This enclosure was devoid of all artistic effect, but in summer-time it served as a screen to break the rigour of the wooden farm-buildings. It was a practical but incongruous piece of man's handiwork, divided down the centre by a pathway bordered with overlapped hoopings of bent red willow switches, which, even in winter, protruded hideously above the beaten snow. The path led to a front gate of primitive and bald manufacture, but stout and serviceable, as was everything else about the farm. And this was the main approach to the house.

It was necessary for Grey, having taken his departure by the front door, to pass out through this gate in order to reach the barn where he had left his saddle-horse. He might have saved himself this trouble by leaving the house by the back door, which opened out directly opposite the entrance to the great barn. But he was in no mood for back doors; the condition of his mind demanded nothing less than a dignified exit, and a dignified exit is never compatible with a back door. Had he left Loon Dyke Farm in an amiable frame of mind, much that was to happen in his immediate future might have been different.

But the writing had been set forth, and there was no altering it.

He walked with a great show of unnecessary energy. It was his nature to do so. His energy was almost painful to behold. Too much vigour and energy is almost worse than chronic indolence; sooner or later people so afflicted find themselves in difficulties.

It was more than a year since his misadventure in the mountains. He had suffered for his own wrong-headedness over that matter, but he had not profited by his experience; he was incapable of doing so. His length of service and reputation for hard work had saved him from dismissal, but Chillingwood was less fortunate; subordinates in Government service generally are less fortunate when their superiors blunder.

However, Grey had outlived that unpleasantness. He was not the man to brood over disaster. Soon after he had been transferred to Ainsley the Town Clerkship fell vacant. He did what he could for Chillingwood, with the result that the younger man eventually secured the post, and thus found himself enjoying a bare existence on an income of $500 per annum.

Halfway down the path Grey became aware of a horseman approaching the farm. The figure was moving along slowly over the trail from Ainsley. In the dusk the horse appeared to be jaded; its head hung down, and its gait was ambling. The stranger was tall, but beyond that Grey could see nothing, for the face was almost entirely hidden in the depths of the storm-collar of his coat. The officer looked hard at the new-comer. It was part of his work to know, at least by sight, every inhabitant of his district. This man was quite a stranger to him. The horse was unknown to him, and the fur coat was unfamiliar. In winter these things usually mark a man out to his acquaintances. The horse shows up against the snow, and the prairie man does not usually possess two fur coats.

On the stranger's first appearance Grey's thoughts had at once flown to George Iredale, but now, as he realized that the man was unknown to him, his interest relaxed. However, he walked slowly on to the gate so that he might obtain a closer inspection. Horse and rider were about twenty-five yards off when Grey reached the gate, and he saw that they were followed at some distance by a great wolfish-looking hound.

The evening shadows had grown rapidly. The grey vault of snow-clouds above made the twilight much darker than usual. Grey waited. The traveller silently drew up his horse, and for a moment sat gazing at the figure by the gate. All that was visible of his face was the suggestion of a nose and a pair of large dark eyes.

Grey opened the gate and passed out.

"Evening," said the horseman, in a voice muffled by the fur of his coat-collar.

"Good-evening," replied Grey shortly.

"Loon Dyke Farm," said the stranger, in a tone less of inquiry than of making a statement.

Grey nodded, and turned to move away. Then he seemed to hesitate, and turned again to the stranger. Those eyes! Where had he seen just such a pair of eyes before? He tried to think, but somehow his memory failed him. The horseman had turned his face towards the house and so the great roving eyes were hidden. But Grey was too intent upon the business he had in hand to devote much thought to anything else.

There was no further reason for remaining; he had satisfied his curiosity. He would learn all about the stranger later on.

He hurried round to the stables. When he had gone the stranger dismounted; for a moment or two he stood with one hand on the gate and the other holding the horse's reins, gazing after the retreating form of the Customs officer. He waited until the other had disappeared, then leisurely hitched his horse's reins on to the fence of the enclosure, and, passing in through the gate, approached the house. Presently he saw Grey ride away, and a close observer might have detected the sound of a heavy sigh escaping from between the embracing folds of the fur collar as the man walked up the path and rapped loudly upon the front door with his mitted fist. The three-footed hound had closed up on his master, and now stood beside him.

Prudence opened the door. Tea was just ready; and she answered the summons, half expecting to find that her lover had thought better of his ill-humour and had returned to share the evening meal. She drew back well within the house when she realized her mistake. The stranger stood for one second as though in doubt; then his voice reached the waiting girl.

"Prudence, isn't it?"

The girl started. Then a smile broke over her pretty, dark face.

"Why, it's Hervey—brother Hervey. Here, mother," she called back into the house. "Quick, here's Hervey. Why, you dear boy, I didn't expect you for at least a week—and then I wasn't sure you would come. You got my letter safely then, and you must have started off almost at once—you're a real good brother to come so soon. Yes, in here; tea is just ready. Take off your coat. Come along, mother," she called out again joyously. "Hurry; come as fast as you can; Hervey is here." And she ran away towards the kitchen. Her mother's movements were far too slow to suit her.

The man removed his coat, and voices reached him from the direction of the kitchen.

"Dearie me, but, child, you do rush one about so. Where is he? There, you've left the door open; and whose is that hideous brute of a dog? Why, it looks like a timber-wolf. Send him out."

Mrs. Malling talked far more rapidly than she walked, or rather trotted, under the force of her daughter's bustling excitement. Hervey went out into the hall to meet her. Standing framed in the doorway he saw his dog.

"Get out, you brute," he shouted, and stepping quickly up to the animal he launched a cruel kick at it which caught it squarely on the chest. The beast turned solemnly away without a sound, and Hervey closed the door.

The mother was the first to meet him. Her stout arms were outstretched, while her face beamed with pride, and her eyes were filled with tears of joy.

"My dear, dear boy," she exclaimed, smiling happily. Hervey made no reciprocal movement. He merely bent his head down to her level and allowed her to kiss his cheek. She hugged him forcefully to her ample bosom, an embrace from which he quickly released himself. Her words then poured forth in a swift, incoherent flow. "And to think I believed that I should never see you again. And how you have grown and filled out. Just like your father. And where have you been all this time, and have you kept well? Look at the tan on his face, Prudence, and the beard too. Why, I should hardly have known you, boy, if I hadn't 'a known who it was. Why, you must be inches taller than your father for sure—and he was a tall man. But you must tell me all about yourself when the folks are all gone to-night. We are having a party, you know. And isn't it nice?—you will be here for Prudence's wedding——"

"Don't you think we'd better go into the parlour instead of standing out here?" the girl interrupted practically. Her mother's rambling remarks had shown no sign of cessation, and the tea was waiting. "Hervey must be tired and hungry."

"Well, I must confess I am utterly worn out," the man replied with a laugh. "Yes, mother, if tea is ready let's come along. We can talk during the meal."

They passed into the parlour. As they seated themselves at the table, Sarah Gurridge joined them from her place beside the stove. Hervey had not noticed her presence when he first entered the room, and the good school-ma'am, quietly day-dreaming, had barely awakened to the fact of his coming. Now she, too, joined in the enthusiasm of the moment.

