comrade was discovered wounded or was rescued in some dramatic way, she might be driven to a betrayal of her feelings that would seriously embarrass George and afterward cause her distress.

"George," he explained, "is merely carrying on the farm as Mrs. Marston's trustee."

"But that hardly accounts for his keen eagerness to make his farming profitable. It strikes one as springing from something stronger than his duty as trustee."

Edgar nodded.

"Well, you see, he is in love with her!"

Flora sat quite still for a moment or two, and then laughed—a little bitter laugh; she was overstrained and could not repress it. A flood of hot color surged into her face, but in another moment she had recovered some degree of composure.

"So that is why he came out?" she said.

"Yes; he was in love with her before she married Marston. At least, that's his impression."

"His impression?" echoed Flora, keenly anxious to cover any signs of the shock she had received and to learn all that could be told. "Do you mean that Mr. Lansing doesn't know whether he is in love with her or not?"

"No, not exactly!" Edgar felt that he was on dangerous ground. "I'm afraid I can't quite explain what I really do mean. George, of course, is convinced about the thing; but I've a suspicion that he may be mistaken; though he'd be very indignant if he heard me say so."

He paused, doubtful whether he was handling the matter prudently, but he felt that something must be done to relieve the strain, and continued:

"George has the faculty of respectful admiration highly developed, but he doesn't use it with much judgment; in fact, he's a rather reckless idealist. There are excuses for him; he was never much thrown into women's society."

"You think that explains it?" Flora forced a smile. "But go on."

"My idea is that George has been led by admiration and pity, and not by love at all. I don't think he knows the difference; he's not much of a psychologist. Then, you see, he's thorough, and having got an idea into his mind, it possesses him and drives him to action. He doesn't stop to analyze his feelings."

"So he came out to look after Mrs. Marston's property because he felt sorry for her, and believed her worthy of respect? What is your opinion of her?"

"I'll confess that I wish she hadn't captivated George."

Flora's face grew very scornful.

"I haven't your chivalrous scruples; and I know Mrs. Marston. She's utterly worthless! What is likely to happen when your comrade finds it out?"

Then she rose abruptly.

"After all, that's a matter which chiefly concerns Mr. Lansing, and I dare say the woman he believes in will be capable of dealing with the situation. Let's talk of something else."

They turned back toward the farm, but Edgar found it difficult to start a fresh topic. All the workings of his mind centered upon George, and he suspected that his companion's thoughts had a similar tendency. It was getting dark when they rejoined the rest of the party, and the next morning Flett and another constable rode in. They had discovered nothing, but as they were ready to take up the trail, Grant left the task to them and turned back with his men.

Flora long remembered the dreary two day's ride, for although she had borne it with courage, Edgar's news had caused her a painful shock. She had, from the beginning, been strongly drawn to George, and when he had been carried off the knowledge that she loved him had been brought home to her. Now, looking back with rudely opened eyes, there was little comfort in recognizing that he had made no demands on her affection. Bitter as she was, she could not blame him; she had been madly foolish and must suffer for it. She called her pride to the rescue, but it failed her. The torturing anxiety about the man's fate remained, and with it a humiliating regret, which was not altogether selfish, that it was Sylvia Marston he had chosen. Sylvia, who was clever, had, of course, tricked him; but this was no consolation. It was, however, needful to hide her feelings from her father and assume an interest in his remarks, though, when he spoke, it was always of Lansing and what had probably befallen him.

The prairie was dazzlingly bright, the trail they followed was thick with fine black dust, and most of the day the heat was trying; the girl felt utterly jaded and very heavy of heart, but when it appeared desirable she forced herself to talk. Her father must never suspect her folly, though she wondered uneasily how far she might have betrayed it to West. Reaching the homestead at length, she resumed her duties, and anxiously waited for news of George. Once that she heard he was safe, it would, she thought, be easier to drive him out of her mind forever.

As it happened, George had received only a few bruises in the bluff, and, after realizing that there was no chance of escape for the present, he lay still in the bottom of the wagon. He blamed himself for riding so readily into the trap, since it was obvious that his assailants had known he was going to visit Grant, and had stretched a strand of fence wire or something of the kind across the trail. They would have removed it afterward and there would be nothing left to show what had befallen him. This, however was a matter of minor consequence and he endeavored to determine which way his captors were driving. Judging the nature of the trail by the jolting, he decided that they meant to leave the wood where he entered it, which suggested that they were going south, and this was what he had anticipated. Though he was sore from the effect of his fall and the rough handling which had followed it, he did not think he would suffer any further violence, so long as he made no attempt to get away. The men, no doubt, only intended to prevent his giving evidence, by keeping him a prisoner until after the trial.

When morning came, the wagon was still moving at a good pace, though the roughness of the motion indicated that it was not following a trail. This was all George could discover, because one of the men tied his arms and legs before removing the jacket which had muffled his head.

"I guess you can't get up, but it wouldn't be wise to try," the fellow pointed out significantly.

George took the hint. He meant to escape and attend the court, but he had no wish to ruin any chance of his doing so by making a premature attempt. His captors meant to prevent his seeing which way they were going, but he could make out that the sky was brightest on the left side of the wagon, which indicated that they were heading south. They stopped at noon in a thick bluff, from which, when he was released and allowed to get down, he could see nothing of the prairie. Only one man remained to watch him; but as he was armed, and George could hear the others not far away, he decided that his escape must be postponed.

During the afternoon, they went on again, George occupying his former position in the bottom of the wagon, where it was unpleasantly hot; but the strongest glare was now on his right side, which showed him that they were still holding south. Their destination was evidently the American frontier. In the evening they camped near a thicket of low scrub, and after supper George was permitted to wander about and stretch his aching limbs. It was rolling country, broken by low rises, and he could not see more than a mile or two. There was nothing that served as a, landmark, and as soon as he began to stroll away from the camp he was sharply recalled. In the end, he sat down to smoke, and did not move until he was told to get into the wagon, where a blanket was thrown him. So far, he had been permitted to see only one of his captors near at hand.

The next morning they set out again. George thought that fresh horses had been obtained in the night, because they drove at a rapid pace most of the day; and he was tired and sore with the jolting when they camped in another bluff at sunset. Two more days were spent in much the same way; and then late at night they stopped at a little building standing in the midst of an unbroken plain, and George was released and told to get out. One of the men lighted a lantern and led him into an empty stable, built of thick sods. It looked as if it had not been occupied for a long time, but part of it had been roughly boarded off, as if for a harness room or store.

"You have got your blanket," said his companion. "Put it down where you like. There's only one door to this place, and you can't get at it without passing me. I got a sleep in the wagon and don't want any more to-night."

George heard the vehicle jolt away, and sat down to smoke while the beat of hoofs gradually sank into the silence of the plain. Then he wrapped his blanket about him and went to sleep on the earthen floor.



CHAPTER XXX

THE ESCAPE

George got up the next morning feeling cramped and sore after his journey, and carefully looked about. The building had solid walls of sod; such rude stalls as it had been fitted with had been removed, perhaps for the sake of the lumber. He could not reach the door without alarming his jailer, who had taken up his quarters behind the board partition; and there was only one small window, placed high up and intended mainly for ventilation. The window was very dusty, but it opened and George could see out by standing up, though the aperture was not large enough to squeeze through.

Outside stood some timbers which had once formed part of a shack, and a few strands of fence wire, trailing from tottering posts, ran into the grass. The place appeared to have been a farm, whose owner had, no doubt, abandoned it after finding the soil too light, or after losing a crop by frost; but George was more curious to discover if there were any other homesteads in the vicinity. His view was restricted, but there was no sign of life on the quarter-circle it commanded. A flat, grassy waste, broken only by a few clumps of brush, ran back to the horizon, and by the cold blue of the sky and the drift of a few light clouds floating before the prevalent westerly wind, he knew he was looking north. This was the way he must take if he could escape, but there was no house in which he could seek refuge, and scarcely any cover. It was clear that he must obtain a good start before he was missed. He had an idea that he would escape, though he admitted that it was more optimistic than rational.

Then he turned with a start, to see his jailer standing beside him, grinning. The man had a hard, determined face.

"Guess you can't get out that way; and it wouldn't be much use, anyhow," he drawled. "The country's pretty open; it would take you a mighty long while to get out of sight."

"That's how it struck me," George confessed with an air of good-humored resignation. "Do you mean to keep me here any time?"

"Until the trial," the other answered, standing a little away from him with his hand thrust suggestively into a pocket. "We'll be glad to get rid of you when it's finished, but you certainly can't get away before we let you go."

