"I understand Bob told you I would come," he said. "You see, he is a friend of mine."

"Yes," she replied with a faint sparkle in her eyes. "He hinted that you would explain matters. I think he meant you would make some defense for him."

Festing noted that her voice was low like her mother's, but it had a firmer note. He could be frank with her, but there was a risk that he might say too much.

"Well," he said, "I may make mistakes. In fact, it was with much reluctance I promised to come, and if Bob hadn't insisted——" He paused and pulled himself together. "On the surface, of course, his conduct looks inexcusable, but he really has some defense, and I think you ought to hear it, for your own sake."

"Perhaps I ought," she agreed quietly. "Well, I am willing."

Festing began by relating Charnock's troubles. He meant her to understand the situation and supplied rather confusing particulars about prairie farming and mortgages. For all that, the line he took was strong; he showed how Charnock's embarrassments prevented his offering her comforts she would find needful and saving her from the monotonous toil an impoverished farmer's wife must undertake. In the meantime, but unconsciously, he threw some light on Charnock's vacillating character.

When he stopped Helen mused for a few minutes. Although she had got a shock when Charnock gave her up, she knew her lover better than when she had promised to marry him. He came home once in the winter and she had remarked a change. Bob was not altogether the man she had thought; there were things that jarred, and his letters gradually made this plainer. Still she had meant to keep her promise, and his withdrawal hurt. She had borne something for his sake, because her mother and her relations had not approved the engagement. Then she roused herself and turned to Festing.

"You have done your best for your friend and Bob ought to be grateful, but you both start from a wrong point. Why do you take it for granted that I would shrink from hardship?"

"I didn't imagine you would shrink," Festing declared. "For all that, Bob was right. The life is too hard for a girl brought up like you." He hesitated a moment. "I mean for a girl brought up in your surroundings."

Helen smiled and he knew it was a sign of courage, but had a vague feeling that he understood why she did so as he looked about. The sighing in the beech tops had died away and the shadows did not move upon the lawn. A heavy smell of flowers came from the borders and the house seemed to be sleeping in the hot sunshine. Everything was beautiful, well-ordered, and tranquil, but he knew if he stayed there long he would hear the cry of the black geese and the clang of flung-down rails ring through the soporific calm. Something in the girl's face indicated that she might find the calm oppressive and sympathize with him.

"What is Bob going to do now he has lost his farm?" she asked after a time.

"In one respect, he won't be much worse off. They expect a boom at the settlement, and he'll manage the hotel and store and poolroom for Keller. The old man will probably retire soon and Bob will get the business."

"But why should the proprietor give the business to Bob?"

"He's Sadie's father," Festing answered with some surprise.

"But who is Sadie?"

Festing looked up sharply and saw that Helen was puzzled and suspicious. Her eyes were harder and her mouth was set.

"Ah!" he said. "Don't you know?"

A wave of color flushed Helen's face, but her voice was level. "I don't know! It looks as if Bob had not told me the most important thing. Do you mean that he is going to marry Miss Keller?"

Festing felt pitiful. He saw that she had got a shock, but she bore it pluckily, and he tried to conquer his indignant rage. Charnock had let him believe he had told her; he ought to have realized that the fellow could not act straight.

"I thought you knew," he stammered.

"That's obvious," Helen replied with an effort for calm. "But tell me something about Miss Keller."

"Sadie runs the hotel and helps at the store. She's rather pretty and intelligent. In fact, she's generally capable and a good manager."

"You seem to know her well since you call her Sadie."

"Oh," said Festing, "everybody calls her Sadie!"

"You mean in the bar and poolroom? I understand the latter's a public billiard-saloon!"

Festing felt that he must do Sadie justice. She had her virtues, and although he was very angry with Charnock he did not want Helen to think the fellow had given her up for a worthless rival. Still he was not sure if his putting the girl in a favorable light would soften the blow or not.

"To begin with, they don't employ women in a Canadian bar. Then Sadie's quite a good sort and understands Bob—perhaps better than an English girl could. She was brought up on the plains and knows all about the life we lead."

"You imply that she is not fastidious, and will be lenient to her husband's faults? That she will bring him down to her level?"

"Well," said Festing, who thought Helen did not know Charnock's dissipated habits, "I imagine she'll keep him there, and that's something. I mean she won't let him sink below her level; Sadie's shrewd and determined. Then marriage is a problem to men like Bob farming the plains. Girls of the type they have been used to and would naturally choose couldn't stand the hardships."

"So they are satisfied with a lower type? With any girl who pleases their eye?"

"I don't think that's quite fair," Festing objected. "Besides, lower is rather vague."

"Then would you, for example, be satisfied with a girl like Miss Keller?"

"Certainly not," said Festing, with incautious firmness. "Anyway, not now I've seen a different kind in the Old Country."

Helen turned her head and said nothing for a few moments. Then she got up.

"I think you have had a difficult task, Mr. Festing, and I must thank you for the way you have carried it out. We won't speak of it again; but perhaps if Muriel Gardiner——"

"She hasn't asked me any questions or hinted that she is curious."

There was a gleam of amusement in Helen's eyes. "So you imagined she wasn't interested! Well, you can tell her about Bob's losses and farming troubles. You understand these matters, and it will save me something."

Festing made a sign of agreement and Helen went with him to the terrace, where Mrs. Dalton told him when he would find them at home if he wished to come again. He was glad to leave because he thought the interview had been difficult for Helen, but her mother had made him feel that if he came back he would be welcome. This was not altogether conventional politeness; he imagined she wanted to see him, although she was obviously willing to let him go then.

He puzzled about it and other matters as he rode back. Helen Dalton was finer than her picture. He had, no doubt, been awkward and had hurt her by his clumsiness, while she had got a painful shock, but had borne it with unflinching pluck. Her calm had not deceived him, since he knew what it cost, and her smile had roused his pity because it was so brave. Then his anger against Charnock returned with extra force. The fellow, as usual, had shirked his duty, and left him to tell the girl he had really given her up because he meant to marry somebody else. Festing thought she was too just to blame him for Bob's fault, but he had been forced to witness her humiliation, and she would, no doubt, avoid him because of this. Well, he had done with Bob, although he would see him once on his return and tell him what he thought.

Then he heard a shout and saw a farmer trying to move a loaded cart out of his way. He had not noticed that he was riding furiously down a hill, but he sped past the cart upon the grassy margin of the road and laughed as he went on. His mood had changed and he resolved that he would go back to the creeper-covered house when Helen had had time to recover and his society would be less disturbing. After all, Mrs. Dalton had told him he might come.

In the evening he walked up and down the terrace with Muriel, and told her why he had gone to Knott Scar, although he was satisfied with relating Charnock's financial troubles and said nothing about his engagement to Sadie. He could not say that Muriel actually led him on, but he felt that she would be disappointed if he did not take her into his confidence.

"Of course I saw you knew all about it," she said when he stopped. "Besides, I expected that Helen would give you leave to tell me. It would make things easier for her and be more authentic."

"I should expect Miss Dalton to think of that."

Muriel smiled. "Perhaps not. Well, I imagine it's lucky Charnock released her; Helen is much too good for him. I suppose you thought you took the proper line in laying all the stress you could upon the hardships?"

"I did. I thought she couldn't stand the strain she would have had to bear."

"How did she take that?"

"She seemed surprised, as if she didn't think it much of a reason for Charnock letting her go."

"Frankly, I don't think it was."

"You haven't been to Canada. The life is hard."

"It doesn't seem to have broken down your health or nerve."

"That's different. A man gets used to hardships and discomfort. They're sometimes bracing."

"A very masculine attitude! Then men alone have pluck and endurance?"

"There are two kinds of pluck," Festing rejoined. "I dare say you surpass us in the moral kind—I'm sure Miss Dalton has more than Charnock. But there's the other; physical courage, and if you like, physical strength."

Muriel looked amused. "And you imagine Helen is deficient there? Well, I suppose you don't know she's the best tennis player in the county and a daring rock-climber. Girls are taking to mountaineering now, you know. But are you going back to the Daltons?"

Festing thought she gave him a keen glance, but answered steadily: "I am going back, but not for some time. I want to go, but it might be kinder if I kept away."

"Well, it's a very proper feeling and you're rather nice. But you talked about going to see the mountains for a few days. When do you start?"

"I don't know yet. Everything here is so charming, and I'm getting the habit of lazy enjoyment. It will need an effort to go away."

"You're certainly nice," Muriel rejoined, smiling. "However, you might tell me when you do think of starting. I don't want you to be away when we have arranged something to amuse you; and then, as I know the mountains, I can indicate an interesting tour. You might miss much if you didn't know where to go and what you ought to see."

Festing promised, and she left him and went back to the house with a thoughtful smile that hinted that she had begun to make an amusing plan. Muriel was romantic and rather fond of managing her friends' affairs for their good.



CHAPTER VII

HELEN TAKES THE LEAD

Festing was glad to sit down when he reached the bottom of a chasm that divided the summits of two towering fells. He had crossed the higher of the two without much trouble except for a laborious scramble over large, rough stones, but the ascent of the other threatened to be difficult. It rose in front, a wall of splintered crag, seamed by deep gullies, for the strata was tilted up nearly perpendicular. All the gullies were climbed by expert mountaineers, but this needed a party and a rope, and the other way, round the shoulder of the great rock, was almost as hard. Festing knew the easiest plan was to descend a neighboring hollow, from which he would find a steep path to the top.

Lighting his pipe, he glanced at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and having been on his feet since breakfast, he felt tired. The nails he had had driven into his light American boots hurt his feet, and the boots were much the worse for the last few days' wear. Muriel had carefully planned the trip, and then delayed his start by a week because she wanted to take him to a tennis party. Since he could not play tennis much, Festing did not see why she had done so, but agreed when she insisted.

So far, he had followed her instructions and admitted that she had directed him well, because it was hard to imagine there was anything in England finer than the country he had seen. The mountains had not the majestic grandeur of the British Columbian ranges, but they were wild enough, and pierced by dales steeped in sylvan beauty. The chasm in which he now rested had an impressive ruggedness.