"Ah, Hervey," she said, with that complacent air of proprietorship which our early preceptors invariably assume, "you haven't forgotten me, I know.

'Though the tempest of life will oft shut out the past, The thoughts of our school-days remain to the last.'"

"Glad to see you, Mrs. Gurridge. No, I haven't forgotten you," the man replied.

A slight pause followed. The women-folk had so much to say that they hardly knew where to begin. That trifling hesitation might have been accounted for by this fact. Or it might have been that Hervey was less overjoyed at his home-coming than were his mother and sister.

Prudence was the first to speak.

"Funny that I should have set a place more than I intended at the tea-table," she said, "and funnier still that when I found out what I'd done I didn't remove the plate and things. And now you turn up." She laughed joyously.

Sarah Gurridge looked over in the girl's direction and shook an admonitory forefinger at her.

"Mr. Grey, my dear—you were thinking of Mr. Grey, in spite of your lover's tiff."

"Who did you say?" asked Hervey, with a quick glance at Prudence.

"Leslie Grey," said his mother, before the old school-ma'am could reply. "Didn't our Prudence tell you when she wrote? He's the man she's going to marry. I must say he's not the man I should have set on for her; but she's got her own ploughing to seed, and I'm not the one to say her 'nay' when she chooses her man."

Hervey busied himself with his food, nor did he look up when he spoke.

"That was Grey, I s'pose, I saw riding away as I came up? Good, square-set chunk of a man."

"Yes, he left just before you came," said Prudence. "But never mind about him, brother. Tell us about yourself. Have you made a fortune?"

"For sure, he must," said their mother, gazing with round, proud eyes upon her boy, "for how else came he to travel from California to here, just to set his eyes on us and see a slip of a girl take to herself a husband? My, but it's a great journey for a boy to take."

"Nothing to what I've done in my time," replied Hervey. "Besides, mother, I've got further to go yet. And as for sister Prudence's marriage, I'm afraid I can't stay for that."

"Not stay?" exclaimed his mother.

"Do you mean it?" asked his sister incredulously.

Sarah Gurridge contented herself with looking her dismay.

"You see, it's like this," said Hervey. He had an uncomfortable habit of keeping his eyes fixed upon the table, only just permitting himself occasional swift upward glances over the other folk's heads. "When I got your letter, Prudence, I was just preparing to come up from Los Mares to go and see a big fruit-grower at Niagara. The truth is that my fruit farm is a failure and I am trying to sell it."

"My poor boy!" exclaimed his mother; "and you never told me. But there, you were always as proud as proud, and never would let me help you. Your poor father was just the same; when things went wrong he wouldn't own up to any one. I remember how we lost sixty acres of forty-bushel, No. 1 wheat with an August frost. I never learned it till we'd taken in the finest crop in the district at the next harvesting. But you didn't put all your savings into fruit?"

"I'm afraid I did, mother, worse luck."

"All you made up at the Yukon goldfields?" asked Prudence, alarm in her voice.

"Every cent."

There followed a dead silence.

"Then——" Mrs. Malling could get no further.

"I'm broke—dead broke. And I'm going East to sell my land to pay off my debts. I've had an offer for it, and I'm going to clinch the deal quick. Say, I just came along here to see you, and I'm going on at once. I only got into Winnipeg yesterday. I rode out without delay, but struck the Ainsley trail, or I should have been here sooner. Now, see here, mother," Hervey went on, as a woe-begone expression closely verging on tears came into the old dame's eyes, "it's no use crying over this business. What's done is done. I'm going to get clear of my farm first, and maybe afterwards I'll come here again and we'll talk things over a bit."

Prudence sat staring at her brother, but Hervey avoided her gaze. Mrs. Malling was too heartbroken to speak yet. Her weather-tanned face had blanched as much as it was possible for it to do. Her boy had gone out upon the world to seek his fortune, and he had succeeded in establishing himself, he had written and told her. He had found gold in quantities in the Yukon valley, and now—now, at last, he had failed. The shock had for the moment crushed her; her boy, her proud independent boy, as she had been wont to consider him, had failed. She did not ask herself, or him, the reason of his failure. Such failure, she felt, must be through no fault of his, but the result of adverse circumstances.

She never thought of the gambling-table. She never thought of reckless living. Such things could not enter her simple mind and be in any way associated with her boy. Hephzibah Malling loved her son; to her he was the king who could do no wrong. She continued to gaze blankly in the man's direction.

Sarah Gurridge alone of the trio allowed herself sidelong, speculative glances at the man's face. She had seen the furtive overhead glances; the steady avoidance of the loving observation of his womankind. She had known Hervey as well, and perhaps just a shade better than his mother and sister had; and long since, in his childish school-days, she had detected a lurking weakness in an otherwise good character. She wondered now if he had lived to outgrow that juvenile trait, or had it grown with him, gaining strength as the greater passions of manhood developed?

After the first shock of Hervey's announcement had passed, Mrs. Malling sought refuge in the consolation of her own ability to help her son. He must never know want, or suffer the least privation. She could and would give him everything he needed. Besides, after all, she argued with womanly feeling, now perhaps she could persuade him to look after the farm for her; to stay by her side. He should be in no way dependent. She would install him as manager at a comfortable salary. The idea pleased her beyond measure, and it was with difficulty she could keep herself from at once putting her proposal into words. However, by a great effort, she checked her enthusiasm.

"Then when do you think of going East?" she asked, with some trepidation. "You won't go at once, sure."

"Yes, I must go at once," Hervey replied promptly. "That is, to-morrow morning."

"Then you will stay to-night," said Prudence.

"Yes; but only to get a good long sleep and rest my horse. I'm thoroughly worn out. I've been in saddle since early this morning."

"Have you sent your horse round to the barn?" asked Sarah Gurridge.

"Well, no. He's hitched to the fence." The observing Sarah had been sure of it.

Prudence rose from her seat and called out to the hired girl—

"Mary, send out and tell Andy to take the horse round to the barn. He's hitched to the fence." Then she came back. "You'll join our party to-night, of course."

"Hoity, girl, of course not," said their mother. "How's the lad going to get rest gallivanting with a lot of clowns who can only talk of 'bowers' and 'jokers'? You think of nothing but 'how-de-doin' with your neighbours since you're going to be married. Things were different in my day. I'll look after Hervey," she continued, turning to her son. "You shall have a good night, lad, or my name's not Hephzibah Malling. Maybe you'll tell me by and by what you'd like to do."

"That's right, mother," replied Hervey, with an air of relief. "You understand what it is for a man to need rest. I'll just hang around till the folks come, and then sneak off to bed. You don't mind, Prue, do you? I'm dead beat, and I want to leave at daybreak."

"Mind?" answered Prudence; "certainly not, Hervey. I should have liked you to meet Mr. Grey, but you must get your rest."