George cast a glance of keen but unobtrusive scrutiny at the man. They were, he thought, about equal in physical strength; the other's superiority consisted in his being armed, and George had no doubt that he was proficient with his weapons. He had seen a rifle carried into the building, the man's hand was now resting on a pistol, and there was a light ax outside. It looked as if an attempt to escape would be attended with a serious risk, and George realized that he must wait until chance or some slackening of vigilance on his custodians' part equalized matters.

He was given breakfast, and afterward told that he could go out and split some wood, which he was glad to do. There was a pile of branches and a few rotten boards that had once formed part of the shack, and he set to work to break them up, while the rustler sat and smoked in the doorway. The man ran no risk in doing so; there was not a bush within a quarter of a mile, and George knew that a bullet would speedily cut short his flight. He could see nothing that promised a secure hiding place all the way to the skyline, and he thought that the plain ran on beyond it, as little broken. When he had cut some wood, he turned back toward the door, and the man regarded him with a meaning smile.

"Come in, if you want; but leave the ax right there," he said.

He moved back a few paces, out of reach of a sudden spring, as George entered, and the latter realized that he did not mean to be taken by surprise. During the afternoon, another man arrived on horseback with some provisions and remained until George went to sleep. The following morning, the stranger had disappeared, but he came again once or twice, and this was all that broke the monotony of the next few days. George, however, was beginning to feel the strain; his nerves were getting raw, the constant watchfulness was wearing him. The trial would now be beginning, and it was time the binders were driven into his grain; the oats would be ripe, and his neighbors would pick up all the Ontario hands who reached the settlement. Another day passed, and he was feeling desperate when the relief watcher arrived in the afternoon. Listening with strained attention, he heard the men talking outside. Only a few words reached him, but one was "adjourned," and it filled him with fresh determination. If he could escape, it might not be too late.

It was an oppressive afternoon; the fresh northwest breeze had dropped, the sky was clouded, the air hot and heavy. Both men remained about the building, but George sat quietly on the earth floor, smoking and waiting for night. A few large drops of rain fell, splashing upon roof and grass while he ate his supper, but it stopped, and the evening was marked by a deep stillness. He felt listless and disinclined to move; his guards, to judge by their voices, for they were playing cards outside, were languidly irritable.

Dusk came and a thick obscurity, unlike the usual clearness of the summer nights, shut in the lonely building. It was intensely dark in the stable; George could not see the relief man's horse, though he could now and then hear it move. Voices rose at intervals from beyond the partition, but they ceased at last and only an occasional crackle of the dry grass that served for seats and bedding told that one at least of the rustlers was keeping watch. George felt his limbs quiver while he waited, and he was conscious of an unpleasant tension on his nerves. There was thunder brewing, and he thought the storm might offer him an opportunity for getting out.

At length it struck him that the silence was unusually deep. Rising to his feet he moved about. There was no challenge; and by way of further experiment, he kicked his tin plate so that it rattled. Still nobody called to him, though the horse made a little noise in moving. George sat down and took off his boots while his heart throbbed painfully. It looked as if his guards had gone to sleep. He moved a few yards, stopped to listen, and went on for several paces more. There was no sound yet beyond the partition, and he crept softly past the horse; he longed to lead it out, but decided that the risk would be too great.

Then he stood in the gap between the wall and the partition, straining eyes and ears, and wondering where the rifle lay. He could see nothing, however; and, creeping on cautiously, with tingling nerves and an intolerable feeling of suspense, he drew level with the doorway. It was hard to refrain from leaping out, but this might make some noise. Crossing the threshold with careful movements, he made for the spot where he had cut the wood. He struck something that rattled, but he found the ax and the feel of it sent a thrill through him. It was light enough to be carried easily; and he did not mean to be recaptured.

For some minutes he moved straight on, hurting his feet on the stronger grass stalks; and then, sitting down, he hastily put on his boots. After that he broke into a steady run, which he meant to keep up as long as possible. He was now anxious that the threatened storm should not break, because if the rustlers had gone to sleep, the longer they remained so the better. He failed to understand how he had escaped; perhaps his guards had been lulled into false security by his tranquil demeanor; perhaps they had trusted to each other; or one, rendered listless by the tension in the air, had relaxed his watchfulness for a few moments. This, however, did not matter. George was free; and he only wished that he had some idea as to where he was heading. He wanted to place a long distance between him and the stable by morning.

Dripping with perspiration, breathing hard, he kept up a steady pace for, so he thought, an hour, after which he walked a mile or two, and then broke into a run again. The grass was short; he struck no brush, and the ax did not encumber him. He imagined that dawn must be getting near when a dazzling flash swept the prairie and there was a long reverberatory rumbling overhead. He was almost blinded and bewildered, doubly uncertain where he was going; and then a great stream of white fire fell from the zenith. The thunder that followed was deafening, and for the next few minutes blaze succeeded blaze, and there was a constant crashing and rumbling overhead. After that came a rush of chilly wind and the air was filled with falling water.

A hot, steamy smell rose about him; but George, who had been walking again, began to run. He must use every exertion, for if he were right in concluding that he had been detained on American soil, his pursuers would follow him north, and when daylight came a mounted man's view would command a wide sweep of level prairie. The storm passed away, muttering, into the distance; the rain ceased, and the air was fresh and cool until the sun sprang up. It was on his right hand, he thought he had kept his line; but he stopped to consider on the edge of a ravine. The sides of the hollow were clothed with tall, wet grass and brush; it would offer good cover, but he could hardly avoid leaving a track if he followed it, and his pursuers would search such spots. It seemed wiser to push on across the plain.

Descending through the thinnest brush he could find, he stopped for a drink from the creek at the bottom, and then went on as fast as possible. He was becoming conscious of a pain in his left side; one foot felt sore; and as the sun got hotter a longing to lie down a while grew steadily stronger. Still, he could see nothing but short, gray grass ahead; he must hold on; there might be bluffs or broken country beyond the skyline.

At length a small square block cut against the dazzling brightness and slowly grew into a lonely homestead. After some consideration, George headed for it, and toward noon reached a little, birch-log dwelling, with a sod stable beside it. Both had an uncared-for appearance, which suggested their owner's poverty. As George approached the door, a gaunt, hard-faced man in dilapidated overalls came out and gazed at him in surprise. George's clothing, which had been torn when he was seized in the bluff, had further suffered during the deluge. He looked a weary, ragged outcast.

"Can you give me something to eat and hire me a horse?" he asked.

The farmer seemed suspicious.

"Guess I want my horses for the binder; I'm harvesting oats."

"I'll pay you well for the time you lose," George broke out.

"How much?"

Thrusting his hand into his pocket, George found with dismay that his wallet, which contained some bills, was missing.

"Anything you ask in reason, but you'll have to take a check on a Brandon bank. Have you got a pen and paper in the house?"

"How am I to know your check's good?" The farmer laughed ironically.

George was doubtful of the man, but he must take a risk.

"My name's Lansing, from the Marston homestead, beyond Sage Butte. It's a pretty big place; any check I give you will be honored."

The farmer looked at him with growing interest.

"Well," he said, "you can't have my horse."

It was evident from his manner that reasoning would be useless.

"How does Sage Butte lie from here?" George asked him.

"Can't tell you; I've never been in the place."

George realized that he had blundered, both in calling at the homestead and in mentioning his name, which had figured in the newspaper account of the attack on Grant. The farmer, it seemed, had a good idea of the situation, and if not in league with the rustlers, was afraid of them. George was wasting time and giving information that might put his pursuers on his trail. In the meanwhile he noticed a face at the window and a voice called to the man, who stepped back into the house and appeared again with a big slab of cold pie.

"Take this and light out," he said.

Having eaten nothing since his supper, George was glad of the food; but he walked on smartly for an hour before he sat down in a clump of brush and made a meal. Then he lighted his pipe and spent a couple of hours in much needed rest. Haste was highly desirable; he had no doubt that he was being followed, but he could go no farther for a while.

It was very hot when he got up; he was sore all over, and his foot was paining, but he set off at a run and kept it up until he had crossed a rise two miles away. The country was getting more broken, which was in his favor, because the clumps of bush and the small elevations would tend to hide him. He went on until dusk, without finding any water; and then lay down among some tall grass in the open. There was a little bluff not far off, but if the rustlers came that way, he thought they would search it. It grew cold as darkness crept down; indeed he imagined that the temperature had fallen to near freezing-point, as it sometimes does on the plains after a scorching day.