Blinks of sunshine touched the lower face of the crag, and in their track the dark rock glittered with a steely luster, but trails of mist rolled among the crannies above. Below, a precipitous slope of small stones that the dalesmen call a scree ran down to a hollow strewn with broken rocks, and across this he could distinguish the blurred flat top of another height. The mountain dropped to a dale that looked profoundly deep, although he could not see its bottom.

The light was puzzling. For the most part, the sky was clear and the gleams of sun were hot, but heavy, black clouds drifted about, and a thick gray haze obscured the lower ground. Rain and mist would be dangerous obstacles, but Festing understood that he could reach the dale in about two hours' steady walking. Muriel had told him where to stop; indeed, she had been rather particular about this, and had recommended him to spend two days in the neighborhood. Luckily, there would be no crags to climb if he kept the path across the summit, for he had found it easier to reach the top of the hills than get down by a different line.

A rattle of stones made him look up, and he saw two girls silhouetted in a flash of sunshine against the face of the crag. They carried bulging rucksacks and were coming down towards him, picking their way among the tumbled rocks. He could not see the face of the first, but noticed her light poise and graceful movements as she sprang from stone to stone. The other followed cautiously and Festing thought she limped, but when the first stopped to wait for her and lifted her head he felt a curious thrill. It was Helen Dalton.

He sat still, knowing his gray clothes would be hard to distinguish among the stones, and wondering what to do. He did not want to force his society upon the girl just yet, but would be disappointed if she passed. She came on, and when her eyes rested on him he got up. A flush of embarrassment colored her face, but she stopped and greeted him with a smile.

"Mr. Festing! How did you get here?"

"I came over the Pike," said Festing. "I'm going to the dale."

"So are we," said Helen, who presented him to her companion.

Festing remarked that they wore jackets that had a tanned look, unusually short skirts, and thick nailed boots. Then he thought Helen's eyes twinkled.

"You would not have expected to find me engaged in anything so strenuous as this?"

"It is rather strenuous," Miss Jardine broke in. "You can stand if you like; I'm going to sit down."

They found a flat stone, and when Festing leaned against another Helen resumed: "We meant to try the Stairs, but have had a hard day and Alison is lame."

"I hurt my foot," Miss Jardine explained. "Besides, I'm from the level Midlands and we have been walking since breakfast. That doesn't matter to Helen; she is never tired."

Festing thought Helen looked remarkably fresh. Exertion and the mountain air had brought a fine color to her face, her eyes were bright, and there was a hint of vigor in her resting pose. Moreover, he had studied the Stairs, which led behind the shoulder of the crag to the summit. One could get up, if one was thin enough to squeeze through a gap between two rocks, but nerve and agility would be required.

"But you must climb pretty well, if you meant to get up the Stairs," he said.

"I know the Carnarvon range, but only go there now and then, and one needs some training to keep pace with people born among the fells who walk like mountain goats."

Had she said a mountain deer, Festing would have approved, for he had noted Helen's easy balance and fearless grace as she crossed the ragged blocks of stone. Then a rumble of distant thunder rolled among the crags and Miss Jardine resumed: "We ought to fix upon the best way down."

"The best is a rather elastic term," Helen rejoined. "The easiest would be to go back by the way we came."

"It's much too far."

"The shortest is up the crag by the Stairs or the gully on the other side. The regular track takes us down near the bottom of the next dale, and then back over the top."

"That's unthinkable," Miss Jardine declared.

"Well," said Helen thoughtfully, "there's a short line down the scree and across the shoulder of the fell below, but it's steep and rough. There are some small crags, too, but they're not much of an obstacle when they're dry."

They set off and Festing noticed Helen's confidence on the scree. The descent was safe, but looked daunting, because their figures made a sharp angle with the gravel slope, and now and then a mass of dislodged stones rushed down hill. Sometimes the girl allowed herself to slide, sometimes she ran a few yards and sprang, but she did not stumble or lose her balance. Miss Jardine was cautious, and Festing kept near her, carrying her sack.

At the bottom they came to a wide belt of massive stones, fallen from the heights above, and their progress was slow. One had to measure the gaps between the blocks and step carefully across, while the stones were ragged and had sharp corners. Festing was unable to look up and followed Helen, but after a time Miss Jardine stopped, and he saw that the crags were smothered in leaden cloud and all the sky was dark.

"I must have a few minutes' rest," the tired girl declared.

As they sat down on the edge of a ponderous slab there was a crash of thunder that rolled from rock to rock, and a few big drops fell. Then as the echoes died away the hillside was hidden by a curtain of driving rain. One end of the slab was tilted and they crept into the hollow underneath.

"It will be awkward if this goes on," Miss Jardine remarked.

"These thunderstorms seldom last," said Helen. "I expect we have seen the worst, and we must start again as soon as we can see."

Festing thought she was anxious to get down, but Miss Jardine grumbled about the rain, and then turned to him.

"It was a relief to give you my sack, and I was glad to see it didn't bother you. I suppose you are used to these mountains."

"No," said Festing. "This is the first time I've climbed a hill for amusement."

"But you are a climber. You have balance, trust your feet and not your hands, and know how to step on a loose stone."

Festing laughed. "I used to do something of the kind as a matter of business. You see, I helped mark out the line for a new railroad in British Columbia, and rocks are plentiful in that country."

"It must be a wonderful place," said Helen. "I have a photograph of the gorge at the foot of the glacier, where the line went through. You had stern work when you laid the rails in winter."

Festing looked at her in surprise, for he had worked to the edge of exhaustion and run many risks at the spot, but while he wondered how she knew Helen got up.

"I think the rain is stopping and we can start," she said.

There was not much rain, but thick mist rolled across the top of the hill they were now level with, and everything below was blotted out. Leaving the stones, they crossed a belt of boggy grass where their feet sank, but Festing felt it a relief to have done with the rocks. The narrow tableland they were crossing was comfortingly flat, and he looked forward to descending a long grassy slope. When they reached the edge, however, he got a rude disappointment, for the mist rolled up in waves with intervals between, and when a white cloud passed a gray light shone down into the gulf at his feet.

In the foreground there was a steep slope where rock ledges broke through the wet turf, and in one place a chasm cleft the hill. He could not see the bottom, for it was filled with mist, but the height of the rock wall hinted at its depth. A transverse ravine ran into the chasm, and he could hear the roar of a waterfall. Then the mist rolled up in a white smother and blotted everything out.

"We cross the beck," said Helen. "Then we go nearly straight down, keeping this side of the big ghyll."

"As far away as possible, I hope. I don't like its look," Miss Jardine remarked.

Festing agreed with her. So far as he could see, the descent looked forbidding, but there was no sign of the sky's clearing, and it was obvious that they must get down. The thunder had gone, but the mist brought a curious, searching damp, and a cold wind had begun to blow. He was glad to think Helen knew the way.

She took them down a steep pitch where small rocky ledges dropped nearly vertical among patches of rotten turf and it was needful to get a good grip with one's hands as well as with one's feet. Festing helped Miss Jardine when he could, but he had an unpleasant feeling that a rash step might take him over the edge of a precipice. Sometimes he could see Helen in front, and sometimes, for a few moments, her figure was lost in the mist. He was glad to note that she was apparently going down with confidence.

After a time the slope got easier and she stopped, lifting her hand. Festing found her looking into a ravine through which water flowed. It was not very deep, but its sides were perpendicular. Seeing that Miss Jardine was some distance behind, she looked at Festing with a quiet smile.

"There is a place where one can cross without much trouble, but I don't know whether to go up or down."

Festing felt his heart beat. It looked as if she had taken him into her confidence and asked his help.

"Not down, I think. That would take us to the big ghyll. Let's try up, and cross at the first practicable spot."

Helen made a sign of agreement, and when Miss Jardine joined them they turned back along the edge of the ravine. By and by Helen stopped where patches of wet soil checkered the steep rock and a mountain-ash offered a hold. Almost immediately below the spot, the stream plunged over a ledge and vanished into the mist.

Festing looked at Helen. The descent would be awkward, if not dangerous, but he could trust her judgment. It was the first time he had allowed a woman to give him a lead in a difficulty, and he admitted that he would not have done so had his guide been anybody else.

"I think we can get across, and I don't want to go too far up," she said. "If you don't mind helping Alison—"

"I'll throw the sacks across first," Festing replied.

He swung them round by the straps and let them go, and when the last splashed into a boggy patch on the other side Miss Jardine laughed.

"I'm selfishly glad that one is yours. If Helen's had fallen a foot short, it would have gone over the fall, but I expect she had a reason for taking the risk. Where our clothes have gone we must follow."

Helen seized a tuft of heather, and sliding down, reached a narrow shelf four or five feet below. Then a small mountain-ash gave her a fresh hold and she dropped to the top of a projecting stone. Below this there was another shelf and some boggy grass, after which a bank of earth dropped nearly straight to the stream.

"How we shall get down the last pitch isn't very obvious," Miss Jardine remarked. "I suppose we will see when we arrive. It isn't my resolution that gives way, but my foot. You might go first."

Festing dropped on to the first shelf, and she came down into his arms. The shock nearly flung him off, but he steadied her with an effort and seized the stem of the small tree.

"Looks like a tight-wire trick," he said, glancing at the stone. "However, if we miss it, there's another ledge below."

He reached the stone, and balancing on it with one foot, kicked a hole in the spongy turf. Finding this would support him he held out his hand.

"Now. As lightly as you can!"

The girl came down, struck the stone with her foot, and slipped, but Festing had time to clutch her first. He could not hold her back, but he could steady her, and for a moment felt his muscles crack and the peat tear out from the hole in the bank. Then his hands slipped and he fell, gasping and red in face, upon the shelf beside the girl.

"Thank you; you did that rather well," she said. "It looks as if I were heavier than you thought."

While he had been occupied Festing imagined he had heard a splash, and now looking down saw Helen standing on a boulder in the stream. She gave him an approving nod before she sprang to the next stone, and he felt a thrill of pleasure. She knew his task was difficult and was satisfied with him.

When they came to the scar where the floods had torn away the bank he hesitated. It was some distance to the water, and there was no hold upon the wall of soil, which was studded with small round stones.