"Sure," added her mother, "and as for meeting Mr. Grey—well, your brother won't sicken for want of seeing him, I'll wager. Come along, Hervey, we'll go to the kitchen; Prudence has to get her best parlour ready for these chattering noodles. And, miss," turning to her daughter with an expression of pretended severity, "don't forget that I've got a batch o' layer cakes in the ice-box, and you've not told me what you want in the way of drinks. La, young folks never think of the comforts. I'm sure I don't know what you'll do without your mother, girl. Some o' these times your carelessness will get your parties made a laughing-stock of. Come along, Hervey."

The old lady bustled out, bearing her son off in triumph to the kitchen. She was quite happy again now. Her scheme for her son's welfare had shut out all thought of his bad news. Most women are like this; the joy of giving to their own is perhaps the greatest joy in the life of a mother.

In the hall they met the flying, agitated figure of the hired girl, Mary.

"Oh, please, 'm, there's such a racket going on by the barn. There's Andy an' the two dogs fighting with a great, strange, three-legged dog wot looks like a wolf. They're that mussed up that I don't know, I'm sure."

"It's that brute Neche of mine," said Hervey, with an imprecation. "It's all right, girl; I'll go."

Hervey rushed out to the barn. The great three-legged savage was in the midst of a fierce scrimmage. Two farm dogs were attacking him. They were both half-bred sheep-dogs. One was making futile attempts to get a hold upon the stranger, and Neche was shaking the other as a terrier would shake a rat. And Andy, the choreman, was lambasting the intruder with the business end of a two-tine hay-fork, and shouting frightful curses at him in a strong American accent.

As Hervey came upon the scene, Neche hurled his victim from him, either dead or dying, for the dog lay quite still where it fell upon the snow. Then, impervious to the onslaught of the choreman, he seized the other dog.

"Come out of it, Andy," cried Hervey.

The hired man ceased his efforts at once, glad to be done with the savage. Hervey then ran up to the infuriated husky, and dealt him two or three terrible kicks.

The dog turned round instantly. His fangs were dripping with blood, and he snarled fiercely, his baleful eyes glowing with ferocity. But he slunk off when he recognized his assailant, allowing the second dog to run for its life, howling with canine fear.

Andy went over to the dog that was stretched upon the snow.

"Guess 'e's done, boss," he said, looking up at Hervey as the latter came over to his side. "Say, that's about the slickest scrapper round these parts. Gee-whizz, 'e went fur me like the tail end o' a cyclone when I took your plug to the barn. It was they curs that kind o' distracted his attention. Mebbe thar's more wolf nor dog in him. Mebbe, I sez."

"Yes, he's a devil-tempered husky," said Hervey. "I'll have to shoot him one of these days."

"Wa'al, I do 'lows that it's a mercy 'e ain't got no more'n three shanks. Mackinaw! but he's handy."

The four women had watched the scene from the kitchen door. Hervey came over to where they were standing.

"I'm sorry, mother," he said. "Neche has killed one of your dogs. He's a fiend for fighting. I've a good mind to shoot him now."

"No, don't go for to do that," said his mother. "We oughtn't to have sent Andy to take your horse. I expect the beast thought he was doing right."

"He's a brute. Curse him!"

Prudence said nothing. Now she moved a little away from the house and talked to the dog. He was placidly, and with no show of penitence, lying down and licking a laceration on one of his front legs. He occasionally shook his great head, and stained the snow with the blood which dripped from his fierce-looking ears. He paused in his operation at the sound of the girl's voice, and looked up. Her tone was gentle and caressing. Hervey suddenly called to her.

"Don't go near him. He's as treacherous as a dogone Indian."

"Come back," called out her mother.

The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue apron encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm, came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress, and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to appreciate the girl's attitude, for he made no attempt to move away. It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known in all his savage life.

Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge alone had anything to say.

"Poor creature," she observed, in tones of deep pity. "I wonder how he lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should say."

Hervey laughed unpleasantly.

"Oh, he's not so bad. He's savage, and all that But he's a good friend."

"Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he's very fond of you. He lets you kick him," she added significantly.

"I hardly know—and I must say I don't much care—what his feelings are towards me. Yes, he lets me kick him." Then, after a pause, "But I think he really hates me."

And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother's adulation to the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.



CHAPTER VI

THE PROGRESSIVE EUCHRE PARTY

The Mallings always had a good gathering at their card parties. Such form of entertainment and dances were the chief winter amusement of these prairie-bred folks. A twenty-mile drive in a box-sleigh, clad in furs, buried beneath heavy fur robes, and reclining on a deep bedding of sweet-smelling hay, in lieu of seats, made the journey as comfortable to such people as would the more luxurious brougham to the wealthy citizen of civilization. There was little thought of display amongst the farmers of Manitoba. When they went to a party their primary object was enjoyment, and they generally contrived to obtain their desire at these gatherings. Journeys were chiefly taken in parties; and the amount of snugness obtained in the bottom of a box-sleigh would be surprising to those without such experience. There was nothing blase about the simple country folk. A hard day's work was nothing to them. They would follow it up by an evening's enjoyment with the keenest appreciation; and they knew how to revel with the best.

The first to arrive at Loon Dyke Farm were the Furrers. Daisy, Fortune, and Rachel, three girls of round proportions, all dressed alike, and of age ranging in the region of twenty. They spoke well and frequently; and their dancing eyes and ready laugh indicated spirits at concert pitch. These three were great friends of Prudence, and were loud in their admiration of her. Peter Furrer, their brother, was with them; he was a red-faced boy of about seventeen, a giant of flesh, and a pigmy of intellect—outside of farming operations. Mrs. Furrer accompanied the party as chaperon—for even in the West chaperons are recognized as useful adjuncts, and, besides, enjoyment is not always a question of age.

Following closely on the heels of the Furrers came old Gleichen and his two sons, Tim and Harry. Gleichen was a well-to-do "mixed" farmer—a widower who was looking out for a partner as staid and robust as himself. His two sons were less of the prairie than their father, by reason of an education at St. John's University in Winnipeg. Harry was an aspirant to Holy Orders, and already had charge of a mission in the small neighbouring settlement of Lakeville. Tim acted as foreman to his father's farm; a boy of enterprising ideas, and who never hesitated to advocate to his steady-going parent the advantage of devoting himself to stock-raising.

Others arrived in quick succession; a truly agricultural gathering. Amongst the latest of the early arrivals were the Ganthorns; mother, son, and daughter, pretentious folk of considerable means, and recently imported from the Old Country.

By half-past seven everybody had arrived with the exception of George Iredale and Leslie Grey. The fun began from the very first.

The dining-table had disappeared from the parlour, as had the rugs from the floor, and somehow a layer of white wax, like an incipient fall of snow, lay invitingly on the bare white pine boarding. And, too, it seemed only natural that the moment she came into the room ready for the fray, Daisy Furrer should make a rush for the ancient piano, and tinkle out with fair execution the strains of an old waltz. Her efforts broke up any sign of constraint; everybody knew everybody else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.

They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise; complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality, few punctilios to observe—just free-and-easy good-fellowship.

Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer. Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental Peter moved heavily away.

"Oh, mother dear, it's too bad of you," exclaimed the girl, gazing at her critically. "And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look at it now. It's all on one side, and your hair is sticking out like—like—Timothy grass. Stand still while I fix it."