Part of the night he lay awake, shivering; but during the rest he slept; and he rose at dawn, very cold and wet with dew. His foot was very sore, and he had a sharp pain in his side. For the first hour, walking cost him an effort; but as he grew warmer it became less difficult, and his foot felt easier. Then, as he crossed a slight elevation, he saw a faint gray smear on the far horizon and it sent a thrill through him. Canadian locomotives burning native coal pour out clouds of thick black smoke which can be seen a long way in the clear air of the prairie. George was thirty or forty feet, he thought, above the general level of the plain, the light was strong, and he imagined that it would take him most of the day to reach the spot over which the smoke had floated. He was, however, heading for the track, and he gathered his courage.

He saw no more smoke for a long time—the increasing brightness seemed to diminish the clarity of the air. Before noon the pain in his side had become almost insupportable, and his head was swimming; he felt worn out, scarcely able to keep on his feet, but again a gray streak on the horizon put heart into him. It did not appear to move for a while, and he thought it must have been made by a freight-engine working about a station. Then, as he came down the gradual slope of a wide depression, a long bluff on its opposite verge cut the skyline, a hazy smear of neutral color. He determined to reach the wood and lie down for a time in its shadow.

It scarcely seemed to grow any nearer, and an hour had passed before it assumed any regularity of outline. When it had grown into shape, George stopped and looked about. It was fiercely hot, the grass was dazzlingly bright, there was no house or sign of cultivation as far as his sight ranged; but on glancing back he started as he saw three small mounted figures on the plain. They had not been there when he last turned around, and they were moving, spread out about a mile apart. It was obvious that the rustlers were on his trail. For another moment he looked at the bluff, breathing hard, with his lips tight set. If he could reach the wood before he was overtaken, it would offer him cover from a bullet, and if he could not evade his enemies, he might make a stand with the ax among the thicker trees. It was an irrational idea, as he half recognized; but he had grown savage with fatigue, and he had already suffered as much as he was capable of bearing at the hands of the cattle thieves. Now he meant to turn on them; but he would be at their mercy in the open.

His weariness seemed to fall away from him to give place to grim fury as he broke into a run, and he did not look back for a while. When he did so, the figures had grown larger; one could see that they were moving swiftly; and the bluff was still far away. George believed that he had been noticed and he strove to quicken his pace. The beat of hoofs was in his ears when he next looked around; the three horsemen were converging, growing more distinct; and the bluff was still a mile ahead. He was stumbling and reeling, his hat fell off, and he dared not stop to pick it up.

A mile was covered; he would not look back again, though the thud of hoofs had swelled into a sharp staccato drumming. With face fiercely set and the perspiration dripping from him, he held on, scorched and partly dazzled by the glare. The wood was getting closer; he thought it was scarcely a quarter of a mile off. His heart throbbed madly, the pain in his side had grown excruciating; but somehow he must keep going. His eyes smarted with the moisture that ran into them, his lips and mouth were salty; he was suffering torment; but he kept on his feet.

At length, when the trees were close ahead, a faint smudge of smoke appeared on the edge of them; there was a report like a whipcrack, and he stopped in despair. His last refuge was held against him. Then, as he turned in savage desperation to meet the rustlers' onslaught with the ax, he saw there were only two horsemen, who pulled up suddenly, about sixty yards away. The third was not visible, but his horse, which had fallen, was struggling in the grass. As the meaning of this dawned on George he broke in a wild, breathless yell of exultation; there was another crack behind him, and the two horsemen wheeled. They were not too soon, for a mounted man in khaki with something that flashed across his saddle was riding hard from behind the bluff to cut them off. Another appeared, going at a furious gallop, and George stood watching while the four figures grew smaller upon the prairie.

Turning at a shout he saw Flett and Edgar walking toward him, and he went with them to the fallen horse. A man lay, gray in face, among the grass, held down by the body of the animal which partly rested upon him.

"Get me out," he begged hoarsely. "Leg's broke."

George felt incapable of helping. He sat down while the other two extricated the man; then Flett placed his carbine against the horse's head, and after the report it ceased its struggling.

"She came down on me sudden; couldn't get my foot clear in time," the rustler explained.

"You had to be stopped. I sighted at a hundred; a quick shot," Flett remarked. "Is there anything else the matter except your leg?"

"I guess it's enough," said the helpless man.

Flett turned to George.

"Walk into the bluff and you'll strike our camp. West must stay with me until we put on some fixing that will hold this fellow's leg together."

George did as he was bidden, and sat down again limply when he reached an opening in the wood where a pile of branches, with a kettle suspended over them, had been laid ready for lighting. Presently the others rejoined him.

"The fellow can't be moved until we get a wagon," said Flett. "We've been looking for you all over the country, but it was quite a while before we got a hint that sent us down this way. We had stopped in the bluff when we saw a fellow running with three mounted men after him, and we lay close, expecting to get the bunch. It's unfortunate they got too near you and I had to shoot, but I guess the boys will bring them back."

Edgar looked at his comrade reproachfully.

"If you could only have sprinted a little and kept ahead, we would either have outflanked them or have had the finest imaginable ride with every chance of running the fellows down. As things turned out, I couldn't go off with the troopers until I found that you had got through unhurt."

"I'm sorry," George told him, with a little dry laugh. "But I don't think I spared any effort during the last quarter of a mile."

Then he related his adventures, and answered a number of questions.

"You'll take my horse," said Flett, "and start for the railroad as soon as you feel able. Get on to Regina by the first train; judging by the last wire I got, you'll still be in time. West had better go with you to the station, and he can send a wagon for the man who's hurt. Now I guess we'll get you something to eat."

"I shouldn't mind," said George. "It's twenty-four hours since my last meal, and that one was remarkably small."

He drank a canful of cold tea, and then went suddenly to sleep while the others lighted the fire.



CHAPTER XXXI

THE REACTION

The trial at Regina proved sensational. Crimes attended with violence were not unknown in the vicinity, and cattle were now and then stolen in the neighboring province of Alberta; but that such things as the prosecutor's tale revealed should happen aroused wide-spread astonishment and virtuous indignation. Nevertheless, they were proved, for Flett had procured a number of witnesses and, what was more, had secured their attendance.

In addition to this, other offenses were hinted at; the doings of an organized gang of desperadoes and their accomplices were detailed, and facts were brought to light which made the withdrawal of the Sachem license inevitable. The defense took strong exception to this mode of procedure, pointing out that the court was only concerned with a specified offense, and that it was not permissible to drag in extraneous and largely supposititious matter. During the sweltering days the trial lasted, there were brisk encounters between the lawyers, and several points the prosecution sought to prove were ruled irrelevant. As a climax, came George's story, which caused a sensation, though the close-packed assembly felt that he scarcely did justice to his theme.

In concluding, the Crown prosecutor pointed out how rapidly the outbreaks of turbulent lawlessness had spread. They were all, he contended, connected with and leading up to the last outrage, of which the men before him were accused. It was obvious that this unruliness must be sternly stamped out before it spread farther, and if the court agreed with him that the charge was fully proved, he must press for a drastic and deterrent penalty.

The odds were heavily against the defense from the beginning. The credibility of Flett's witnesses could not be assailed, and cross-examination only threw a more favorable light upon their character. Inside the court, and out of it as the newspapers circulated, Grant stood revealed as a fearless citizen, with a stern sense of his duty to the community; George, somewhat to his annoyance, as a more romantic personage of the same description, and Hardie, who had been brought in to prove certain points against which the defense protested, as one who had fought and suffered in a righteous cause.

In the end, the three prisoners were convicted, and when the court broke up the police applied for several fresh warrants, which were issued.

As George was walking toward his hotel, he met Flett, to whom he had not spoken since they separated in the bluff.

"I was waiting for you," said the constable. "I'm sorry we'll have to call you up again as soon as the rustler's leg is better. He's in the guard-room, and the boys got one of the other fellows; but we can talk about it on the train. I'm going back to my post."

George arranged to meet him, and they were sitting in a roomy smoking compartment as the big express sped across wide gray levels and past vast stretches of ripening grain, when the next allusion was made to the matter.

"I suppose you'll be sergeant shortly," George remarked.

"Corporal comes first," said Flett. "They stick to the regular rotation."

"That's true, but they seem to use some discretion in exceptional cases. I hardly think you'll remain a corporal."

Flett's eyes twinkled.

"I did get something that sounded like a hint. I'll confess that I felt like whooping after it."

"You have deserved all you'll get," George declared.

They spent the night at a junction, where Flett had some business, and it was the next evening when the local train ran into Sage Butte. The platform was crowded and as George and Flett alighted, there was a cheer and, somewhat to their astonishment, the reeve of the town advanced to meet them.

"I'm here to welcome you in the name of the citizens of the Butte," he said. "We have to request the favor of your company at supper at the Queen's."