"Helen slid," his companion remarked. "I imagine she chose her time; the sitting glissade isn't elegant. But if you'll go first and wait—"

Festing leaned back with his shoulders against the bank and pushed off. He alighted in the water, and Miss Jardine, coming down, kicked his arm. He saved her from a plunge into the stream, but thought she looked something the worse for wear as they made their way from stone to stone. The other bank was easier, and for a time they had not much trouble in going down hill, but the mist was very thick, and presently the steep slope broke off close in front. Helen stopped and beckoned Festing.

Looking down, he saw the wet face of a crag drop into the rolling vapor. For eight or nine feet it was perpendicular, and afterwards ran down at a very steep slant, but immediately below there was a gully with a foot or two of level gravel at its top.

"This is not the regular track," Helen said. "However, I think I know the gully."

Festing pondered. The rock looked daunting, but one might get down to the patch of gravel. The trouble was that one could not see what lay below, and it might be difficult to climb back, if this was needful.

"I could get as far as the edge yonder," he suggested.

"No," said Helen. "You don't know the gully, and if I'm mistaken about it, you could help me up."

"That's true. Still I'd sooner go."

Helen shook her head, and although she did not speak, he felt there was something delightful in her consulting him. They had come to know each other on the misty hillside in a way that would not have been possible in conventional surroundings. He had seen a possibility of the girl, so to speak, shutting him out in self-defense because he had had some part in her humiliation, but he thought that risk had gone.

"Well," he resumed, "what do you propose?"

"I'm going to see if this is the place I think. You can steady me."

Festing lay down with his head over the edge and found a grip for his toes and knees. There were a few cracks in the rock and Helen had got half way down before she took his hands. He felt the strain and braced himself, determined that he would be pulled over before he let her fall.

"Loose me now," she said.

"Have you got a safe hold for your foot?" Festing gasped.

"I think I have. Let go."

"Make sure first," he answered with a sobbing breath.

She looked up into his set face, and although the strain was heavy he thrilled as he saw her smile. The smile indicated courage and trust.

"I'm quite safe," she said, and he let her go.

She leaned cautiously over the next edge, but after a moment or two turned and waved her hand.

"This is the way I thought. Send Alison down."

Miss Jardine descended with some help from both, and Festing dropped safely on the gravel. He leaned against the rock to get his breath, and Helen turned to him with a twinkle.

"You doubted my nerve once. I suppose that was why you didn't let go."

"I'm sometimes dull," said Festing. "Just now, however, I wanted to make certain I could help you back."

Helen laughed. "Well, I dare say you could have lifted me, but it would have been simpler to lower me your coat."

They went down the gully, where jambed stones made rude steps, and reaching the bottom found a belt of grass that led them to the head of a dale. The mist was thinner, and presently a few scattered houses appeared across the fields. The path they followed forked, and Helen stopped at the turning.

"The hotel is yonder to the right," she said. "We are going to the hall, where they sometimes take people in."

Festing remembered that Muriel had indicated the hall, which he understood was a well-built farm, as his stopping place. He wanted to go there, but thought there was some risk of its looking as if he meant to force his society on the girls. He took the path Helen indicated, and when he had gone some distance, stopped, hesitated, and then went on.

The girls noted this and Miss Jardine said: "I suppose he remembered that he has my sack, or else his heart failed him."

Helen looked at her in surprise. "Did you forget?"

"I did not," Miss Jardine admitted. "I thought I wouldn't spoil the plot. It looked as if he wanted an excuse for meeting us again, but I think I wronged him. That sudden stop was genuine."

"The sack is yours," said Helen dryly. "But you will need the things inside."

"I imagine I will get them before long, although it doesn't seem to have struck him that my clothes are damp. It's rather significant that he went on when he could have run across the field and caught us up. Have you known him long?"

"I met him once," said Helen with an impatient frown.

"Rather a good type," Miss Jardine remarked. "I think I should like Canadians, if they're all like that."

"He isn't a Canadian."

"Then he hasn't been in England for some time, and so far as my knowledge goes, men like variety. Of course, to some extent, he saw us under a disadvantage. Mountaineering clothes are comfortable, but one can't say much more."

"Don't be ridiculous," Helen rejoined and went on across the field.



CHAPTER VIII

A DEBT OF GRATITUDE

After dinner Festing walked across the fields to the farm. It was raining and a cold wind swept the dale, but a fire burned in the room into which he was shown and the curtains were drawn. Helen and Miss Jardine got up when he came in and put the rucksack on the table.

"I'm sorry I forgot this until I'd gone some distance," he said. "Then I couldn't find anybody to send with it."

"No doubt you wanted your dinner," Miss Jardine suggested.

Festing saw that she wore a different dress that looked rather large.

"No," he said, "it wasn't the dinner that stopped me. Besides, it didn't strike me that—"

"That I might need my clothes? Well, I don't suppose it would strike you; but since you have come across in the rain, won't you stop?"

Festing found an old leather chair, and sitting down, looked about with a sense of satisfaction, for the fire was cheerful after the raw cold outside. The room was large and old-fashioned, with heavy beams across the low ceiling. There was a tall clock, and a big, black oak chest; curled ram's horns and brass candlesticks twinkled on the mantel; an old copper kettle threw back red reflections near the fire. His companions occupied opposite sides of a large sheepskin rug, and he felt that both had charm, though they were different. The contrast added something to the charm.

Miss Jardine's skin was a pure white; her hair and eyes were nearly black, and she had a sparkling, and perhaps rather daring, humor. Helen's colors were rose and cream, her hair changed from warm brown to gold as it caught the light, and her eyes were calm and gray. She was younger than the other and he thought her smile delightful, but, as a rule, she was marked by a certain gravity. Her wide brows and the firm lines of her mouth and nose hinted at pride and resolution.

"I hope your foot is better," he said to Miss Jardine.

"Yes, thanks. It mainly needed rest, and I must confess that I didn't find it altogether a drawback when we stopped at the bottom of the big crag. I should have had to go up if I hadn't been lame."

"You were not disappointed because you couldn't reach the top?"

Miss Jardine laughed. "Helen was. She makes it a rule to accomplish what she undertakes. I wasn't disappointed then, though I am now. Perhaps one really enjoys mountaineering best afterwards. You like to think how adventurous you have been, but it's sometimes difficult while the adventure's going on."

"That's true," Festing agreed. "Still you feel sorry if, as we say, you are unable to put the thing over."

Helen gave him a sympathetic smile. "Yes; one feels that."

"It depends upon one's temperament," Miss Jardine objected. "I know my limits, though Helen does not know hers. When I can't get what I'm out for, I'm satisfied with less. One can't always have the best."

"It's worth trying for, anyway," Festing replied.

He was afraid this sounded priggish. Miss Jardine got up.

"Well, I'm not much of a philosopher and had better put out some of the clothes you brought to dry, although it was thoughtful of you to throw your bag into the bog instead of mine."

"That was an accident," Festing declared. "I meant to throw them both across."

Miss Jardine picked up the sack. "There's nobody else here and a wet evening's dreary. I hope you won't go before I come back."

"I won't," said Festing. "They have only a deaf tourist and two tired climbers, who seem sleepy and bad-tempered, at the hotel."

Miss Jardine's eyes twinkled. "Well," she said as she went out, "I suppose it's a fair retort."

Festing colored and looked at Helen apologetically. "You see, I have lived in the woods."

"I expect that has some advantages," said Helen, who liked his frank embarrassment. "However, it was lucky I met you to-day. You didn't come back to see us, and there is something——" She hesitated and then gave him a steady glance. "You are not so much a stranger to us as you imagine."

Festing wondered what she meant and whether she knew about the portrait, but she resumed: "As a matter of fact, my mother and I felt that we knew you rather well."

"I don't understand."

"Some time since, you found a young Englishmen in a Western mining town. He had been ill and things had gone against him."

"Ah," said Festing sharply. "Of course! I ought to have known——He looked like you. I mean I ought to have known the name. Was he a relative?"

"My brother," Helen replied.

She was silent for a moment or two, and then went on in a tone that made Festing's heart beat: "You gave him work and helped him to make a new start. He was too proud to tell us about his difficulties."

"It cost me nothing; there was a job waiting. Afterwards he got on by his own merits. I had nothing to do with that."

"But you gave him his chance. We can't forget this. George was younger than me. I have no other brother, and was very fond of him. Indeed, I think we owe you much, and my mother is anxious to give you her thanks."

"Is he all right now? I lost sight of him when they sent me to another part of the road. It was my fault—he wrote, but I'm not punctual at answering letters, and hadn't much time."

"He is in the chief construction office," Helen replied. "In his last letter he told us about the likelihood of his getting some new promotion." She paused and resumed with a smile: "I don't suppose you know you were a hero of his."

"I didn't know. As a rule, the young men we had on the road seemed to find their bosses amusing and rather patronized them. Of course, they were fresh from a scientific college or engineer's office, and, for the most part, we had learned what we knew upon the track."

"But you knew it well. George wrote long letters about the struggle you had at the canyon. Some fight, he called it."

"Well," said Festing quietly, "we were up against it then. The job was worth doing."

"I know. George told us how the snowslide came down and filled the head of the gorge with stones and broken trees, and wash-outs wrecked the line you built along its side. He said it was a job for giants; clinging to the face of the precipice while you blew out and built on—under-pinning, isn't it?—the first construction track. But he declared the leaders were fine. They were where the danger was, in the blinding rain and swirling snow—and the boys, as he called them, would always follow you."

Festing colored, but Helen went on: "We were glad, when the worst was over, that he had had this training. It was so clean a fight."

"We were dirty enough often," Festing objected with an effort at humor. "When things were humming we slept in our working clothes, which were generally stained with mud and engine grease. Then I don't suppose you know how dissipated a man looks and feels when he has breathed the fumes of giant-powder."

She stopped him with a half imperious glance. "I know it's the convention to talk of such things as a joke; but you didn't feel that in the canyon. Then it was a stubborn fight of the kind that man was meant to wage. If you win in trade and politics, somebody must lose, but a victory over Nature is a gain to all. And when your enemies are storms and floods, cheating and small cunning are not of much use."