The girl's deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.

"There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting and tittivating. La, but one 'ud think I was going to sit down at table with a King or a Minister of the Church. Nobody's going to look at me, child—until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and scraping to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn't his way to do nothing else. He's less elaborate when he's trailing after his plough. My, but I can't abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind. And where's George Iredale? I don't see him. Now there'd be some excuse for his doing the grand. He's a gentleman born and bred."

"Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale," replied Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head. "But then he just wouldn't 'bow and scrape,' as you call it, to Mrs. Ganthorn or anybody else. He's not the sort for that kind of thing. He hasn't come yet. I'll bring him to you at once, dear, when he arrives," she finished up with a laugh.

"You're a saucy hussy," her mother returned, with a chuckle. Then: "But I'd have taken to him as a son. Girls never learn anything now-a-days until they're married to the man they fancy."

"Nothing like personal experience, lady mother. Did you ask any one's advice when you married father?"

"That I didn't for sure, child, but it was different. Your father, Silas, wasn't the man to be put off with any notions. He just said he was going to marry me—and he did marry me. I was all sort of swept off my feet."

"But still you chose him yourself," persisted the girl, laughing.

"Well, maybe I did, child, maybe I did."

"And you didn't regret your own choice, mother; so why should I?"

"Ah, it was different with me—quite different. Ah, there's some one coming in." Hephzibah Malling turned as she spoke, glad to be able to change the subject. The front door was opened, and a fur-clad figure entered. "It's George Iredale," she went on, as the man removed his cap and displayed a crown of dark-brown hair, tinged here and there with grey, a broad high forehead and a pair of serious eyes.

"Come along, George." Mrs. Malling bustled forward, followed by her daughter. "I thought you couldn't get, maybe. The folks are all dancing and dallying. You must come into the kitchen first and have something warm. It's a cold night."

"I meant to come earlier," replied the new arrival, in a deep, quiet voice. "Unfortunately, just as I was going to start, word was brought in to me that a suspicious-looking horseman was hovering round. You see my place is so isolated that any arrival has to be inquired into. There are so many horse-thieves and other dangerous characters about that I have to be careful. Well, I rode out to ascertain who the intruder was, but I lost him. That delayed me. How are you, and Prudence too? Why, it's ages since I've seen either of you. Yes, something hot is always welcome after a long winter's ride."

George Iredale had divested himself of his coat and over-shoes, and now followed his hostess to the kitchen. He was a man of considerable inches, being little short of six feet in height. He was powerfully built, although his clothes disguised the fact to a large extent, and his height made him look even slim. He had a strong, keen, plain face that was very large-featured, and would undoubtedly have been downright ugly but for an expression of kindly patience, not unmixed with a suspicion of amused tolerance. It was the face of a man in whom women like to place confidence, and with whom men never attempt to take liberties. He had, too, a charm of manner unusual in men living the rough life of the prairie.

The tinkling strains of the waltz had ceased, and Prudence went back to the parlour. She felt that it was high time to set the tables for "progressive euchre." It was past eight and Grey had not turned up. She began to think he intended carrying out his threat of staying away. Well, if he chose to do so he could. She wouldn't ask him to do otherwise. She felt unhappy about him in spite of her brave thoughts.

Her announcement of cards was hailed with delight, and the guests departed with a rush to search the house for a sufficient number of small tables to cope with the requirements of the game.

In the kitchen George Iredale was slowly sipping a steaming glass of rye whisky toddy. He was seated in a rigid, high-backed arm-chair, well away from the huge cook-stove, at which Hephzibah Malling was presiding. Many kettles and saucepans stood steaming upon the black iron top, and the occasional opening and shutting of the ovens told of dainties which needed the old farm-wife's most watchful care. Mrs. Malling's occupation, however, did not interrupt her flow of conversation. George Iredale was a great favourite of hers.

"He's like his poor father in some things," she was saying, as she lifted a batch of small biscuits out of the oven and moved towards the ice-box with them. "He never squealed about his misfortune to me. Not one letter did I get asking for help. He's proud, is Hervey. And now I don't know, I'm sure."

She paused with her hand on the open door of the refrigerator and looked back into the man's face.

"Did he tell you any details of his failure? What was responsible for it?" Iredale asked, poising his glass on one of the unyielding arms of his chair.

"No, that he didn't, not even that," in a tone of pride. "He just said he'd failed. That he was 'broke.' He's too knocked up with travelling—he's come from Winnipeg right here—or you should hear it from his own lips. He never blamed no one."

"Ah—and you are going to help him, Mrs. Malling. What are you going to do?"

"That's where I'm fixed some. Money he can have—all he wants."

Iredale shook his head gravely.

"Bad policy, Mrs. Malling—until you know all the facts."

"What, my own flesh and blood, too? Well, there——"

"I mean nothing derogatory to your boy, believe me," interrupted Iredale, as he noted the heightened colour of face and the angry sparkle that flashed in the good dame's eyes "I simply mean that it is useless to throw good money after bad. Fruit farming is a lottery in which the prizes go to those who take the most tickets. In other words, it is a question of acreage. A small man may lose his crop through blight, drought, a hundred causes. The larger man has a better chance by reason of the extent of his crop. Now I should take it, you could do better for your son by obtaining all the facts, sorting them out and then deciding what to do. My experience prompts me to suggest another business. Why not the farm?"

All signs of resentment had left Mrs. Malling's face. She deposited her biscuits and returned to the stove, standing before her guest with her hands buried deep in her apron pockets and a delighted smile on her face.

"That's just what I thought at once," she said. "You're real smart, George; why not the farm? I says that to myself right off. I couldn't do better, I know, but there's drawbacks. Yes, drawbacks. Hervey isn't much for the petticoats—meaning his own folks. He's not one to play second fiddle, so to speak. Now while I live the farm is mine, and I learned my business from one who could teach me—my Silas. Now I'd make Hervey my foreman and give him a good wage. He'd have all he wants, but he'd have to be my foreman." The old lady shook her head dubiously.

"And you think Hervey wouldn't accept a subordinate position?"

"He's that proud. Just like my poor Silas," murmured the mother.

"Then he's a fool. But you try him," Iredale said dryly.

"Do you think he might?"

"You never can tell."

"I wonder now if you—yes, I'll ask him."

"Offer it to him, you mean." George Iredale smiled quietly.

"Yes, offer it to him," the old lady corrected herself thoughtfully. "But I'm forgetting my stewing oysters, and Mistress Prudence will get going on—for she had them sent up all the way from St. John's—if they're burned." She turned to one of the kettles and began stirring at once. "Hervey is coming back after he's been to Niagara, and I'll talk to him then. I wish you could have seen him before he went, but he's abed."

"Never mind, there's time enough when he comes back. Ah, Prudence, how is the euchre 'progressing'?" Iredale turned as the girl came hurriedly in.

"Oh, here you are. You two gossiping as usual. Mother, it's too bad of you to rob me of my guests. But I came to ask for more lemonade."

"Dip it out of yonder kettle, child. And you can take George off at once. It's high time he got at the cards."