"It's an honor," George responded. "I'm sensible of it; but, you see, I'm in a hurry to get back to work and I wired for a team. My harvest should have been started a week ago."

"Don't you worry 'bout that," said the reeve. "It wasn't our wish that you should suffer through discharging your duty, and we made a few arrangements. Four binders have been working steady in your oats, and if you don't like the way we have fixed things, you can alter them to-morrow."

Then West touched George's arm.

"You'll have to come. They've got two other victims—Hardie and Grant—and the supper's ready."

The reeve looked at him in stern rebuke.

"That isn't the way to speak of this function, Percy. If you feel like a victim, you can drop right out."

George was touched by the man's intimation. He expressed his satisfaction, and the whole assembly escorted him to the hotel. There he and Grant and Hardie were seated at the top of a long table near the reeve, who made a short opening speech.

"Business first, and then the supper, boys," he said. "Corporal Flett can't come; his bosses wouldn't approve of it; but I'll see it put in the Sentinel that he was asked, and we won't mind if that has some effect on them. There's another thing—out of deference to Mr. Hardie and the change in opinion he has ably led—you'll only get tea and coffee at this entertainment. Those who haven't signed his book, must hold out until it's over."

An excellent meal had been finished when he got up again, with three illuminated strips of parchment in his hand.

"I'll be brief, but there's something to be said. Our guests have set us an example which won't be lost. They saw the danger of letting things drift; one of them warned us plainly, although to do so needed grit, and some of us rounded on him, and if the others didn't talk, it was because that wasn't their end of the job. They knew their duty to the country and they did it, though it cost them something. We owe it to them that the police have smashed the rustler gang, and that from now on no small homesteader can be bluffed or tempted into doing what's sure to bring him into trouble, and no man with a big farm need fear to let his cattle run. What's more, instead of a haunt of toughs and hobos, we're going to have a quiet and prosperous town. I'm now proud that it's my duty to hand our guests the assurance of our grateful appreciation. Corporal Flett's will be sent on to him."

He handed them the parchments, and George felt inclined to blush as he glanced at the decorated words of eulogy; while a half-ironical twinkle crept into Grant's eyes. Then Hardie rose to reply, and faltered once or twice with a sob of emotion in his voice, for the testimonial had a deeper significance to him than it had to the others. His audience, however, encouraged him, and there was a roar of applause when he sat down. Soon after that the gathering broke up.

George went to the parlor, which served as writing-room, and found Flora there. She smiled as she noticed the end of the parchment sticking out of his pocket.

"I dare say you're relieved that the ceremony's over," she said.

"It was a little trying," George confessed. "I was badly afraid I'd have to make a speech, but luckily we had Hardie, who was equal to the task."

"After all, you needn't be ashamed of the testimonial. I really think you deserved it, and I suppose I must congratulate you on the fortunate end of your dramatic adventures."

George stood looking at her. He was somewhat puzzled, for there was a hint of light mockery in her voice.

"I'll excuse you if you feel that it requires an effort," he said.

"Oh, you have had so much applause that mine can hardly count."

"You ought to know that it's my friends' good opinion I really value."

Flora changed the subject.

"You will be driving out in the morning?"

"I'm starting as soon as Edgar has the team ready. There's a good moon and I must get to work the first thing to-morrow."

The girl's face hardened.

"You seem desperately anxious about your crop."

"I think that's natural. There's a good deal to be done and I've lost some time. I came in to write a note before I see what Edgar's doing."

"Then I mustn't disturb you, and it's time I went over to Mrs. Nelson's—she expects me to stay the night. I was merely waiting for a word with my father." She stopped George, who had meant to accompany her. "No, you needn't come—it's only a few blocks away. Get your note written."

Seeing that she did not desire his escort, George let her go; but he frowned as he sat down and took out some paper. Soon afterward Edgar came in, and they drove off in a few more minutes.

"Did you see Miss Grant?" Edgar asked when they were jolting down the rutted trail.

"I did," George said shortly.

"You seem disturbed about it."

"I was a little perplexed," George owned. "There was something that struck me as different in her manner. It may have been imagination, but I felt she wasn't exactly pleased with me. I can't understand how I have offended her."

"No," said Edgar. "It would have been remarkable if you had done so. I suppose you told her you couldn't rest until you got to work at the harvest?"

"I believe I said something of the kind. What has that to do with it?"

"It isn't very obvious. Perhaps she felt tired or moody; it has been a blazing hot day. There's every sign of its being the same to-morrow. I suppose you'll make a start after breakfast?"

"I'll make a start as soon as it's daylight," George told him.

He kept his word, and for the next few weeks toiled with determined energy among the tall white oats and the coppery ears of wheat. It was fiercely hot, but from sunrise until the light failed, the plodding teams and clinking binders moved round the lessening squares of grain, and ranks of splendid sheaves lengthened fast behind them. The nights were getting sharp, the dawns were cold and clear, and George rose each morning, aching in every limb, but with a keen sense of satisfaction. Each day's work added to the store of money he would shortly hand to Sylvia. He saw little of Flora, but when they met by chance, as happened once or twice, he was still conscious of something subtly unfamiliar in her manner. He felt they were no longer on the old confidential footing; a stronger barrier of reserve had risen between them.

Before the last sheaves were stacked, the days were growing cool. The fresh western breezes had died away, and a faint ethereal haze and a deep stillness had fallen upon the prairie. It was rudely broken when the thrashers arrived and from early morning the clatter of the engine filled the air with sound. Loaded wagons crashed through the stubble, the voices of dusty men mingled with the rustle of the sheaves, and a long trail of sooty smoke stained the soft blue of the sky.

This work was finished in turn, and day by day the wagons, loaded high with bags of grain, rolled slowly across the broad white levels toward the elevators. Many a tense effort was needed to get them to their destination, for the trails were dry and loose; but markets were strong, and George had decided to haul in all the big crop. Sometimes, though the nights were frosty, he slept beside his jaded team in the shelter of a bluff; sometimes he spent a day he grudged laying straw on a road; rest for more than three or four hours was unknown to him, and meals were snatched at irregular intervals when matters of more importance were less pressing. For all that, he was uniformly cheerful; the work brought him the greatest pleasure he had known, and he had grown fond of the wide, open land, in which he had once looked forward to dwelling with misgivings. The freedom of its vast spaces, its clear air and its bright sunshine, appealed to him, and he began to realize that he would be sorry to leave it, which he must shortly do. Sylvia, it was a pity, could not live in western Canada.

At length, on a frosty evening, he saw the last load vanish into the dusty elevator, and a curious feeling of regret crept over him. It was very doubtful if he would haul in another harvest, and he wondered whether the time would now and then hang heavily on his hands in England. There was a roar of machinery above him in the tail building that cut sharply against the sky; below, long rows of wagons stood waiting their turn, and the voices of the teamsters, bantering one another, struck cheerfully on his ears. Side-track and little station were bathed in dazzling electric glare, two locomotives were pushing in wheat cars, and lights had begun to glimmer in the wooden houses of the Butte, though all round there was the vast sweep of prairie.

There was a touch of rawness in the picture, a hint of incompleteness, with a promise of much to come. Sage Butte was, perhaps, a trifle barbarous; but its crude frame buildings would some day give place to more imposing piles of concrete and steel. Its inhabitants were passing through a transition stage, showing signs at times of the primitive strain, but, as a rule, reaching out eagerly toward what was new and better. They would make swift progress, and even now he liked the strenuous, optimistic, and somewhat rugged life they led; he reflected that he would find things different in sheltered England.

After giving Grierson a few instructions, George turned away. His work was done; instead of driving home through the sharp cold of the night, he was to spend it comfortably at the hotel.

A week later, he and West drove over to the Grant homestead and found only its owner in the general-room. Grant listened with a rather curious expression when George told him that he was starting for England the following day; and then they quietly talked over the arrangements that had been made for carrying on the farm until Edgar's return, for George's future movements were uncertain. Edgar, however, was sensible of a constraint in the farmer's manner, which was presently felt by George, and the conversation was languishing when Flora came in. Shortly afterward George said that they must go and Flora strolled toward the fence with him while the team was being harnessed.

"So you are leaving us to-morrow and may not come back?" she said, in an indifferent tone.

"I can't tell what I shall do until I get to England."

Flora glanced at him with a composure that cost her an effort. She supposed his decision would turn upon Mrs. Marston's attitude, but she knew Sylvia well, and had a suspicion that there was a disappointment in store for Lansing. Edgar had explained that he was not rich, and he was not the kind of man Sylvia was likely to regard with favor.

"Well," she said lightly, "when I came in, you really didn't look as cheerful as one might have expected. Are you sorry you are going away?"