"That is so," Festing agreed, smiling. "When you're sent to cut through an icy rock or re-lay the steel across the gap a snowslide has made, it's obvious if you have done the job or not. This has some drawbacks, because if you don't make good, you often get fired."

"But that was not what drove you on. You must have had a better motive for making good."

Festing felt embarrassed. The girl was obviously not indulging a sentimental vein. She felt what she frankly hinted at, and although he generally avoided imaginative talk, her remarks did not sound cheap or ridiculous.

"Well," he said, "the fear of getting fired is a pretty strong incentive to do one's best, but I suppose when one gets up against big things there is something else. After all, one hates to be beaten."

Helen's eyes sparkled and she gave him a sympathetic nod. "The hate of being beaten distinguishes man from the ape and puts him on the side of the angels."

Then Miss Jardine came in, somewhat to the relief of Festing, who felt he could not keep up long on Helen's plane. Besides, he was not altogether sure he understood her last remark.

"I heard," said Miss Jardine. "Helen's sometimes improving, but perhaps she was right just now. The ape is cunning but acquiescent and accepts things as they are. Man protests, and fights to make them better. At least, he ought to, though one can't say he always does."

Festing did not reply and she sat down and resumed: "But I suppose you haven't many shirkers in Canada?"

"I imagine we have as many wastrels as there are anywhere else, but as a rule one doesn't find them in the woods and on the plains. When they leave the cities they're apt to starve."

"You're a grim lot. Work or starve is a stern choice, particularly if one has never done either. It looks as if you hadn't much use for purely ornamental people. But what about the half-taught women who don't know how to work? What do you do with them?"

"They're not numerous. Then one can always learn, and I imagine every woman can cook and manage a house."

"You're taking much for granted, though yours seems to be the conventional view. But how did you learn railroad building, for example?"

"By unloading ties and shoveling ballast on the track. The trouble was that I began too late."

"What did you do before that?"

"Sometimes I worked in sawmills and sometimes packed—that means carrying things—for survey parties, and went prospecting."

"In the wilds? It sounds interesting. Won't you tell us about it?"

Festing complied; awkwardly at first, and then with growing confidence. He did not want to make much of his exploits, but there was a charm in talking about things he knew to two clever and attractive girls, and they helped him with tactful questions. Indeed, he was surprised to find they knew something about the rugged country in which he wandered. He told them about risky journeys up lonely rivers in the spring, adventurous thrusts into the wilderness where hardship was oftener to be found than valuable minerals, and retreats with provisions running out before the Arctic winter.

Something of the charm of the empty spaces colored his narratives as he drew from memory half-finished pictures of the mad riot of primitive forces when the ice broke up and the floods hurled the thundering floes among the rocks; and of tangled woods sinking into profound silence in the stinging frost. Moreover, he unconsciously delineated his own character, and when he stopped, the others understood something of the practical resource and stubbornness that had supported him.

It was encouraging to see they were not bored, but he did not know that Miss Jardine had found him an interesting study and had skilfully led him on. He was a new type to both girls, although Helen was nearer to him than the other and sympathized where her companion was amused. Festing's ideas were clean-cut, his honesty was obvious, and she noted that he did not know much about the lighter side of life. Yet she saw that, sternly practical as he was, he had a vague feeling for romance.

"Will you stay on the railroad when it's finished?" she asked presently.

"I've left it. I hadn't the proper training to carry me far, and as the road is opening up the country I've bought a prairie farm."

"But do you know much about farming?"

"I don't. As a matter of fact, not many of the boys do know much when they begin, but somehow they make progress. On the plains, it isn't what you know that counts, but the capacity for work and staying with your job. That's what one really needs, if you see what I mean."

"I think I do," Miss Jardine replied. "A Victorian philosopher, whose opinions you seem to hold, said something of the kind. He claims that genius takes many different forms, but is not different in itself. That is, if you have talent, you can do what you like. Build railroads, for example, and then succeed on a farm."

Festing laughed good-humoredly. "It's a pretty big thing to claim, but that man was near the mark; they live up to his theories on the plains, where shams don't count and efficiency's the test. I don't mean that the boys have genius, but gift and perseverance seem to be worth as much. Anyhow, one can generally trust them to make good when they undertake a job they don't know much about."

Helen mused. Charnock, who knew something about farming, had tried it and failed, but she thought Festing would succeed. The man looked determined and, in a way, ascetic; he could deny himself and concentrate. Knowledge was not worth as much as character. But she was content to let Miss Jardine lead the talk.

"One understands," said the latter, "that farming's laborious and not very profitable work."

"It's always laborious," Festing agreed. "It may be profitable; that depends. You see——"

He went on, using plain words but with some force of imagination, to picture the wheat-grower's hopes and struggles; but he did more, for as he talked Helen was conscious of the romance that underlay the patient effort. She saw the empty, silent land rolling back to the West; the ox-teams slowly breaking the first furrow, and then the big Percheron horses and gasoline tractors taking their place. Wooden shacks dotted the white grass, the belts of green wheat widened, wagons, and afterwards automobiles, lurched along the rutted trails. Then the railroad came, brick homestead and windmills rose, and cities sprang up, as it were, in a night. Everything was fluid, there was no permanence; rules and customs altered before they got familiar, a new nation, with new thoughts and aims, was rising from the welter of tense activity.

Then Festing got up with an apologetic air. "I'm afraid I've stopped too long and talked too much. Still the big movement out there is fascinating and people in this country don't grasp its significance. I felt I'd like to make you understand. Then you didn't seem—"

"If we had been bored, it would have been our fault, but we were not bored at all," Miss Jardine replied. "At least, I wasn't, and don't think Helen was."

Helen added her denial and gave Festing her hand. When he had gone Miss Jardine looked at her with a smile.

"He was interesting," she remarked. "Talks better than he knows, and I suppose we ought to feel flattered, because he took our comprehension for granted. After all, it was rash to talk about Canadian progress to two English girls."

"You made him talk," Helen rejoined. "It's the first time I've known you interested in geography."

Miss Jardine laughed. "I was interested in the man. He told us a good deal about himself, although it would have embarrassed him if he'd guessed. The curious thing is that he imagines he's practical, while he's really a reckless sentimentalist."

Helen did not answer and picked up a book, but she thought more about Festing than about what she read.



CHAPTER IX

FESTING LOSES HIS TEMPER

Next morning Festing got breakfast early and set off down the dale. This was not the way Muriel had indicated, but he thought it better to avoid temptation. The girls had received him graciously at the farm and had perhaps listened with unusual patience, but if he overtook them in the morning the thing might look too marked. Besides, he doubted if it was advisable that Helen should see him again so soon, since he might remind her of matters she wished to forget.

The self-denial cost him something, and he went down the dale irresolutely, stopping once or twice to look back. It was annoying to feel himself so weak, because he had seldom vacillated in Canada, but had chosen the proper line and then stuck to it. As a matter of fact, he had generally had a definite object and definite plans for its attainment. Although he had an object now, he was otherwise at a loss.

He meant to marry Helen. Life was strenuous on the plains, and at first there might be hardships, but if she loved him she would not flinch. Her portrait had not done her justice; he dwelt upon her fearless confidence as she came down the screes, her light, sure step, and agile pose. These things indicated strength of mind and body, and he knew, if the need came, she would make good use of both.

By and by he thought of Charnock with keener anger than he had yet felt. Bob was a weak fool and something worse. He had broken the promise and then tricked his friend. The fellow's character was warped; he could not go straight, but tried to escape the consequences of his folly in a maze of crooked ways. The worst was that consequences could not be shirked. If the real offender avoided them, they fell upon somebody else, and now Festing had to pay. Bob had prejudiced him with Helen. She would probably never quite forget that he knew what she had suffered.

Then he remembered that he had meant to spend a week or two in London, and made his way towards a valley through which a railway ran. Although he wanted to see Helen, he was half afraid, and imagined that the longer he waited the less risk he would run of his society jarring. Next day he left the hills, but did not greatly enjoy his visit to town. London was much like Montreal, where the buildings were as fine, only they did not dig up so many streets and fill the air with cement from the towering blocks of new offices. The English liked permanence, while the Canadians altered their cities from day to day. Besides he wanted to go back to the North as soon as it was prudent.

On the evening of his return it rained hard and he talked to Muriel in her drawing-room. He liked Muriel Gardiner and she frankly enjoyed his society. It did not matter that she sometimes seemed to find him amusing when he was serious. A fire burned in the grate, for the summer evening was cold, his low chair was comfortable, and Muriel, holding a fan to shield her face, sat opposite in the soft light of a shaded lamp that left much of the room in shadow. The circle of subdued illumination gave one a pleasant feeling of seclusion and made for mutual confidence, but Festing was silent for a time, thinking rather hard.

He was getting used to English comforts, which did not seem so enervating as he had imagined, but he could give them up, and would, indeed, be forced to do so when he occupied his prairie homestead. A man could go without much that people in England required, and be the better for the self-denial, but it might be different for a girl. Long habit might make comfort and artistic surroundings actual necessities. It was, however, encouraging to remember Helen's cheerfulness as she led him among the crags in the rain. She had pluck and could bear fatigue and hardship. Besides, there need not be much hardship after all.

Presently Muriel gave him a careless glance. "Helen told me she met you in the hills and you came over to the hall where she and Alison Jardine stopped. Now you have had an opportunity of correcting your first impression, what do you think of her?"

"What I have always thought," Festing replied.

Muriel looked at him with surprise, and then laughed. "Oh, yes; I remember you saw her portrait first. Well, you have more imagination than I thought. But I understand you didn't see Helen again, although she and Alison went over part of the route I marked out for you."

Festing thought her manner was too careless, and felt suspicious, but he said: "I changed my plans. I thought it might look significant if I overtook the girls. One doesn't expect an accident to happen twice."

"Perhaps you did the proper thing. But did you want to overtake them?"

"I did," said Festing quietly. "Still I felt I'd better not."