"He's too late, the game is nearly over. He'll have to sit out with Leslie. He, also, was too late. Come along, Mr. Iredale,"—she had filled the lemonade pitcher,—"and, mother, when shall you be ready with the supper? Remember, you've got to come and give out the prizes to the winners before that."

"Also to the losers," put in Iredale.

"Yes, they must all have prizes. What time, mother?"

"In an hour. And be off, the pair of you. Mary! Mary!" the old lady called out, moving towards the summer kitchen. "Bustle about, girl, and count down the plates from the dresser. La, look at you," she went on, as the hired girl came running in; "where's the cap I gave you? And for good-a-mussey's sake go and scrub your hands. My, but girls be jades."

Iredale and Prudence went off to the parlour. The game was nearly over, and the guests were laughing and chattering noisily. The excitement was intense. Leslie Grey sat aloof. He was engaged in a pretence at conversation with Sarah Gurridge, but, to judge by the expression of his face, his temper was still sulky or his thoughts were far away. The moment Iredale entered the room Grey's face lit up with something like interest.

Prudence, accompanying the rancher, was quick to observe the change. She had been prepared for something of the sort, although the reason she assigned to his interest was very wide of the mark. She smiled to herself as she turned to reply to something Iredale had just said.

The evening passed in boisterous jollification. And after the prizes had been awarded supper was served. A solid supper, just such a repast as these people could and did appreciate. The delicacies Mrs. Malling offered to her guests were something to be remembered. She spared no pains, and even her enemies, if she had any, which is doubtful, admitted that she could cook; such an admission amongst the prairie folks was a testimonial of the highest order.

After supper George Iredale, whose quiet manner and serious face debarred him from the revels of the younger men, withdrew to a small work-room which was usually set aside on these occasions for the use of those who desired to smoke. Leslie Grey, who had been talking to Mrs. Malling, and who had been watching for this opportunity, quickly followed.

He fondly believed that Iredale came to the farm to thrust his attentions upon Prudence. This was exasperating enough in itself, but when Grey, in his righteous indignation, thought of other matters pertaining to the owner of Lonely Ranch, his indignation rose to boiling pitch. He meant to have it out with him to-night.

Iredale had already adjusted himself into a comfortable chintz-covered arm-chair when Grey arrived upon the scene. A great briar pipe hung from the corner of his strong, decided mouth, and he was smoking thoughtfully.

Grey moved briskly to another chair and flung himself into its depths with little regard for its age. Nor did he attempt to smoke. His mind was too active and disturbed for anything so calm and soothing.

His first words indicated the condition of his mind.

"Kicking up a racket in there," he said jerkily, indicating the parlour. "Can't stand such a noise when I've got a lot to think about."

"No." Iredale nodded his head and spoke without removing the pipe from his mouth.

"We are to be married to-morrow week—Prudence and I."

"So I've been told. I congratulate you."

Iredale looked at his companion with grave eyes. They were quite alone in the room. He had met Grey frequently and had learned to understand his ways and to know his bull-headed methods. Now he quietly waited. He had a shrewd suspicion that the man had something unpleasant to say. Unconsciously his teeth closed tighter upon his pipe.

Grey raised his eyebrows.

"Thanks. I hardly expected it."

"And why not?" Iredale was smiling, his grey eyes had a curious look in them—something between quizzical amusement and surprise.

"Oh, I don't know," the other retorted with a shrug. "There is no telling how some men will take these things."

Iredale removed his pipe, and pressed the ash down with his little finger. The operation required the momentary lowering of his eyes from his companion's face.

"I don't think I understand you."

Grey laughed unpleasantly.

"There's not much need of comprehension. If two men run after the same girl and one succeeds where the other fails, the successful suitor doesn't usually expect congratulations from his unfortunate rival."

"Supposing such to be the case in point," Iredale replied quietly, but with an ominous lowering of his eyelids. "Mark you, I only say 'supposing.' I admit nothing—to you. The less successful man may surely be honest enough, and man enough, to wish his rival well. I have known such cases among—men."

Grey twisted himself round in his chair and assumed a truculent attitude.

"Notwithstanding the fact that the rival in question never loses an opportunity of seeking out the particular girl, and continuing his attentions after she is engaged to the other? That may be the way among—men. But not honest men."

The expression of Iredale's face remained quite calm. Only his eyes—keen, direct-gazing eyes—lit up with an angry sparkle. He drew a little more rapidly at his pipe, perhaps, but he spoke quietly still. He quite understood that Grey intended forcing a quarrel upon him.

"I shall not pretend to misunderstand you, Grey. Your manner puts that out of the question. You are unwarrantably accusing me of a most ungentlemanly proceeding. Such an accusation being made by any one—what shall I say?—more responsible than you, I should take considerable notice of; as it is, it is hardly worth my consideration. You are at best a blunderer. I should pause before I replied had I the misfortune to be you, and try to recollect where you are. If you wish to quarrel there is time and place for so doing."

Iredale's words stung Leslie Grey to the quick. His irresponsible temper fairly jumped within him, his eyes danced with rage, and he could scarcely find words to express himself.

"You may sneer as much as you like," he at length blurted out, "but you cannot deny that your visits to this house are paid with the object of addressing my affianced wife. You are right when you describe such conduct as ungentlemanly. You are no gentleman! But I do not suppose that the man who owns Lonely Ranch will feel the sting of being considered a—a—cad or anything else."

"Stop!" Iredale was roused, and there was no mistaking the set of his square jaw and the compression between his brows. "You have gone a step too far. You shall apologize or——"

"Stop—eh? You may well demand that I should—stop, Mr. George Iredale. Were I to go on you would have a distinctly bad time of it. But my present consideration is not with the concerns of Lonely Ranch, but only with your visits here, which shall cease from to-day out. And as for apologizing for anything I have said, I'll see you damned first."

There was a pause; a breathless pause. The two men confronted each other, both held calm by a strength which a moment ago would have seemed impossible in at least one of them.

Grey's face worked painfully with suppressed excitement, but he gripped himself. George Iredale was calm under the effort of swift thought. He was the first to break the silence, and he did so in a voice well modulated and under perfect control. But the mouthpiece of his pipe was nearly bitten through.

"Now I shall be glad if you will go on. You apparently have further charges to make against me. I hardly know whether I am in the presence of a madman or a fool. One or the other, I am sure. You may as well make your charges at once. You will certainly answer for all you have already said, so make the list of your accusations complete before——"

"You fool!" hissed Grey, goaded to the last extremity of patience. His headlong nature could not long endure restraint. Now his words came with a blind rush.

"Do you think I'd speak without being sure of my ground? Do you think, because other men who have occupied the position which is mine at Ainsley have been blind, that I am? Lonely Ranch; a fitting title for your place," with a sneer. "Lonely! in neighbourhood, yes, but not as regards its owner. You are wealthy, probably the wealthiest man in the province of Manitoba; why, that alone should have been sufficient to set the hounds of the law on your trail. I know the secret of Lonely Ranch. I have watched day after day the notice you have inserted in the Free Press—'Yellow booming—slump in Grey.' Nor have I rested until I discovered your secret. I shall make no charge here beyond what I have said, but——"

He suddenly broke off, awakening from his blind rage to the fact of what he was doing. His mouth shut like a trap, and beads of perspiration broke out upon his forehead. His eyes lowered before the ironical gaze of his companion. Thus he sat for a moment a prey to futile regrets. His anger had undone him. The sound of a short laugh fell upon his ears, and, as though drawn by a magnet, his eyes were once more turned on the face of the rancher.