"It's a good deal harder than I thought. The prairie seems to have got hold of me; I have good friends here."

"Haven't you plenty in England?"

"Acquaintances; only a few friends. I can't help regretting those I must leave behind. In fact"—he spoke impulsively, expressing a thought that had haunted him—"it would be a relief if I knew I should come back again."

"After all, this is a hard country and we're a rather primitive people."

"You're reliable! Staunch friends, determined enemies; and even among the latter I found a kind of sporting feeling which made it a little easier for one to forget one's injuries." He glanced at the prairie which stretched away, white and silent, in the clear evening light. "It's irrational in a way, but I'd be glad to feel I was going to work as usual to-morrow."

"I suppose you could do so, if you really wanted to," Flora suggested.

George turned and looked fixedly at her, while a mad idea crept into his mind. She was very alluring; he thought he knew her nature, which was altogether wholesome, and it flashed upon him that many of the excellent qualities she possessed were lacking in Sylvia. Then he loyally drove out the temptation, wondering that it had assailed him, though he was still clearly conscious of his companion's attractiveness.

"No," he said in a somewhat strained voice; "I hardly think that's possible. I must go back."

Flora smiled, though it was difficult. She half believed she could shake the man's devotion to her rival, but she was too proud to try. If he came to her, he must come willingly, and not because she had exerted her utmost power to draw him.

"Well," she responded, "one could consider the reluctant way you spoke the last few words as flattering. I suppose it's a compliment to Canada?"

He failed to understand the light touch of mocking amusement in her tone; it had not dawned on him that this was her defense.

"It's a compliment to the Canadians, though my appreciation can't be worth very much. But I don't feel in a mood to joke. In fact, there's a feeling of depression abroad to-night; even your father seems affected. I'd expected a pleasant talk with him, but we were very dull."

"What made you think he was less cheerful than usual?" Flora cast a quick and rather startled glance at him.

"I don't know, but something seemed wrong. Edgar's the only one who looks undisturbed, and if he talks much going home, he'll get on my nerves."

"It's hardly fair to blame him for a depression that's your fault," said Flora. "You deserve to feel it, since you will go away."

Then Edgar came up with the wagon and George took Flora's hands.

"I shall think of you often," he told her. "It will always be with pleasure. Now and then you might, perhaps, spare a thought for me."

"I think I can promise that," Flora replied quietly.

Then he shook hands with Grant and got into the wagon. Edgar cracked the whip and the team plunged forward. With a violent jolting and a rattle of wheels they left the farm behind and drove out on to the prairie. Flora stood watching them for a while; and then walked back to the house in the gathering dusk with her face set hard and a pain at her heart.

Grant was sitting on the stoop, filling his pipe, but when she joined him he paused in his occupation and pointed toward the plain. The wagon was scarcely discernible, but a rhythmic beat of hoofs still came back through the stillness.

"I like that man, but he's a blamed fool," he remarked.

Strong bitterness was mingled with the regret in his voice, and Flora started. She was glad that the light was too dim for him to see her clearly.

"I wonder what makes you say that?"

"For one thing, he might have done well here." Flora suspected that her father was not expressing all he had meant. "He's the kind of man we want; and now he's going back to fool his life away, slouching round playing games and talking to idle people, in the old country. Guess some girl over there has got a hold on him." Then his indignation flamed out unchecked. "I never could stand those Percy women, anyway; saw a bunch of them, all dress and airs, when I was last in Winnipeg. One was standing outside a ticket-office at Portage, studying the people through an eyeglass on an ivory stick, as if they were some strange savages, and making remarks about them to her friends, though I guess there isn't a young woman in the city with nerve enough to wear the clothes she had on. It makes a sensible man mighty tired to hear those creatures talk."

Flora laughed, rather drearily, though she guessed with some uneasiness the cause of her father's outbreak. It appeared injudicious to offer him any encouragement.

"After all, one must be fair," she said. "I met some very nice people in the old country."

He turned to her abruptly.

"Do you know who has taken Lansing back?" he asked.

"I believe, from something West said, it is Mrs. Marston."

"That trash!" Grant's sharp cry expressed incredulity. "The man can't have any sense! He's going to be sorry all the time if he gets her."

Then he knocked out his pipe, as if he were too indignant to smoke, and went into the house.



CHAPTER XXXII

A REVELATION

It was a winter evening and Sylvia was standing near the hearth in Mrs. Kettering's hall, where the lamps were burning, though a little pale daylight still filtered through the drizzle outside. Sylvia was fond of warmth and brightness, but she was alone except for Ethel West, who sat writing at a table in a recess, although her hostess had other guests, including a few men who were out shooting. After a while Ethel looked up.

"Have you or Herbert heard anything from George during the last few weeks?" she asked.

Sylvia turned languidly. Her thoughts had been fixed on Captain Bland, whom she was expecting every moment. Indeed, she was anxious to get rid of Ethel before he came in.

"No," she said with indifference. "I think his last letter came a month ago. It was optimistic."

"They seem to have had a good harvest from what Edgar wrote; he hinted that he might make a trip across."

"It's rather an expensive journey."

"That wouldn't trouble Edgar, and there's a reason for the visit. He has made up his mind to start farming and wants to talk over his plans. In fact, he thinks of getting married."

Sylvia showed some interest.

"To whom? Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I only arrived this morning, and I wrote some time ago, asking if you could meet Stephen and me. You were with the Graysons then, but you didn't answer."

"I forgot; I don't always answer letters. But who is the girl? Not Miss Grant?"

"Helen Taunton. Do you know her?"

Sylvia laughed.

"The storekeeper's daughter! She's passably good-looking and her father's not badly off, but that's about all one could say for her."

"Do you know anything against the girl?"

"Oh, no!" said Sylvia languidly. "She's quite respectable—in fact, they're rather a straight-laced people; and she doesn't talk badly. For all that, I think you'll get a shock if Edgar brings her home."

"That is not George's opinion. We wrote to him."

Sylvia laughed.

"He would believe in anybody who looked innocent and pretty."

Ethel's expression hardened; Sylvia had not been considerate.

"I don't think that's true. He's generous, and though he has made mistakes, it was only because his confidence was misled with a highly finished skill. One wouldn't look for the same ability in a girl brought up in a primitive western town."

"After all," said Sylvia tranquilly, "she is a girl, and no doubt Edgar is worth powder and shot from her point of view."

"It doesn't seem to be a commercial one," Ethel retorted. "Stephen had a very straightforward letter from this storekeeper. But I'm inclined to think I had better go on with my writing."

Sylvia moved away. She had no reason for being gracious to Ethel, and she took some pleasure in irritating her.

In a few minutes Bland came in. The hall was large, and Ethel was hidden from him in the recess. He strode toward Sylvia eagerly, but she checked him with a gesture.

"You have come back early," she said. "Wasn't the sport good? What has become of Kettering and the others?"

The man looked a little surprised. This was hardly the greeting he had expected, after having been promised a quiet half-hour with Sylvia; but, looking round, he saw the skirt of Ethel's dress and understood. Had it been George she wished to warn, she would have used different means; but Bland, she was thankful, was not hypercritical.

"The sport was poor," he told her. "The pheasants aren't very strong yet, and it was hard to drive them out of the covers. As I'd only a light water-proof, I got rather wet outside the last wood and I left the others. Kettering wanted to see the keeper about to-morrow's beat, but I didn't wait."

"Since you have been in the rain all day, you had better have some tea," said Sylvia. "They'll bring it here, if you ring."

He followed her to a small table across the hall, and after a tray had been set before them they sat talking in low voices. Presently Bland laid his hand on Sylvia's arm.

"You know why I came down," he said. "I must go back to-morrow and I want the announcement made before I leave."

Sylvia blushed and lowered her eyes.

"Oh, well," she conceded, "you have really been very patient, and perhaps it would be hardly fair to make you wait any longer."

Bland took her hand and held it fast.

"You are worth waiting for! But there were times when it was very hard not to rebel. I'd have done so, only I was afraid."

"You did rebel."

"Not to much purpose. Though no one would suspect it from your looks, you're a very determined person, Sylvia. Now I don't know how to express my feelings; I want to do something dramatic, even if it's absurd, and I can't even speak aloud. Couldn't you have got rid of Miss West by some means?"

"How could I tell what you wished to say?" Sylvia asked with a shy smile. "Besides, Ethel wouldn't go. She stuck there in the most determined fashion!"

"Then we'll have to disregard her. It must be early next year, Sylvia. I'll see Lansing to-morrow."