Muriel was silent for a few moments, and then remarked: "Self-denial such as you practised deserves a reward, and I met Mrs. Dalton while you were away. She asked me to bring you over when you came back. I suppose you know what she wants?"

"Yes," said Festing, who looked disturbed. "Do you?"

"Mrs. Dalton told me. You helped George when he needed help, although he had no particular claim."

"He was ill and unfit for hard work."

"Was that the only difficulty?"

"I don't see what you mean," said Festing, with some embarrassment.

"Then I'll be frank. In what kind of company did you find the lad? You see, I know something about him."

"If you insist, he'd got into bad hands."

"That was what I suspected, and I think Mrs. Dalton knows. George was not very steady when he was at home and got into some trouble before he left the office of a civil engineer. In fact, this was why he went to Canada."

"But I don't see what it has to do with me."

"I wonder whether you are as dull as you pretend. George is Mrs. Dalton's only son; although he had faults she and Helen are very fond of him. Now it would have been something if you had merely helped him out of a difficulty, but you did much more. You gave him his chance of making up for past follies. He has been steady ever since, and I understand is now getting on very well. It looks as if you had used some moral influence."

"I didn't try," said Festing dryly, "I gave him his job and told him I'd have him fired if he shirked."

"You didn't consciously try, but it's possible to influence people without knowing. However, as Mrs. Dalton has too much tact to overwhelm you by her gratitude, you needn't be afraid of going to the Scar with me, although you seem to hesitate about meeting Helen."

Festing, who pondered for a few moments, felt that the girl was studying him. She had shown a rather embarrassing curiosity, but he though she meant to be his friend.

"Did you know Miss Dalton was in the mountains when you planned my walking tour?" he asked.

"I did know," said Muriel with a direct glance. "Perhaps I was rash, but if so, I'm not afraid to own my fault. I suppose you understand why I sent you where I did?"

"In one way, your object's plain. For all that, I'm puzzled."

Muriel smiled. "As Helen is my friend, you ought to be flattered. Doesn't it look as if I was satisfied with you?"

"We'll let that go. You took something for granted. I suppose you see you might have been mistaken about my feelings?"

"Then no harm would have been done," Muriel rejoined, and putting down her fan, gave him a steady look. "Was I mistaken?"

"You were not," said Festing quietly. "I mean to marry Miss Dalton if she is willing. I'm anxious to know what chance I've got."

"I can't tell you that. Perhaps I have gone far enough; but George's reformation is a good certificate of your character, and Helen and her mother owe you a debt of gratitude."

Festing colored rather angrily. "My helping the lad was, so to speak, an accident; I don't want to be judged by this, and won't urge the debt. Miss Dalton must take me on my merits."

"You have pluck; it's a bold claim," said Muriel in a dry tone, and then got up as Gardiner and the curate came in.

Next day Festing went to the Scar, and when Mrs. Dalton received him she put her hand gently on his arm. She said enough, but not too much, and he was moved as he saw the moisture glisten in her eyes.

"I don't deserve this," he answered awkwardly. "I found the lad in some trouble, but hadn't to make much effort to help him out. In fact, it was the kind of thing one does without thinking and forgets."

"Ah," said Mrs. Dalton, "the consequences of one's deeds follow one, whether they're good or bad." Then she gave him a very friendly smile. "But perhaps we had better join the rest outside."

Festing found Helen in the garden with her aunt and some friends, but the others left them by and by, and they walked alone among the flowers. The day was calm, the light clear, and the shadow of the dark beeches on the hill crept slowly across the lawn. Beyond a low hedge, woods, smooth pastures, and fields of ripening corn rolled back and melted into the blue shadow beneath the rugged fells. It seemed to Festing that the peaceful sylvan landscape was touched by a glamour that centered in the fresh beauty of the girl. Sometimes they were silent, and sometimes they talked about the mountains, but when they went back to the house he thought they had got nearer.

He returned to the Scar without Muriel a week later, and went again, and one evening stood with Helen on the terrace. Gentle rain had fallen for most of the day, but it had stopped, and a band of pale-saffron glimmered under heavy clouds in the West. Moisture dripped from the motionless branches and the air was hot. The lamps had just been lighted in the house and a yellow glow streamed out.

"I've stayed longer than I meant and forgot my lamp," Festing remarked. "However, this has happened before, and I hope I haven't stayed longer than I ought."

"We will let you go now," said Helen. "For one thing, I must get up early."

"Eight o'clock?" Festing suggested.

"No," said Helen, smiling. "I am always up before, but it will be six o'clock to-morrow. I want to gather some mushrooms; they ought to be plentiful after a day like this."

"Is six o'clock a particularly suitable time?"

"Five o'clock might be better. If you don't go early, you often find that somebody has been round the fields first."

Festing asked where she expected to find the mushrooms, and when she told him said, "Very well; I'll meet you. It only means half an hour's journey on your fine English road; that is, if the bicycle holds up."

"But why do you want to gather mushrooms?"

"I don't want to gather mushrooms. I really want to see you where I think you belong."

"In the fields?" Helen suggested humorously.

"No," said Festing. "I don't mean in the fields. I've seen you in the afternoon when the sun's on the ripening corn and the leaves are dark and thick, but they stand for fulfilment, and that's not your proper setting. Once or twice I've stopped until evening, but you don't belong to the dusk."

"Then where do I belong?"

"To the sunrise, when the earth is fresh and the day is getting bright. Promise is your sign; fulfilment hasn't come."

Helen colored, and as she turned her head it struck her as portentous that she glanced towards the saffron streak that glimmered in the West. When she looked back, however, her face was calm.

"Ah!" she said, "I wonder how and where the fulfilment will come! Sometimes I think of it and feel afraid; my life has been so smooth."

"You won't flinch if you have to bear some strain."

Helen gave him her hand. "Well, you must go now. I will expect you to-morrow."

She stood looking towards the fading light for some time after his figure melted into the shadows on the drive. Her heart beat and she felt a thrill, for she admitted that the man had power to move her. As yet she would not ask herself how far his power went, but she knew the question must be answered soon. Other men had flattered her, and she had smiled, knowing what their compliments were worth, but she could not smile now. Then she roused herself and went in quietly.

Festing met her next morning while the sun rose above the rounded masses of the beech wood, and entering a dewy pasture they skirted a fence half-smothered in briars. Both felt invigorated by the freshness of the morning and brushed across the sparkling grass, engaged in careless talk. By and by as Helen stooped to pick a mushroom a shrill scream came from beyond the fence, and she rose with an angry color in her face.

"Oh!" she said; "that spoils everything!"

"What is it?" Festing asked as the pitiful scream rose again.

"A rabbit, choking, in a snare," she answered with a look of horror.

Festing leaped across a ditch and plunged into the briars. Helen heard the rotten fence-rails smash and he vanished behind the thorny branches that closed across the gap. She was glad he had gone so quickly; partly because it was her wish, and partly because she saw the cry of pain had moved him. She liked to think he was compassionate.

As a matter of fact, Festing's pity was soon mixed with rage as he came upon a scene of barbarous cruelty. Three or four rabbits lay quiet upon the grass, but there were others that struggled feebly at his approach; their eyes protruding and strangling wires cutting into their throats. He thought they were past his help, but one rolled round with half-choked screams and he ran to it first. It was difficult to hold the struggling animal while he opened the thin brass noose, but he set it free, and it lay paralyzed with fear for a few moments before it ran off.

Then he released the others as gently as he could. Their dew-draggled bodies felt cold and limp and the wire had bitten deep into the swollen flesh. Two, however, feebly crawled away and he carried another to the mouth of a burrow, after which he wiped the dew and blood from his hands, while his lips set in a firm line. He hoped he was not a sentimentalist, and admitted that man must kill to eat; moreover he had used the rifle in the Northern wilds. Once a hungry cinnamon bear had raided the camp, and he remembered a certain big bull moose. That was clean sport, for a man who faced such antagonists must shoot quick and straight, but this torturing of small defenseless creatures revolted him. Still he admitted that it might not have done so quite so much but for the pain it caused the girl.

Helen glanced at him with some surprise when he went back to the fence. She had not seen him look like that.

"I've let them go, but two or three are dead," he remarked. "I suppose they've been lying there all night."

"I'm afraid so. They come out to feed at dusk. It's horribly cruel."

"It's devilish! Why don't you stop it? Is the field yours?"

"It goes with the house, and when we let the grazing I stipulated that no snares should be laid, but there was some mistake and the tenant claimed the rabbits. We said he could shoot them, and I understand he's disputing with the agent. But where are you going?"

"I'm going back to finish the job; these particular snares won't be used again. If you like, I'll come over every evening and pull the blamed things up."

"I don't think that will be necessary," Helen answered with a strained laugh.

She felt disturbed and excited when Festing turned away. Her life had been smooth and she did not think she had seen a man seized by savage anger; certainly not a man she knew. Festing was angry, and no doubt justly, but at the Scar the primitive vein in human nature was decently hidden. Now she did not know if she were jarred or not. Then she heard voices, and going nearer the fence, tried to see through the briars.

Festing, with a pocket-knife and some brass wire in his hand, confronted a big slouching man who carried a heavy stick and a net bag. Bits of fur stuck to the fellow's clothes and there was blood on his dirty hands. A half-grown lad with another stick waited, rather uneasily, in the background.

"What might you be doing?" the man inquired.

"I'm cutting up your snares," Festing replied. "What have you got to say about it?"

The other gave him a slow, sullen look. "Only that you'd better leave the snares alone. How many rabbits?"

"Four," said Festing, pulling up another snare and cutting the noose.

"Then that will be five shillings. I'll say nothing about the snares; wire's cheap."

Festing laughed. "It's a dead bluff. Light out of this field before I put you off."

The man hesitated, his eyes fixed on Festing's hardset face. Perhaps a way out might have been found, but the lad precipitated matters. Running to the mouth of the burrow, he picked up a half-dead rabbit that was trying to crawl away, and leered at Festing as he raised his stick. The blow was not struck, for Festing leaped across the grass and next moment the boy fell beside the burrow. He was unhurt, but too surprised to move, because he had never seen anybody move as fast as the man who threw him down.