"I was not sure which it was," said Iredale dryly; "whether you were a fool or a madman. Now I know. I had hoped that it was madness. There is hope for a madman, but none for a fool. Thank you, Grey, for the information you have supplied me with. Your folly has defeated your ends. Remember this. You will never be able to use the 'Secret'—as you are pleased to call it—of Lonely Ranch. I will take good care of that. And now, as I hear sounds of people running up-stairs, we will postpone further discussion. This interview has been prolonged sufficiently—more than sufficiently for you."

Iredale rose from his chair; to all appearance he was quite undisturbed. Grey's condition was exactly the reverse.

He, too, rose from his seat. There was a sound of some one approaching the door. Grey stepped up to his companion and put his mouth close to his ear.

"Don't forget that you cannot conceal the traces that are round your—ranch. Traces which are unmistakable to those who have an inkling of the truth."

"No, but I can take steps which will effectually nullify the exertions you have been put to. Remember you said I was wealthy. I am tired of your stupid long-winded talk."

Iredale turned away with a movement of disgust and irritation just as the door opened and Prudence came in.

"Ah, here you are, you two. I have been wondering where you were all this time. Do you know the people are going home?"

The girl ceased speaking abruptly and looked keenly at the two men before her. Iredale was smiling; Grey was gazing down at the stove, and apparently not listening to her.

Prudence saw that something was wrong, but she had no suspicion of the truth. She wondered; then she delivered a message she had brought and dismissed Iredale.

"Mother wants to see you, Mr. Iredale; something about Hervey."

"I will go to her at once." And the owner of Lonely Ranch passed out of the room.

The moment the door closed behind him the girl turned anxiously to her lover.

"What is it, Leslie dear? You are not angry with me still?"

The man laughed mirthlessly.

"Angry? No, child. I wonder if I—no, better not. It's time to be off. Give me a kiss, and I'll say good-night."



CHAPTER VII

LESLIE GREY FULFILS HIS DESTINY

It was early morning. Early even for the staff of the Rodney House Hotel. And Leslie Grey was about to breakfast. The solitary waitress the hotel boasted was laying the tables for the eight-o'clock meal. The room had not yet assumed the spick-and-span appearance which it would wear later on. There was a suggestion of last night's supper about the atmosphere; and the girl, too, who moved swiftly here and there arranging the tables, was still clad in her early morning, frowsy print dress, and her hair showed signs of having been hastily adjusted without the aid of a looking-glass. A sight of her suggested an abrupt rising at the latest possible moment.

From the kitchen beyond a savoury odour of steak and coffee penetrated the green baize swing-door which stood at one end of the room.

"Is that steak nearly ready?" asked Grey irritably, as the girl flicked some crumbs from the opposite end of his table on to the floor, with that deft flourish of a dirty napkin which waitresses usually obtain.

She paused in her work, and her hand went up consciously to the screws of paper which adorned her front hair.

"Yessir, it'll be along right now."

Then she continued to flick the table in other directions.

"I ordered breakfast for six o'clock. This is the slackest place I ever knew. I shall talk to Morton and see if things can't be altered. Just go and rouse that cook up. I've got to make Leonville before two."

The girl gave a final angry flick at an imaginary crumb and flounced off in the direction of the kitchen. The next moment her shrill voice was heard addressing the cook.

"Mr. Grey wants his breakfast—sharp, Molly. Dish it up. If it ain't done it's his look-out. There's no pleasing some folks. I s'pose Mr. Chillingwood'll be along d'rectly. Better put something on for him or there'll be a row. What's that—steak? That ain't no good for Mr. Robb. He wants pork chops. He never eats anything else for breakfast. Says he's used to pork."

The girl returned to the breakfast room bearing Grey's steak and some potatoes. Coffee followed quickly, and the officer attacked his victuals hungrily. Then Robb Chillingwood appeared.

Leslie Grey was about to rate the girl for her remarks to the cook, but Robb interrupted him.

"Well, how does the bridegroom feel?" he asked cheerily.

"Shut up!"

"What's the matter? Cranky on your wedding morning?" pursued the town clerk irrepressibly.

"I wish to goodness you'd keep your mouth shut. Why don't you go and proclaim my affairs from the steps of your beastly Town Hall?" Grey glanced meaningly in the direction of the waitress standing in open-mouthed astonishment beside one of the tables.

Robb laughed and his eyes twinkled mischievously. He turned sharply on the girl.

"Why, didn't you know that Mr. Grey was going to be married to-day?" he asked, with assumed solemnity. "Well, I'm blessed," as the girl shook her head and giggled. "You neglect your duty, Nellie, my girl. What are you here for but to 'sling hash' and learn all the gossip and scandal concerning the boarders? Yes, Mr. Grey is going to get married to-day, and I—I am to be his best man. Now be off, and fetch my 'mutton'—which is pork."

The girl ran off to do as she was bid, and also to convey the news to her friends in the kitchen. Robb sat down beside his companion and chuckled softly as he gazed at Grey's ill-humoured face, and listened to the shrieks of laughter which were borne on the atmosphere of cooking from beyond the baize door.

Grey choked down his indignation. For once he understood that protest would not serve him. Everything about his marriage had been kept quiet in Ainsley up till now, not because there was any need for it, but Robb had acceded to his expressed wishes. The latter, however, felt himself in no way bound to keep silence on this, the eventful day. Robb attacked some toast as a preliminary, while the other devoured his steak. Then Grey looked up from his plate. His face had cleared; his ill-humour had been replaced by a look of keen earnestness.

"It's a beastly nuisance that this is my wedding day," he began. "Yes, I mean it," as Robb looked up in horrified astonishment. "I don't mean anything derogatory to anybody. I just state an obvious fact. You would understand if you knew all."

"But, damn it, man, you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying such a thing. You are marrying one of the best and sweetest girls in Southern Manitoba, and yet—why, it's enough to choke a man off his feed." Chillingwood was angry.

"Don't be a fool. You haven't many brains, I know, but use the few you possess now, and listen to me. A week ago, yes; a week hence, yes. But for the next three days I have some dangerous work on hand that must be done. Work of my department."

"Ah, dirty work, I suppose, or there'd be no 'must' or 'danger' about it."

Grey shrugged.

"Call it what you like. Since you've left the service I notice you look at things differently," he said. "Anyway, it's good enough for me to be determined to see it through in spite of my wedding. Damn it, there's always some obstacle or other cropping up at inopportune moments in my life. However—I wish I knew whether I could still trust you to do something for me. It would simplify matters considerably."

Robb looked serious. He might not be possessed of many brains, as Grey had suggested—although Grey's opinions were generally warped—but he thought well before he replied. And when he spoke he showed considerable decision and foresight.