He continued in a quietly exultant strain, and Sylvia felt relieved that her fate was decided. She had some time ago led him to believe she would marry him; but she had, with vague misgivings and prompted by half-understood reasons, put off a definite engagement. Now she had given her pledge, and though she thought of George with faint regret, she was on the whole conscious of satisfaction. Bland, she believed, had a good deal to offer her which she could not have enjoyed with his rival.

Presently a servant brought Ethel something on a salver, and a few moments later she approached the other two with a telegram in her hand.

"I thought I had better tell you, Sylvia," she explained. "Stephen has just got a letter from Edgar, written a day or two before he sailed. He should arrive on Saturday, and George is with him."

Sylvia had not expected this and she was off her guard. She started, and sat looking at Ethel incredulously, with something like consternation.

"It's quite true," said Ethel bluntly. "He'll be here in three more days."

Then Sylvia recovered her composure.

"In that case, I'll have to let Muriel know at once; he'll go straight there, and she's staying with Lucy. Perhaps I had better telegraph."

She rose and left them; and Bland sought Mrs. Kettering and acquainted her of his engagement, and begged her to make it known, which she promised to do. He failed to find Sylvia until she was coming down to dinner, when she beckoned him.

"Have you told Susan yet?" she asked.

"Yes," Bland beamed; "I told her at once. I should have liked to go about proclaiming the delightful news!"

Sylvia looked disturbed; Bland could almost have fancied she was angry. As a matter of fact, troubled thoughts were flying through her mind. It was obvious that she would shortly be called upon to face a crisis.

"After all," she said, with an air of resignation which struck him as out of place, "I suppose you had to do so; but you lost no time."

"Not a moment!" he assured her. "I felt I couldn't neglect anything that brought you nearer to me."

Then they went on, and meeting the other guests in the hall, Sylvia acknowledged the shower of congratulations with a smiling face. She escaped after dinner, however, without a sign to Bland, and did not reappear. During the evening, he found Ethel West sitting alone in a quiet nook.

"Mrs. Marston seemed a little disturbed at the news you gave her," he remarked.

"So I thought," said Ethel.

"I suppose the George you mentioned is her trustee, who went to Canada and took your brother? You once told me something about him."

"Yes," said Ethel. "You seem to have the gift of arriving at correct conclusions."

"He's an elderly man—a business man of his cousin's stamp—I presume?"

Ethel laughed.

"Oh, no; they're of very different type. I should imagine that he's younger than you are. He was at Herbert's one afternoon when you called."

"Ah!" said Bland. "I shall, no doubt, get to know him when next I come down."

Then he talked about other matters until he left her, and after a while he found Kettering alone.

"Did you ever meet George Lansing?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," said his host. "I know his cousin better."

"He has been out in Canada, hasn't he?"

"Yes; went out to look after Mrs. Marston's property. I understand he has been more or less successful."

"When did he leave England?"

Kettering told him, and Bland considered.

"So Lansing has been out, and no doubt going to a good deal of trouble, for two years," he said. "That's something beyond an ordinary executor's duty. What made him undertake it?"

Kettering smiled.

"It's an open secret—you're bound to hear it—that he had an admiration for Sylvia. Still, there's no ground for jealousy. Lansing hadn't a chance from the beginning."

Bland concealed his feelings.

"How is that? He must be an unusually good fellow if he stayed out there to look after things so long."

"For one reason, he's not Sylvia's kind. It was quite out of the question that she should ever have married him."

Feeling that he had, perhaps, said too much, Kettering began to talk of the next day's sport; and soon afterward Bland left him and went out on the terrace to smoke and ponder. Putting what he had learned together, he thought he understood the situation, and it was not a pleasant one, though he was not very indignant with Sylvia. It looked as if she made an unfair use of Lansing's regard for her, unless, in spite of Kettering's opinion, she had until lately been undecided how to choose between them. Nevertheless, Bland could not feel that he had now been rudely undeceived, for he had always recognized some of Sylvia's failings. He did not expect perfection; and he could be generous, when he had won.

He asked Sylvia no injudicious questions when they met the next morning, and during the day he called on Herbert Lansing, who was back in his office. The latter heard him explain his errand with somewhat mixed feelings, for there were certain rather troublesome facts that must be mentioned.

"Well," he said, "I have, of course, no objections to make; but, as one of her trustees, it's my duty to look after Sylvia's interests. As you know, she is not rich."

"I suppose these points must he talked over," Bland said, with indifference.

"It's usual, and in the present case, necessary. What provision are you able to make?"

Bland looked a little uncomfortable. "As a matter of fact, I'd find it difficult to make any provision. I get along fairly well, as it is, but I've only about four hundred a year besides my pay."

"How far does your pay go?" Herbert asked dryly.

"It covers my mess bills and a few expenses of that nature."

Herbert leaned back in his chair with a smile.

"Hasn't it struck you that you should have chosen a wife with money?"

"Now," said Bland rather sternly, "I don't want to lie open to any misconception, but I understood that Mrs. Marston had some means. I'm quite prepared to hear they're small."

"That's fortunate, because it may save you a shock. Sylvia owns a farm in Canada, which did not repay the cost of working it last year. During the present one there has been an improvement, and we expect a small surplus on the two years' operations. The place has been valued at—but perhaps I had better give you a few figures, showing you how matters stand."

Opening a drawer, he handed a paper to Bland, who studied it with a sense of dismay.

"I'll confess that this is an unpleasant surprise," he said at length; and then, while Herbert waited, he pulled himself together with a laugh. "After that admission, I must add that the mistake is the result of my having a sanguine imagination; Sylvia scarcely mentioned her Canadian property. Now, however, there's only one thing to be done—to face the situation as cheerfully as possible."

"It can't be an altogether attractive one." Herbert admired his courage and the attitude he had adopted.

"I shall certainly have to economize," Bland admitted; "and that is a thing I'm not accustomed to; but I may get some appointment, and by and by a small share in some family property will revert to me. Though I must go straight back to my garrison duties now, I'll come down for an hour or two and explain things to Sylvia, as soon as I can." He paused and broke into a faint smile. "I dare say the surprise will be mutual; she may have believed my means to be larger than they are."

"I should consider it very possible," replied Herbert dryly. "As I must see Sylvia, I'll give her an idea how matters stand and clear the ground for you."

Bland said that he would be glad of this; and after some further conversation he took his leave and walked to the station, disturbed in mind, but conscious of a little ironical amusement. There was no doubt that Sylvia had cleverly deluded him, but he admitted that he had done much the same thing to her. Had he realized the true state of her affairs at the beginning he would have withdrawn; but he had no thought of doing so now. It was obvious that Sylvia's principles were not very high, and he regretted it, although he could not claim much superiority in this respect. He was tolerant and, after all, she had a charm that atoned for many failings.

It was three or four days later when he arrived at Mrs. Kettering's house one evening and found Sylvia awaiting him in a room reserved for her hostess's use. She was very becomingly dressed and looked, he thought, even more attractive than usual. She submitted to his caress with an air of resignation, but he augured a good deal from the fact that she did not repulse him. As it happened, Sylvia had carefully thought over the situation.

"Sit down," she said; "I want to talk with you."

"I think I'll stand. It's more difficult to feel penitent in a comfortable position. It looks as if you had seen Herbert Lansing."

"I have." Sylvia's tone was harsh. "What have you to say for yourself?"

"Not a great deal, which is fortunate, because I haven't much time to say it in," Bland told her with a smile. "To begin with, I'll state the unflattering truth—it strikes me that, in one way, we're each as bad as the other. I suppose it's one of my privileges to mention such facts to you, though I'd never think of admitting them to anybody else."

"It's a husband's privilege," Sylvia rejoined pointedly. "Don't be premature."

"Well," said Bland, "I can only make one defense, but I think you ought to realize how strong it is. We were thrown into each other's society, and it isn't in the least surprising that I lost my head and was carried away. My power of reasoning went when I fell in love with you."

"That sounds pretty, but it's unfortunate you didn't think of me a little more," pouted Sylvia.

"Think of you?" Bland broke out. "I thought of nothing else!"

"Then it wasn't to much purpose. Don't you see what you want to bring me to? Can't you realize what I should have to give up? How could we ever manage on the little we have?"

The man frowned. He was sorry for her and somewhat ashamed, but she jarred on him in her present mood.

"I believe people who were sufficiently fond of each other have often got along pretty satisfactorily on less, even in the Service. It's a matter of keen regret to me that you will have to make a sacrifice, but things are not quite so bad as they look, and there's reason for believing they may get better. You will have as pleasant society as you enjoy now; my friends will stand by my wife." A look of pride crept into his face. "I dare say they have their failings, but they'll only expect charm from you, and you can give it to them. They won't value you by the display you make or your possessions. We're free from that taint."