Then Festing heard steps behind, and turned in time to guard his head with his right arm. It felt numb and he was half dazed by a shock of pain, but he struck savagely with his left hand and his knuckles jarred on bone. The other's stick dropped, and when they grappled Festing was relieved to feel his arm was not broken. His muscles were hard and well trained, his blood was hot, and a struggle of the kind was not altogether a novelty. When liquor is smuggled into a construction camp, a section boss must sometimes use physical force or relinquish his command.

He staggered and nearly fell as his leg was seized. It looked as if the lad had come to his master's help; but one could not be fastidious, and a savage backward kick got rid of the new antagonist. The other was powerful and stubborn, and Festing spent a strenuous few minutes before he threw him into the sand beside the burrow.

"I'm pretty fresh and ready to start again if you are," he said. "Still I reckon you have had enough."

The fellow got up scowling and told the lad to bring his bag.

"You'll hear more about this," he rejoined and slouched off.

Festing went back, and Helen started when he jumped across the ditch. His jacket was torn, his lip was cut, and his face was bruised. He looked dishevelled, but not at all embarrassed. In fact, there was a gleam of half-humorous satisfaction in his eyes.

"The snares are all cut up," he said. "I broke the fellow's stick and threw away the pegs."

Helen felt a strange desire to laugh. There was something ridiculous in his naive triumph, but she was not really amused. In fact, her confused sensations were puzzling.

"Did you hurt him?" she asked.

"I hope so," said Festing. "I rather think I did and don't expect he'll come back while I'm about. However, as I can't come here as often as I'd like, it might be better to see your agent. In the meantime, we'll look for some mushrooms."

"But don't you want to bathe your face?"

"I forgot that I probably look the worse for wear," said Festing, who wiped his cut lip. "Still if I met your mother, she might get a shock, and now I come to think of it, I'm no doubt jarring you, so I'll go off and see your agent if you'll tell me where he lives."

"It's some distance, and we don't do things so quickly here. I must talk to my mother first. Besides, the agent may not have got up."

"Then I'll sit on the doorstep. But what is there to talk about? You don't want your rabbits tortured so that somebody may make thirty cents apiece. It has got to be stopped, and why not stop it now? Where does the fellow live?"

Helen told him, and added: "But you can't go like that."

"No; I suppose not," said Festing doubtfully. "It won't make a long round if I call at Gardiner's. I'll come back later and tell you how I've fixed things up."

He lifted his badly crushed hat, and when he turned away Helen laughed, a half-hysterical laugh. His fierce energy had, so to speak, left her breathless; she was shaken by confused emotions. It was for her sake he had plunged into the quarrel, but she felt disturbed by his savageness. For all that, something in her approved, and it was really this that troubled her. Picking up the basket, she crossed the field with a very thoughtful look.



CHAPTER X

HELEN DECIDES

Some weeks had passed since Festing went to gather mushrooms when he sat, one evening, on the terrace in front of Gardiner's house. His brows were knit and he had in his had a letter from Kerr at the construction camp. The back of the letter was covered with penciled calculations, but he presently put it down and looked moodily about.

The larches that sheltered the house had been in full leaf when he came, but now they were getting bare. One could see the hills through a fine network of twigs, dotted with minute tassels of gold. The beeches and oaks looked solid yet, but the former shone warm brown and red against the others' fading green. Withered leaves fluttered down, and the smell of a burning heap hung in the damp air.

The touches of brown and gold in the landscape hinted that time was passing. Winter was already advancing across the wastes of Northern Canada and the geese and ducks were flying south. Festing heard in fancy the brant's changing cry that always filled him with unrest, but the letter in his hand was a clearer call. Kerr had offered him a contract for hauling a quantity of telegraph posts and logs across the snow, and his calculations indicated that the work ought to be profitable. It would keep him occupied all winter; one could buy horses cheap when harvest was over and sell them advantageously when plowing began in the spring. Besides, the money he earned would help him to stock his farm and furnish his homestead well.

He had loitered in England long enough. He would never forget this holiday, for he had learned what happiness life might have in store; but it was a happiness that could not be attained by romantic dreams. He must earn it by tense effort, and was willing to pay the price; this was the reason he must get back to work. For all that, he had doubts, and was glad when Muriel came along the terrace and sat down on the bench.

"You look unusually thoughtful," she said.

"I have something to think about. I find I must go back to Canada very soon."

Muriel made an abrupt movement. "You are going away! But we thought—" She paused and resumed: "Does Helen know?"

"Not yet; I must tell her. It will cost me something to leave, but I've got to go. Perhaps you had better see what Kerr has to say."

He gave her the letter, and after waiting until she had read it, went on: "I can't let this chance pass; I want the money."

"I think I understand," said Muriel. "Still you haven't told me much."

He was silent for a few moments and looked very grave, but she had for some time imagined that he was bearing a strain.

"Well," he said, "I'm up against things and can't see my way. That is, I do see where I mean to go, but don't know if I ought."

"The problem's not exactly new. However, if you will state it clearly."

"I'll try," said Festing. "One can trust you; in fact, I wanted to tell you before."

He explained his difficulties, practical and moral, and when he finished Muriel said: "It comes to this—You are in love with Helen and mean to marry her, but hesitate because you fear she may find the life too hard."

"It's a big risk for an English girl. She must give up everything, while I have all to gain."

"But suppose she were willing?"

"The trouble is that she doesn't know what she may have to bear."

Muriel smiled. "It's a risk that many girls must run. But after all it depends upon what she values most."

"Comfort, leisure, refined friends, and other things you enjoy here are worth much to a girl."

"All this is true," Muriel agreed, and pausing, continued with a blush: "Still these things don't satisfy every need, and perhaps my example may be some encouragement. Fred isn't very clever and will probably never be rich, but I'd sooner face poverty with him than marry a prince."

Festing bowed. "Thank you for that! Fred's a very good sort. I knew you had pluck."

"I really think Helen is pluckier and stronger than me. But I imagine you have already made up your mind."

"I have; for all that, I'm afraid. If I have bad luck, Helen will have to pay. I know she was willing to marry Charnock, but she was very young then and he was rich compared with me."

"Then I suppose a little money would be a useful help?"

"It would, in one way," Festing agreed. "The trouble is that I haven't much; only enough to make a fair start if I'm economical."

For a moment Muriel looked amused, but her seriousness returned. "We'll let that go. You seem to forget that you don't stand alone. I should have found it hard to forgive Fred if he had decided whether he ought to marry or not, without consulting me. It's a girl's right, not her lover's, to say what she values most and how much she is willing to bear. If Helen loves you, she's entitled to be given the choice."

"Ah," said Festing, "I don't know if she loves me yet!"

Muriel's eyes twinkled. "That is something you must find out for yourself. But perhaps I have said enough."

She went back to the house and Festing sat still in the gathering dark. He had made up his mind and felt encouraged, but he saw difficulties that must be met.

Next day he went to the Scar and found that Helen was not at home, but Mrs. Dalton and her sister received him, and for a time he talked about things that did not matter. It was dull and damp outside, and a bright wood fire burned in the grate. The low-ceilinged room was very warm, its comfort seemed enervating, and he felt braced as he thought of the windswept prairie. Then he knew his remarks were vague and disconnected. It was a relief to plunge into the business he had come about.

"I had better tell you that I am going to ask Helen to marry me," he said.

Mrs. Dalton did not look surprised, and he thought Miss Graham smiled. Perhaps he had been abrupt, but he did not care.

"You have done what is proper in warning my sister first," Miss Graham remarked; but Mrs. Dalton was silent for a few moments.

"You imply that Helen doesn't know," she said.

"She does not; I've been careful not to give her a hint," Festing declared. "I was afraid to alarm her by, so to speak, rushing things. You're not used to it in England."

Miss Graham's amusement was plainer. "The caution you exercised must have cost you something."

"After all, you haven't known Helen long," Mrs. Dalton resumed.

"That's so, in a way, but five minutes was long enough. I knew I'd never marry anybody else when I saw her in the garden the first day I came."

He thought Miss Graham gave him an approving look, but he turned to Mrs. Dalton.

"I hope you will give your consent; but, of course, if you object, or there's anything you want to ask——"

Mrs. Dalton roused herself. She felt breathless, as if she had been carried along at an unusual pace.

"To begin with," she said quietly, "I cannot object to you. We know something about your character; you helped my son, helped him more than you perhaps thought. But there is something I must ask." She hesitated and then resumed: "You have seen the life Helen leads with us. She has never had to use much self-denial. What have you to offer her in Canada?"

"Not much. In fact, that's partly why I came first to you. I felt you should be warned; that's really what I meant."

"You are honest," Miss Graham interposed. "You want my sister's approval, but don't think it essential."

Festing looked at Mrs. Dalton. "If you refused, I wouldn't be altogether daunted. I might wait, but that is all. This is a matter Helen must decide."

"Yes. All the same, it is my duty to guard her from a possible mistake."

"Very well; I'll make matters as plain as I can. To begin with, I haven't much money, and although I'm building a good homestead, a Western farm is very different from the Scar. There's none of the refinement you have round you; a man must work from sunrise until it's dark, and there are many demands upon a woman. For all that, I can guard against Helen suffering actual hardship. In fact, she shall suffer nothing I can save her from. It's the pressure of things one can't control and her own character that may cause the strain. If I know her, she won't stand by and watch when there's much that ought to be done."

"She would not. But how long do you expect the strain to last?"

"Not very long. Two years, three years; I can't tell. When you break new land you work hard and wait. The railroad throws out branches, elevators are built, small towns spring up, and while you improve your holding comfort and often prosperity comes to you."

"But in the meantime a little capital would help?"

"Of course," said Festing. "The trouble is I haven't much, but I think I have enough to provide all that's strictly necessary."

He thought Mrs. Dalton gave her sister a warning glance, but she said: "Well, you have my consent to ask Helen; but if she is willing to run the risk, there is a stipulation I must make."

"So long as you consent, I'll agree to anything," Festing declared. "I can't repay you for your trust, but I'll try to deserve it."