"You can trust me all right enough if the matter is clean and honest. I'll do nothing dirty for you or anybody else. I've seen too much."

"Oh, it's clean enough. I don't dirty my hands with dishonest dealings. I simply do my duty."

"But your sense of duty is an exaggerated one—peculiar. I notice that it takes the form of any practices which you consider will advance your personal interests."

"It so happens that my 'personal interests' are synonymous with the interests of those I serve. But all I require is the delivery of a letter in Winnipeg, at a certain time on a given date. I can't trust the post for a very particular reason, and as for the telegraph, that wouldn't answer my purpose. I could employ a messenger, but that would not do either—a disinterested messenger could be got at. You, I know, couldn't be—er—influenced. If you fail me, then I must do it myself, which means that I must leave my bride shortly after the ceremony to-day, and not return to her until Friday, more than two days hence. That's how the matter stands. I will pay all your expenses and give you a substantial present to boot. Just for delivering a letter to the chief of police in Winnipeg. I will go and write it at once if you consent."

Robb shook his head doubtfully.

"I must know more than that. First, I must know, in confidence of course, the object of that letter. And, secondly, who is to be the victim of your machinations. Without these particulars you can count me 'out.' I'll be no party to anything I might afterwards have cause to regret."

"That settles it then," replied Grey resentfully. "I can't reveal the name of my 'victim,' as you so graphically put it. You happen to know him, I believe, and are on a friendly footing with him." He finished up with a callous laugh.

Robb's eyes shone wickedly.

"By Jove, Grey, you've sunk pretty low in your efforts to regain your lost position. I always knew that you hadn't a particle of feeling in your whole body for any one but yourself, but I didn't think you'd treat me to a taste of your rotten ways. Were it not for the sake of Alice Gordon's chum, the girl you are going to marry, I wouldn't be your best man. You have become utterly impossible, and, after to-day's event, I wash my hands of you. Damn it, you're a skunk!"

Grey laughed loudly, but there was no mirth in his hilarity. It was a heartless, nervous laugh.

"Easy, Robb, don't get on your high horse," he said presently. Then he became silent, and a sigh escaped him. "I had to make the suggestion," he went on, after a while. "You are the only man I dared to trust. Confound it, if you must have it, I'm sorry!" The apology came out with a jerk; it seemed to have been literally wrung from him. "Try and forget it, Robb," he went on, more quietly, "we've known each other for so many years."

Robb was slightly mollified, but he was not likely to forget his companion's proposition. He changed the subject.

"Talking of Winnipeg, you know I was up there on business the other day. I had a bit of a shock while I was walking about the depot waiting for the train to start."

"Oh." Grey was not paying much attention; he was absorbed in his own thoughts.

"Yes," Robb went on. "You remember Mr. Zachary Smith?"

His companion looked up with a violent start.

"Well, I guess. What of him? I'm not likely to forget him easily. There is just one desire I have in life which dwarfs all others to insignificance, and that is to stand face to face with Mr. Zachary Smith," Grey finished up significantly.

"Ah! So I should suppose," Robb went on. "Those are my feelings to a nicety. But I didn't quite realize my desire, and, besides, I wasn't sure, anyhow. A man appeared, just for one moment, at the booking-office door as I happened to pass it. He stared at me, and I caught his eye. Then he beat a retreat before I had called his face to mind—you see, his appearance was quite changed. A moment later I remembered him, or thought I did, and gave chase. But I had lost him, couldn't discover a trace of him, and nearly lost the train into the bargain. Mind, I am not positive of the fellow's identity, but I'd gamble a few dollars on the matter, anyway."

"Lord! I'd have missed fifty trains rather than have lost sight of him. Just our luck," Grey exclaimed violently.

"Well, if he's in the district, we'll come across him again. Perhaps you will have the next chance." Robb pushed his chair back.

"I hope so."

"It was he, right enough," Robb went on meditatively, his cheery face puckered into an expression of perplexity. "He was well dressed, too, in the garb of an ordinary citizen, and looked quite clean and respectable. His face had filled out; but it was his eyes that fixed me. You remember those two great, deep-sunken, cow-eyes of his——" Robb broke off as he saw Grey start. "Why, what's up?"

Grey shook himself; then he gazed straight before him. Nor did he heed his companion's question. A strongly-marked pucker appeared between his eyebrows, and a look of uncertainty was upon his face. Robb again urged him.

"You haven't seen him?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Grey.

"What do you mean?"

"I have just remembered something. I came across a—stranger the other day. He was wrapped in furs, and I could only see his eyes. But those eyes were distinctly familiar—'cow'-eyes, I think you said. I was struck with their appearance at the time, but couldn't just realize where I had seen eyes like 'em before." Then he went on reflectively: "But no, it couldn't have been he. Ah——" He broke off and glanced in the direction of the window as the jangle of sleigh-bells sounded outside. "Here's our cutter. Come on."

Robb rose from his seat and brushed the crumbs from his trousers. There came the sound of voices from the other side of the door.

"Some of the boys," said Robb, with a meaning smile. "It's early for 'em."

"I believe this is your doing," said Grey sulkily.

Robb nodded in the direction of the window. "You've got a team. This is no 'one-horsed' affair."

The door opened suddenly and two men entered.

"Oh, here he is," said one, Charlie Trellis, the postmaster, with a laugh. "Congratulate you, Grey, my friend. Double harness, eh? Tame you down, my boy. Good thing, marriage—for taming a man."

"You're not looking your best," said the other, Jack Broad, the telegraph operator. "Why, man, you look as though you were going to your own funeral. Buck up! Come and have a 'Collins'; brace you up for the ordeal."

"Go to the devil, both of you," said Grey ungraciously. "I don't swill eye-openers all day like you, Jack Broad. Got something else to do."

"So it seems. But cheer up, man," replied Broad imperturbably, "it's not as bad as having a tooth drawn."

"Nor half as unpleasant as a funeral," put in Trellis, with a grin.

Grey turned to Robb.

"Come on," he said abruptly. "Let's get. I shall say things in a minute if I stay here."

"That 'ud be something new for you," called out Broad, as the two men left the room.

The door closed on his remark and he turned to his companion.

"I'm sorry for the poor girl," he went on. "The most can-tankerous pig I ever ran up against—is Grey."

"Yes," agreed the other; "I can't think how a decent fellow like Robb Chillingwood can chum up with him. He's a surly clown—only fit for such countries as the Yukon, where he comes from. He's not particularly clever either. Yes," turning to the waitress, "the usual. How would you like to be the bride?"

The girl shook her head.

"No, thanks. I like candy."

"Ah, not vinegar."

"Nor—nor—pigs."

Broad turned to the grey-headed postmaster with a loud guffaw.

"She seems to have sized Grey up pretty slick."

Outside in the hall the two men donned their furs and over-shoes. Fortunately for Grey's peace of mind there was no one else about. The bar-tender was sweeping the office out, but he did not pause in his work. Outside the front door the livery-stable man was holding the horses. Grey took his seat to drive, and wrapped the robes well about him. It was a bitterly cold morning. Robb was just about to climb in beside him when a ginger-headed man clad in a pea-jacket came running from the direction of the Town Hall. He waved one arm vigorously, clutching in his hand a piece of paper. Robb saw him first.