"But have you considered what you must give up?"

Bland had hardly expected this, but he smiled.

"Oh, yes. I spent an evening over it and I was a little surprised to find how many things there were I could readily do without. In fact, it was a most instructive evening. The next day I wrote a bundle of letters, resigning from clubs I rarely went to, and canceling orders for odds and ends I hadn't the least real use for. But I'll confess that I've derived a good deal more pleasure from thinking of how much I shall get."

Sylvia was touched, but she did not mean to yield too readily.

"It would be dreadfully imprudent."

"Just so; one has often to take a risk. It's rather exciting to fling prudence overboard. I want to fix my whole attention on the fact that we love each other!" Bland glanced at his watch. "Now it strikes me that we have been sufficiently practical, and as I must start back to-night, I haven't much time left. Don't you think it would be a pity to waste it?"

He drew her down beside him on a lounge and Sylvia surrendered. After all, the man had made a good defense and, as far as her nature permitted, she had grown fond of him.



CHAPTER XXXIII

GEORGE MAKES UP HIS MIND

Dusk was closing in when George and Edgar alighted at a little English station. Casting an eager glance about, George was disappointed to see nobody from his cousin's house waiting to meet him. In another moment, however, he was warmly greeted by Ethel West.

"A very hearty welcome, George," she said. "You're looking very fit, but thinner than you were when you left us. Stephen's waiting outside. He told Muriel we would drive you over; Herbert's away somewhere."

"How's everybody?" George inquired.

"Sylvia looked as charming as ever when I last saw her a few days ago," Ethel answered with a smile, which George was too eager to notice was somewhat forced. "The rest of us, are much as usual. But come along; we'll send over afterward for your heavy things."

They turned toward the outlet, and found Stephen having some trouble with a horse that was startled by the roar of steam. Edgar got up in front of the high trap, George helped Ethel to the seat behind, and they set off the next moment, flying down the wet road amid a cheerful hammer of hoofs and a rattle of wheels. For the first few minutes George said little as he looked about. On one side great oaks and ashes raised their naked boughs in sharp tracery against the pale saffron glow in the western sky. Ahead, across a deep valley, which was streaked with trains of mist, wide moors and hills rolled away, gray and darkly blue. Down the long slope to the hollow ran small fields with great trees breaking the lines of hedgerows; and the brawling of a river swollen by recent rain came sharply up to him.

It was all good to look upon, a beautiful, well-cared-for land, and he felt a thrill of pride and satisfaction. This was home, and he had come back to it with his work done. A roseate future stretched away before him, its peaceful duties brightened by love, and the contrast between it and the stress and struggle of the past two years added to its charm. Still, to his astonishment, he thought of the sterner and more strenuous life he had led on the western plains with a faint, half-tender regret.

By and by Edgar's laugh rang out.

"The change in my brother is remarkable," Ethel declared. "It was a very happy thought that made us let him go with you."

"I'm not responsible," George rejoined. "You have the country to thank. In some way, it's a hard land; but it's a good one."

"Perhaps something is due to Miss Taunton's influence."

Edgar leaned over the back of the seat.

"That," he said, "is a subject of which I've a monopoly; and I've volumes to say upon it as soon as there's a chance of doing it justice. George, I hear that Singleton, who told us about the wheat, is home on a visit. Stephen has asked him over; you must meet him."

George said he would be glad to do so, and turned to Ethel when Edgar resumed his conversation with his brother.

"I wired Herbert to have everything ready at my place, though I shall spend the night at Brantholme."

"The Lodge is let. Didn't you know?"

"I understood that the man's tenancy ran out a few weeks ago."

"He renewed it. Herbert didn't know you were coming over; the terms were good."

"Then I'm homeless for a time."

"Oh, no!" said Ethel. "Stephen wanted me to insist on your coming with us now, but I know you will want to see Muriel and have a talk with her. However, we'll expect you to come and take up your quarters with us to-morrow."

George looked at her in some surprise.

"I'd be delighted, but Herbert will expect me to stay with him, and, of course—"

"Sylvia hadn't arrived this afternoon; she was at Mrs. Kettering's," Ethel told him. "But remember that you must stay with us until you make your arrangements. We should find it hard to forgive you if you went to anybody else."

"I wouldn't think of it, only that Herbert's the obvious person to entertain me," George replied, though he was a little puzzled by the insistence, and Ethel abruptly began to talk of something else.

Darkness came, but there were gleams of cheerful light from roadside cottages, and George found the fresh moist air and the shadowy woods they skirted pleasantly familiar. This was the quiet English countryside he loved, and a sense of deep and tranquil content possessed him. He failed to notice that Ethel cleverly avoided answering some of his questions and talked rather more than usual about matters of small importance. At length they reached the Brantholme gates, and Stephen looked down as George alighted.

"We'll expect you over shortly; I'll send for your baggage," he said as he drove off.

George, to his keen disappointment, found only Mrs. Lansing waiting for him in the hall, though she received him very cordially,

"Herbert had to go up to London; he didn't get your wire in time to put off the journey," she explained. "I'm sorry he can't be back for a few days."

"It doesn't matter; he has to attend to his business," George rejoined. "But where's Sylvia?"

"She hasn't come back from Susan's," said Mrs. Lansing, quickly changing the subject and explaining why Herbert had re-let the Lodge. After that, she asked George questions until she sent him off to prepare for dinner.

George was perplexed as well as disappointed. Neither Ethel nor Muriel seemed inclined to speak about Sylvia—it looked as if they had some reason for avoiding any reference to her; but he assured himself that this was imagination, and during dinner he confined his inquiries to other friends. When it was over and Muriel led him into the drawing-room, his uneasiness grew more keen.

"Herbert thought you would like to know as soon as possible how things were going," Muriel said, as she took a big envelope from a drawer and gave it to him.

"He told me this was a rough statement of your business affairs."

"Thanks," said George, thrusting it carelessly into his pocket. "I must study it sometime. But I've been looking forward all day to meeting Sylvia. Wouldn't Susan let her come?"

Mrs. Lansing hesitated, and then, leaning forward, laid her hand on his arm.

"I've kept it back a little, George; but you must be told. I'm afraid it will be a shock—-Sylvia is to marry Captain Bland in the next few weeks."

George rose and turned rather gray in the face, as he leaned on the back of a chair.

"I suppose," he said hoarsely, "there's no doubt of this?"

"It's all arranged." Mrs. Lansing made a compassionate gesture. "I can't tell you how sorry I am, or how hateful it was to have to give you such news."

"I can understand why Sylvia preferred to leave it to you," he said slowly. "How long has this matter been going on?"

Mrs. Lansing's eyes sparkled with anger.

"I believe it began soon after you left. I don't know whether Sylvia expects me to make excuses for her, but I won't do anything of the kind; there are none that could be made. She has behaved shamefully!"

"One must be just," George said with an effort. "After all, she promised me nothing."

"Perhaps not in so many words. But she knew what you expected, and I have no doubt she led you to believe—"

George raised his hand.

"I think there's nothing to be said—the thing must be faced somehow. I feel rather badly hit; you won't mind if I go out and walk about a little?"

Mrs. Lansing was glad to let him go; the sight of his hard-set face hurt her. In another minute he was walking up and down the terrace, but he stopped presently and leaned on the low wall. Hitherto he had believed in Sylvia with an unshaken faith, but now a flood of suspicion poured in on him; above all, there was the telling fact that as soon as he had gone, she had begun to lead on his rival. The shock he had suffered had brought George illumination. Sylvia could never have had an atom of affection for him; she had merely made his loyalty serve her turn. She had done so even before she married Dick Marston; though he had somehow retained his confidence in her then. He had been a fool from the beginning!

The intense bitterness of which he was conscious was wholly new to him, but it was comprehensible. Just in all his dealings, he expected honesty from others, and, though generous in many ways, he had not Bland's tolerant nature; he looked for more than the latter and had less charity. There was a vein of hardness in the man who had loved Sylvia largely because he believed in her. Trickery and falseness were abhorrent to him, and now the woman he had worshiped stood revealed in her deterrent reality.

After a while he pulled himself together, and, going back to the house, entered Herbert's library where, less because of his interest in the matter than as a relief from painful thoughts, he opened the envelope given him and took out the statement. For a few moments the figures puzzled him, and then he broke into a bitter laugh. The money that he had entrusted to his cousin's care had melted away.