Mrs. Dalton told him where Helen had gone, and setting off to meet her, he presently saw her come round a bend in a lane. The sun had set and tall oaks, growing along the hedgerows, darkened the lane, but a faint crimson glow from the west shone between the trunks. To the east, the quiet countryside rolled back into deepening shadow. For a moment Festing hesitated as he watched the girl advance. It was rash to uproot this fair bloom of the sheltered English garden and transplant it in virgin soil, swept by the rushing winds. Then he went forward resolutely.

Helen gave him her hand and moved on with disturbed feelings, for there was something different in his look.

"If you don't mind, we'll stop a minute; I have something to say. To begin with, I'm going back to Canada."

She looked up sharply and then waited with forced calm until he resumed: "That precipitates matters, because I must learn if I've hoped for too much before I go. I was a stranger when I came here, and you were kind—"

"You were not a stranger," Helen said quietly. "George told us about you, and for his sake—"

"I don't want you to be kind for George's sake, but my own. I'd sooner you liked me for what I am, with all my faults."

"If it's any comfort, I think I really do like you," Helen admitted with a strained smile.

"Well enough to marry me?"

Helen colored, but gave him a level glance. "Ah," she said, "aren't you rash? You hardly know me yet."

"I'm not rash at all; I knew you long ago. Your portrait hung in Charnock's house and I used to study it on winter nights. It told me what you were, and when I saw you under the copper beech I knew you very well. Still now I have seen you, your picture had lost its charm."

"Then you have it?" Helen asked.

Festing gave her a Russia leather case and her face flushed red.

"Did Bob give you this?"

"No," said Festing quietly; "I stole it."

"And the case?"

"The case was made in Montreal. I went to Winnipeg, but could get nothing good enough."

Helen turned her head. It was a long way to Winnipeg from the prairie bridge, and she was moved that he had made the journey to find a proper covering for her picture.

"You must have valued the portrait," she remarked shyly.

"I did, but it won't satisfy me now. As soon as I met you I fell in love with you. Somehow I think you must have seen—"

"Yes," said Helen quietly, "I did see."

Festing summoned his self-control. "You must know what you decide. I must live in Canada; my homestead may seem rude and bare after your mother's beautiful house, and I tried to show you what a prairie farm is like."

"I think I know," Helen said, and gave him a quick tender look. "Still, such things don't really matter——"

Then Festing stepped forward and took her in his arms.

An hour later he sat talking to Mrs. Dalton and Miss Graham in the drawing-room.

"I am glad you have agreed to wait and come back for Helen in the spring, but I ought to tell you something now, because it may make a difference in your plans," Mrs. Dalton remarked "You admitted that some of the difficulties you and Helen would have to meet might be avoided if you had a little more capital."

"It would certainly make a difference, but I have got no more."

"Helen has some money," Mrs. Dalton replied.

Festing knitted his brows. "I didn't suspect this!"

"That is obvious," Miss Graham interposed.

Festing got up, moved a pace or two, and stopped. "How much has she got?"

Mrs. Dalton told him and he frowned. "Then she had better keep it. I'd sooner you tied it up."

"Isn't that unreasonable?" Miss Graham asked.

"It's a man's business to support his wife. I don't want to live on Helen's money. Besides, I've made my plans."

"I don't think you quite understand," Mrs. Dalton rejoined. "After all, it is not a large sum and can be used for Helen's benefit. It may save her from some discomfort and give her advantages you could not provide."

Festing pondered for a few moments, and then answered thoughtfully: "Yes, I see this, and can't refuse. Well, perhaps the safest way would be to transfer the land I bought to Helen and record it in her name. It's bound to go up in value and couldn't be taken from her unless she borrowed on a mortgage. The arrangement would set free my capital and enable us to run the homestead on more comfortable lines." Then he paused and asked: "Did Charnock know about the money?"

"He did not," said Mrs. Dalton. "We thought it better not to tell him; but we can trust you."

"Thank you," said Festing, who was silent for a time.

He had wondered whether he had misjudged Charnock in one respect, but saw that he had not. The fellow was a cur and would not have married Sadie if he had known about Helen's money. But this did not matter.

"Well," he resumed, "if you agree to my proposition, we'll get a lawyer to fix it up. In a way, it's some relief to know Helen has enough, and now I'm going to talk to her."

He found her in the next room and she gave him a smile. "I expect mother has told you I'm not as poor as you thought. Are you pleased or not?"

"I'm pleased for your sake, because there's not much risk of your finding things too hard, but I'd have been proud to marry you if you had nothing at all."

"Not even a certain prettiness?" Helen asked.

"Your beauty's something to be thankful for; but after all it's, so to speak, an accident, like your money. It wasn't your beauty, but you, I fell in love with."

Helen blushed. "Ah!" she said, "now you're very nice indeed!"



CHAPTER XI

SADIE USES PRESSURE

It was getting cold in the small back office when Sadie put down her pen and went into the store. She was cramped with sitting, for she had been occupied with accounts for several hours and the stove had burned low.

"You can quit now, Steve," she said to the clerk. "Put out the lights, but don't lock up. I'm going to wait until the boss comes."

The clerk turned his head to hide a smile; because he knew where Charnock was, and thought Mrs. Charnock might have to wait some time; but he did as he was told, and when he went out Sadie stood shivering at the door. She had married Charnock late in the fall and now it was March, but there was no sign yet of returning spring. The sky was dark and a bitter wind from the prairie blew down the empty street. Blocks of square-fronted houses stood out harshly against the snow, which sparkled here and there in a ray of light. The settlement looked ugly and very desolate, and Sadie studied it with a feeling of weariness and disgust. It seemed strange that she had once thought it a lively place, but this was before she met Charnock, who had taught her much.

Shutting the door, she returned to the office and glanced critically at her reflection in a mirror on the wall. She had been ill, in consequence of the strain she had borne while her father was sick, and looked older. Her face was thin and she felt tired, but her skin had not lost its silky whiteness, and her black dress hung in becoming lines. It was a well-cut dress, for Sadie was extravagant in such matters and knew how to choose her clothes. She had lost the freshness that had marked her, but had gained something: a touch of dignity that she thought of as style.

Sitting down at the desk, she began to muse. Keller had fallen ill soon after her wedding. It was a painful illness, and as skilled help was scarce, she had nursed him until he died. He was a plain storekeeper, but she knew he was, in many ways, a bigger and better man than Bob. He demanded all that was his, but he kept his word, and when he undertook a thing put it over, which Bob seldom did. Shortly before he died he gave Sadie good advice.

"You got the man you wanted, and now it's your job to look after him. head him off the liquor, and keep your hands on the dollars. I've fixed things so's they belong to you."

Another time he asked for certain accounts, and after studying them remarked: "You want to watch the business and run it all it's worth. You have a husband to work for now, and I guess a man like Bob comes expensive. Still, if you can guild him right, he's not all a fool."

Sadie had not resented this. She knew it was true, and her father had not meant to sneer. He was a blunt man and generally talked like that, and Sadie sometimes did so. Well, she had not been cheated, because she knew what Bob was before they married; and although ambition had something to do with it, she loved him. For all that, she had got some rude jars, and now passion was dying, her love was colored by a certain half-maternal protection. Bob must be watched and guarded.

Her ambition, however, remained. She had beauty and intelligence and wanted to win a place in cultured society. Bob could help her, and she was tired of the dreary settlement. But she was practical. Money would be needed if they were to move to one of the cities, and although trade was good, gathering dollars was slow work when one had an extravagant husband. While she had been ill Bob was left in charge of the business, and on recovering her first task had been to find out how he had managed. Now she had found out and got something of a shock.

The room got colder, but Bob had made some entries in a cash-book she could not understand, and opening the book again, she spent some time in calculations that threw no fresh light on the matter. Then she heard steps and turned as Charnock came in.

He took off his fur-coat and Sadie frowned as he dropped it into a dusty corner. It was an expensive coat, but one could not teach Bob to take care of things. Then he kissed her and sat down on the edge of the table.

"You're getting prettier, Sadie; that thoughtful look of yours is particularly fetching. But I can see you're tired. Put those books away and let's get home."

Sadie knew what his compliments were worth, although they had not lost their charm. He wanted to put things off, but she must be firm.

"You make me tired, and I haven't finished with the books. We've got to have a talk."

"I like you best when you don't talk; you sometimes say too much," Charnock replied. "Besides a girl like you ought to be satisfied with being seen. You're worth looking at."

Sadie gave him a quick glance. He had recently become fastidious about his clothes and she did not grudge the dollars he spent on them. His taste was good, and he looked very graceful as he turned to her with a smile on his face. The hint of dissipation it had worn was not so marked, for she had some power over him and used it well, but she thought he had been indulging. There was, however, no use in getting angry with Bob.

"You were at Wilkinson's again," she said. "You promised you'd stop off going there. I suppose he set up the whisky!"

"I didn't take much. It wasn't good whisky; not like ours. That reminds me—I'm not much of a business man, but I've had a happy thought. My notion is we give the boys better liquor than they want. They wouldn't know the difference if we kept cheaper stuff."

Sadie frowned, because she had accepted her father's business code. His charges were high, but it had been his boast that Keller's delivered the goods one paid for. Then she realized that Bob had nearly succeeded in putting off the threatened talk.

"No," she said, "that's bad business in the end. When you'd had some whisky, Wilkinson got out the cards?"

"Oh, well, you know you stopped me playing a quiet game at home, and three or four of the boys were there. Then a Brandon real-estate man asked for the cards."

"How much were you out when you finished the game?"

"Not much," said Charnock with some hesitation.

"How much?"

"If you insist, about ten dollars."

Sadie made a gesture of impatience, but after all he might have had a heavier loss.

"Ten dollars and a headache next morning for an evening's card game. You surely don't know much, Bob! But look at this statement and tell me where the money's gone."

Charnock took the paper she gave him and colored.

"I never thought it was as much as that. Upon my word, I didn't!"

"Where's it gone?" Sadie demanded.

"I've been unlucky," said Charnock, who began a confused explanation.