During the next two or three minutes he leaned back, motionless, in his chair; then he took up a pencil and lighted a cigar. Since he was ruined, he might as well ascertain how it had happened, and two facts became obvious from his study of the document: Herbert had sold sound securities, and had mortgaged land; and then placed the proceeds in rubber shares. This was perhaps permissible, but it did not explain what had induced an astute business man to hold the shares until they had fallen to their remarkably low value. There was a mystery here, and George in his present mood was keenly suspicious. He had no doubt that Herbert had left the statement because it would save him the unpleasantness of giving a personal explanation; moreover, George believed that he had left home with that purpose. Then he made a few rough calculations, which seemed to prove that enough remained to buy and stock a farm in western Canada. This was something, though it did not strike him as a matter of much consequence, and he listlessly smoked out his cigar. Then he rose and rejoined Mrs. Lansing.

"If you don't mind, I'll go over to Wests' to-morrow," he said. "They pressed me to spend some time with them, and there are arrangements to be made on which they want my opinion. Edgar is taking up land in Canada."

Mrs. Lansing looked troubled.

"Was there anything disturbing in the paper Herbert gave me for you? He doesn't tell me much about his business, but I gathered that he was vexed about some shares he bought on your account. I should be sorry if they have gone down."

"You would hardly understand; the thing's a little complicated," George said with reassuring gentleness. "I'm afraid I have lost some money; but, after all, it isn't my worst misfortune. I'll have a talk with Herbert as soon as he comes home."

He left Brantholme the next morning and was received by Ethel when he arrived at Wests'.

"We have been expecting you," she said cordially.

"Then you know?"

"Yes. I'm very sorry; but I suppose it will hardly bear talking about. Stephen is waiting for you; he's taking a day off and Edgar's friend, Singleton, arrives to-night."

Singleton duly made his appearance, but he was not present when George and Stephen West sat down for a talk after dinner in the latter's smoking-room. Presently George took out the statement and handed it to his host.

"I want advice badly and I can't go to an outsider for it," he said. "I feel quite safe in confiding in you."

West studied the document for a while before he looked up.

"The main point to be decided is—whether you should sell these shares at once for what they will bring, or wait a little? With your permission, we'll ask Singleton; he knows more about the matter than anybody else."

Singleton came in and lighted a cigar, and then listened carefully, with a curious little smile, while West supplied a few explanations.

"Hold on to these shares, even if you have to make a sacrifice to do so," he advised.

"But they seem to be almost worthless," George objected.

"Perhaps I had better go into the matter fully," said Singleton. "I'll do so on the understanding that what I'm about to tell you reaches nobody else."

George looked at West, who nodded.

"Well," explained Singleton, "I've come over on a flying visit about this rubber business. The original company—the one in which you hold shares—was got up mainly with the idea of profiting by the rather reckless general buying of such stock. Its tropical possessions were badly managed, though a little good rubber was shipped, and when prices reached their highest point Mr. Lansing sold out."

"If he had sold my shares at the same time, there should have been a satisfactory margin?"

"Undoubtedly. Extensive selling, however, shakes the confidence of speculators, and a man desirous of unloading would accordingly prefer everybody else to hold on."

"I think I am beginning to understand now," George said grimly.

"Then," Singleton went on, "a new company was projected by the promoters of the first one, and I was sent out to report on its prospects. At the last moment Mr. Lansing withdrew, but his associates sent me south again. The slump he had foreseen came; nobody wanted rubber shares in any but firmly established and prosperous companies. Lansing had cleared out in time and left his colleagues to face a crushing loss."

"I don't see how all this bears upon the subject," George interrupted.

"Wait. You may be thankful Lansing didn't sell your shares. I found that the company could be placed upon a paying basis, and, what is more, that the older one possessed resources its promoters had never suspected. In fact, I discovered how its output could be greatly increased at an insignificant cost. I came home at once with a scheme which has been adopted, and I've every reason to believe that there will be marked rise in the shares before long. Anyway, there's no doubt that the company will be able to place high-class rubber on the market at a cost which will leave a very satisfactory margin."

George was conscious of strong relief. It looked as if his loss would be small, and there was a chance of his stock becoming valuable; but another thought struck him.

"When was it that Herbert sold his shares?"

"At the beginning of last winter."

"Shortly before we mentioned that you might come home," West interposed pointedly.

This confirmed George's suspicions; he could readily understand Herbert's preferring that he should stay away, but he remembered that it was Sylvia's letter which had decided him to remain in Canada. In the statement left him, he had been charged with half of certain loans Herbert had made to her, and he wondered whether this pointed to some collusion between them. He thought it by no means improbable.

"I understand that Herbert knows nothing about these new developments, and has no idea that the future of the two undertakings is promising?" he said.

Singleton laughed.

"Not the slightest notion. If he suspected it, there would be nothing to prevent his buying shares; nothing will transpire until the shareholders' meeting, which will not be held for some time. Lansing retired and sold out, because he was convinced that both companies were worthless." He paused and added dryly: "I can't see why we should enlighten him."

"Nor can I," responded George; and West nodded.

"Then," said Singleton, "when Lansing learns the truth, it will be too late for him to profit by the knowledge. I believe he has thrown away the best chance he ever had."

Shortly afterward Edgar came in and they talked of something else; but two days later Herbert returned and George went over to Brantholme. He was shown into the library where Herbert was sitting, and the latter was on his guard when he saw his cousin's face. He greeted him affably, however, and made a few inquiries about his farming.

George stood looking at him with a fixed expression.

"I think," he said shortly, "we had better talk business."

"Oh, well," replied Herbert. "I suppose you have studied my statement. I needn't say that I regret the way matters have turned out; but one can't foresee every turn of the market, or avoid a miscalculation now and then. It would hurt me if I thought this thing had anything to do with your going to Stephen's."

"We won't discuss that. I gave you authority to look after my affairs; I want it back."

Herbert took a document from a drawer and laid it on the table.

"Here it is. But won't you let me try to straighten matters out?"

"Can they be straightened out?"

"Well," said Herbert with some embarrassment, "I'm afraid there's a serious loss, but it would be wiser to face it and sell off the shares."

"I can do what seems most desirable without any further assistance."

George leaned forward and, as he picked up the document, a flush crept into his cousin's face.

"I hardly expected you would take this line. Do you think it's right to blame me because I couldn't anticipate the fall in value?"

"It strikes me that the situation is one that had better not be discussed between us," George rejoined, with marked coldness. "Besides, my opinion won't count for much in face of the very satisfactory financial results you have secured. I'm sorry for what has happened, on Muriel's account."

He turned and went out; and met Ethel on reaching West's house.

"I must try to arrange for an interview with Sylvia and Captain Bland," he told her. "There are matters that should be explained to them."

"Won't it be painful?"

"That can't be allowed to count."

"After all," said Ethel thoughtfully, "it's no doubt the proper course."

A week later he visited Mrs. Kettering's, and was shown into a room where Sylvia awaited him alone. After the first glance at him, she turned her eyes away.

"George," she said, "I'm afraid I've behaved badly. Can you forgive me?"

"I think so," he answered with a forced smile. "Anyway, I'll try, and I'd like you to be happy. But it wouldn't be flattering if I pretended that I wasn't hurt."

"Ah," she exclaimed, "you were always so generous!"

He stood silent a moment or two looking at her.

She had cunningly tricked him and killed his love; but she was very attractive with her pretty, helpless air. He knew this was false, but there was no profit in bitterness; he would not cause her pain.

"It's more to the purpose that I'm hard, which is fortunate in several ways. But I came to talk about the farm; that is why I suggested that Captain Bland should be present."

"The farm?" Sylvia regarded him with a trace of mockery. "That you should think of it is so characteristic of you!"

George smiled.

"I can't help my matter-of-fact nature, and I've found it serviceable. Anyway, the farm must be thought of." He laid a hand gently on her shoulder. "Sylvia, I'm told that Bland isn't rich. If he loves you, take him fully into your confidence."

She blushed, which he had scarcely expected.

"I have done so—at least, I allowed Herbert to explain—there is nothing hidden." Then her tone changed to one of light raillery. "You were always an extremist, George; you can't hit the happy medium. Once you believed I was everything that was most admirable, and now—"

"I think you have done right and wisely in letting Bland know how things stand. It was only my interest in your future that warranted what I said."

"Well," she replied, "we will go up and talk to him; he's waiting. You can give your account to him."

George followed her, but for a while he was conscious of a certain restraint, which he fancied was shared by Bland. It was difficult to talk about indifferent subjects, and he took out some papers.

"I came to explain the state of Sylvia's Canadian affairs; she wished you to know," he said. "If you will give me a few minutes, I'll try to make things clear."

Bland listened gravely, and then made a sign of satisfaction.

"It's obvious that Sylvia placed her property in most capable hands. We can only give you our sincere thanks."

THE END