He had heard of a building lot on the outskirts of Winnipeg, to which he had been told a new street line would run. He had paid for a time option on the site, and now it appeared that the trolley scheme had been abandoned. Then somebody had given him a hint about a deal in grain that the speculators could not put over. It looked a safe snap and he had sold down, but the market had gone up and his margin was exhausted. When he stopped, Sadie's eyes flashed scornfully, but she controlled her anger.

"You're a fool, Bob; you never learn," she said wearily. "Anyhow, you have got to cut out this kind of thing; the business won't stand for it long. Well, as you can't be trusted with dollars, I'll have to put you on an allowance. I hate to be mean, but if you waste what I give you, you'll get no more."

Charnock's face got red. "This is rather a nasty knock. Not that I want your money, but the thing's humiliating."

"Do you think it isn't humiliating to me?"

"Perhaps it is," said Charnock, with a half-ashamed look. "I admit I have been something of an ass, but you are mean, in a sense. What are you going to do with your money, if you don't intend to spend it?"

"Use if for making more; anyhow, until I get enough."

"When will you have enough?"

"When I can sell out the business and live where I want; give you the friends you ought to have instead of low-down gamblers and whisky-tanks. If you'd take hold and work, Bob, we'd be rich in a few years. The boys like you, you could do all the trade, and the boom that's beginning will make this settlement a big place. But I guess there's no use in talking—and I'm ill and tired."

Sadie's pose got slack and she leaned her arms on the table with her face in her hands. Charnock, feeling penitent, tried to comfort her.

"You're a very good sort, Sadie, and mean well; I'll go steady and try not to bother you again. But we won't say any more about it now. Are those new letters? The mail hadn't come when I left."

She gave him two envelopes, and after reading part of the first letter he started and the paper rustled in his hand.

"What's the matter?" she asked. "Have you lost some money I don't know about?"

"I haven't," Charnock answered with a hoarse laugh. "The letter's from some English friends. You head that Festing had gone back to the Old Country. Well, he's going to be married soon and will bring his wife out."

"Do you know her? Who is she?"

"Yes; I know her very well. She's Helen Dalton."

"The girl you ought to have married!" Sadie exclaimed. "What's she like? I guess you have her picture, though you haven't shown it me."

"I had one, but haven't now. I meant to burn the thing, but suspect that Festing stole it. Confound him!"

Sadie was silent for a few moments and then gave Charnock a searching look. "Anyhow, I don't see why that should make you mad. You let her go and took me instead. Do you reckon she'd have been as patient with you as I am?"

"No," said Charnock, rather drearily. "Helen isn't patient, and I dare say I'd have broken her heart. You have done your best for me, and I expect you find it a hopeless job. For all that, I never thought Festing——"

"It's done with," Sadie rejoined quietly, although there was some color in her face. "If the girl likes Festing, what has it to do with you? Besides, as he has located some way back from the settlement, there's no reason you should meet him or his wife." Then she frowned and got up. "But the place is very cold; we'll go home."

Charnock put out the light and locked the door, but he was silent as they walked across the snow to the hotel, and Sadie wondered what he thought. There was no doubt he was disturbed, or he would have tried to coax her into abandoning her resolution to put him on an allowance. She meant to be firm about this.

For the next two or three weeks Charnock occupied himself with his duties and everything went smoothly at the store and hotel. He was popular in the neighborhood, since his weaknesses were rather attractive than repellent to people who did not suffer from them. Men who drove long distances from their lonely farms liked a cheerful talk and to hear the latest joke; others enjoyed a game of cards in the back office when Mrs. Charnock was not about. Besides, it was known that Keller's was straight; one got full weight and value when one dealt there.

Trade, moreover, was unusually good. Settlers looking for land filled the hotel, and now elevators were to be built, farmers hired extra labor and broke new soil. Household supplies were purchased on an unprecedented scale, and when snow melted the hotel stables were occupied by rough-coated teams, while wagons, foul with the mud of the prairie trails, waited for their loads in front of the store. Sadie felt cheered and encouraged, and although Bob sometimes spent in careless talk an hour or two that might have been better employed, she was willing to make up for his neglect by extra work in the office at night. He was doing well and she began to be hopeful.

One evening, however, when there were goods to be entered and bills written out, he went home for supper and did not come back. Sadie stopped in the office long after the clerk had gone, but when she put down her pen the stove was out and she was surprised to find how late it was. She felt tired and annoyed, for she had been busily occupied since morning, and suspected that Bob was telling amusing stories while she did his work. Then in shutting up the store she forgot her rubber over-shoes, and the sidewalk was plastered with sticky mud. She wore rather expensive slippers and thought they would be spoiled.

Charnock was not about when she entered the hotel, and the guests seemed to have gone to bed. The light was out in the office, and the big lounge room, where lumps of half-dry mud lay upon the board floor, was unoccupied. The bell-boy, who was using a brush amidst a cloud of dust, said he did not think the boss had gone upstairs, and with sudden suspicion Sadie entered a dark passage that led to a room where commercial travelers showed their goods. She opened the door and stopped just inside, her head tilted back and an angry sparkle in her eyes.

The room was very hot and smelt of liquor, tobacco, and kerosene; the lamp had been turned too high and its cracked chimney was black. Charnock and three others sat round a table on which stood a bottle and four glasses. One of the glasses had upset and there was a pool, bordered by soaked cigar-ash, on the boards. The men were playing cards, and a pile of paper money indicated that the stakes were high. Sadie knew them all and deeply distrusted one, whom she suspected of practising on her husband's weaknesses; she disliked another, and the third did not count. She looked up rather awkwardly, and she saw that Charnock had taken too much liquor.

"Good evening, boys," she said. "I want to lock the doors, and guess you don't know how late it is."

Wilkinson, the man she distrusted, took out his watch. He had a horse ranch some distance off, and the farmers called him a sport. As a matter of fact, he was a successful petty gambler, but generally lost his winnings by speculating in real-estate and wheat.

"It's surely late, Mrs. Charnock," he agreed. "Still, I dare say you can give us a quarter of an hour."

"Five minutes," Sadie answered. "You can cut the game you're playing when you like. I'm tired, but I'll wait."

Wilkinson looked at Charnock, but stopped arranging his cards. "Well, I'm ready to quit. Bob's made a scoop the last few deals, and I reckon I've not much chance of getting my money back."

"Go 'way, Sadie; go 'way right now!" Charnock interrupted. "You gotta put up a fair game, and I can't stop when I've all the boys' dollars in my pocket."

Sadie was sometimes tactful, but her anger was quick, and she disliked to hear her husband use Western idioms. Moreover she expected him to be polite.

"Well," she said, "I guess that's a change; your dollars are generally in their wallets. But this game has to stop."

Mossup, the man she did not like, turned in his chair. He was not sober and his manners were not polished at the best of times. He sold small tools and hardware for a Winnipeg wholesale firm.

"Say, you might call a bell-boy. That whisky's rank; I want a different drink."

Charnock got up with an awkward movement, but Sadie did not want his help.

"Drinks are served in the bar and the bar is shut," she said.

"I'm stopping here; I hired this room, and as long as I pay it's mine. We're not in Manitoba, and I guess the law—"

Sadie silenced him imperiously. She understood his reference to Manitoba, where regulations dealing with liquor are strictly enforced.

"I make the law at Keller's, and this hotel is not a gambling saloon. Mr. Wilkinson, cork that bottle and put it on the shelf."

As Wilkinson obeyed, Mossup put his hand on his arm to hold him back, but Charnock interfered:

"You sit down right now. Understand, everybody, what Mrs. Charnock says goes."

"Certainly," Wilkinson agreed. "Get off to bed Mossup; you'll have a swelled head all right to-morrow, as it is. I'll put out the light, Mrs. Charnock; guess I'll do it better than Bob."

"Think I can't put out a common old lamp?" Charnock inquired. "Destroy the blamed thing 'fore I let it beat me."

"You're not going to try," said Wilkinson, who hustled him and Mossup out of the room and then held the door open for Sadie.

She thanked him, but felt that if she had ground to fear resentment, it was not Mossup's but his. Wilkinson had manners, but she knew he did not like to be robbed of an easy victim, and it was possible that he had let Bob win until he was drunk enough to be fleeced. She waited a few moments to let the others go, and then went upstairs and stopped in a passage that led to her room. Her face was hot and she breathed fast, for her part in the scene had cost her something. It would have been different had Charnock not been there; she could have dealt with the others, but he had made her ashamed. Then she heard his step and turned with passionate anger as he came along the passage. He stopped and looked at her with drunken admiration.

"By George, you're a fine thing, Sadie! Handsomest and pluckiest woman in the township!"

Sadie said nothing, but her pose stiffened and her lips set tight.

"Look your best when you're angry," Charnock went on. "Not quite so 'tractive, too pale and want animation, when you're calm."

She did not answer, but felt a quiver of repulsion. His voice was thick, his eyes had a stupid amorous look, and he smelt of whisky. Sadie was not remarkably fastidious; she had, for several years, managed a hotel, and had used her physical charm to attract the man, but she was jarred. As yet, she made no appeal to the better side of Bob's nature, if it had a better side, and his sensual admiration revolted her.

Charnock felt puzzled and somewhat daunted, but tried to put his arm round her waist. Sadie seized his shoulders and pushed him violently back.

"Don't you touch me, you drunken hog!" she said.

He gazed at her in dull surprise and then braced himself. Sadie had moods, but generally came round if he made love to her. Besides, although she was in one of her rages, her attitude was irresistibly inciting.

"I'm your husband anyhow. Now don't be a silly little fool——"

She drew back as he advanced and picked up a mop. It was used for polishing board floors and had a long handle.

"You're my husband when you're sober; I didn't marry a whisky-tank. If you touch me, Bob, I'll knock you down!"

Charnock stopped. When Sadie spoke like that she meant what she said. She looked at him steadily for a moment or two, and then put down the mop and turned away. He durst not follow, and when she entered a room close by, he shrugged with half-bewildered resignation and stumbled off.

Sadie, leaning with labored breath against the rail of her bed, heard him fall down the three or four steps in the middle of the passage and afterwards get up and go on again. Then she laughed, a strained, hysterical laugh.