"Something for me, as sure as a gun. Hold on, Grey," he said. "It's Sutton, the sheriff. I wonder what's up?"

The ginger-headed man came up breathlessly.

"Thought I was going to miss you, Chillingwood. A message from the Mayor. 'Doc' Ridley sends word that the United States marshal has got that horse-thief, Le Mar, over the other side. You'll have to make out the papers for bringing him over. I've got to go and fetch him at once."

"But, hang it, man, I can't do them now," exclaimed Robb.

"He's on leave of absence," put in Grey.

"Can't be helped. I'm sorry," said the sheriff.

"It's business, you know. Besides, it won't take you more than an hour. I must get across to Verdon before noon or it'll be too late to get the papers 'backed' there. Come on, man; you can get another cutter and follow Grey up in an hour. You won't lose much time."

"Yes, and who's going to pay the damage?" said Robb, relinquishing his hold on the cutter's rail.

The sheriff shrugged his shoulders.

"You'll have to stay," he said conclusively.

"I suppose so. Grey, I'm sorry."

"Oh, it doesn't matter," replied Grey coldly. "It's not your fault. Well, good-bye. Don't bother to follow me up."

"Damn!" ejaculated the good-hearted Robb, as the cutter moved away.

"Going to get married, ain't he?" said the sheriff shortly, as Grey departed.

"Yes." And the two men walked off in the direction of Chillingwood's office.

And Grey drove off to his wedding alone. He was denied even the support of the only man who, out of sheer good-heartedness, would have accompanied him. The life of a man is more surely influenced by the peculiarities of his own disposition than anything else. When a man takes to himself a wife, it is naturally a time for the well-wishes of his friends. This man set out alone. Not one God-speed went with him. And yet he was not disturbed by the lack of sympathy. He looked at life from an uncommon standpoint, measuring its scope for the attainment of happiness by his own capacity for doing, not by any association with his kind. He was one of those men who need no friendship from his fellows, preferring rather to be without it. Thus he considered he was freer to follow his own methods of life. Position was his goal—position in the walk of life he had chosen. Could he not attain this solely by his own exertions, then he would do without it.

The crisp, morning air smote his cheeks with the sting of a whip-lash as he drove down the bush-lined trail which led from the Rodney House to the railway depot. It was necessary for him to cross the track at this point before he would find himself upon the prairie road to the Leonville school-house, at which place the ceremony was to be performed. The "gush" of the horses' nostrils sounded refreshingly in his ears as the animals fairly danced over the smooth, icy trail. The sleigh-bells jangled with a confused clashing of sounds in response to the gait of the eager beasts. But Grey thought little of these things. He thought little of anything just now but his intended despoiling of the owner of Lonely Ranch. All other matters were quite subsidiary to his one chief object.

Once out in the open, the horses settled down into their long-distance stride. Here the trail was not so good as in the precincts of the village. The snow was deeper and softer. Now and then the horses' hoofs would break through the frozen crust and sink well above the fetlocks into the under-snow.

Now the thick bush, which surrounded the village, gave place to a sparser covering of scattered bluffs, and the grey-white aspect of the country became apparent. The trail was well marked as far as the eye could reach—two great furrows ploughed by the passage of horses and the runners of the farmers' heavy "double-bobs." Besides this, the colour was different. There was a strong suggestion of earthiness about the trail which was not to be observed upon the rolling snow-fields of the surrounding prairie.

The air was still though keen, and the morning sun had already risen well above the mist of grey clouds which still hovered above the eastern horizon. There was a striking solemnity over all. It was the morning promise of a fair day, and soon the dazzling sunshine upon the snow would become blinding to eyes unused to the winter prairie.

But Grey was no tenderfoot. Such things had no terrors for him. His half-closed eyes faced the glare of light defiantly. It is only the inexperienced who gaze across the snow-bound earth, at such a time, with wide-open eyes.

The bluffs became scarcer as mile after mile was covered by the long, raking strides of the hardy horses. Occasionally Grey was forced to pull off the trail into the deep snow to allow the heavy-laden hay-rack of some farmer to pass, or a box-sleigh, weighted down with sacks of grain, toiling on its way to the Ainsley elevator. These inconveniences were the rule of the road, the lighter always giving way to the heavier conveyance.

Ten miles from Ainsley and the wide open sea of snow proclaimed the prairie in its due form. Not a tree in sight, not a rock, not a hill to break the awful monotony. Just one vast rolling expanse of snow gleaming beneath the dazzling rays of a now warming sun. A hungry coyote and his mate prowling in search of food at a distance of half-a-mile looked large by reason of their isolation. An occasional covey of prairie chicken, noisily winging their way to a far-distant bluff, might well be startling both to horses and driver. A dark ribbon-like flight of ducks or geese, high up in the heavens, speeding from the south to be early in the field when the sodden prairie should be open, was something to distract the attention of even the most pre-occupied. But Grey was oblivious to everything except the trail beneath him, the gait of his team, and his scheme for advancement. The sun mounted higher, and the time passed rapidly to the traveller. And, as the record of mileage rose, the face of the snow-clad earth began again to change its appearance. The undulations of the prairie assumed vaster proportions. The waves rose to the size of hills, and the gentle hollows sank deeper until they declined into gaping valleys. Here and there trees and small clumps of leafless bush dotted the view. A house or two, with barn looming largely in the rear, and spidery fencing, stretching in rectangular directions, suggested homesteads; the barking of dogs—life. These signs of habitation continued, and became now more frequent, and now, again, more rare. The hills increased in size and the bush thickened. Noon saw the traveller in an "up-and-down" country intersected by icebound streams and snow-laden hollows. The timber became more heavy, great pine trees dominating the more stunted growths, and darkening the outlook by reason of their more generous vegetation. On the eastern extremity of this belt of country stood the school-house of Leonville; beyond that the undulating prairie again on to Loon Dyke Farm.

Leslie Grey looked at his watch; the hands indicated a near approach to the hour of one. He had yet three miles to go to reach his destination. He had crossed a small creek. A culvert bridged it, but the snow upon either side of the trail was so deep in the hollow that no indication of the woodwork was visible. It was in such places as these that a watchful care was needed. The smallest divergence from the beaten track would have precipitated the team and cutter into a snow-drift from which it would have been impossible to extricate it without a smash-up. Once safely across this he allowed the horses to climb the opposite ascent leisurely. They had done well—he had covered the distance in less than six hours.

The hill was a mass of redolent pinewoods. It was as though the gradual densifying of this belt of woodland country had culminated upon the hill. The brooding gloom of the forest was profound. The dark green foliage of the pines seemed black by contrast with the snow, and gazing in amongst the leafless lower trunks was like peering into a world of dayless night The horses walked with ears pricked and wistful eyes alertly gazing. The darkness of their surroundings seemed to have conveyed something of its mysterious dread to their sensitive nerves. Tired they might be, but they were ready to shy at each rustle of the heavy branches, as some stray breath of air bent them lazily and forced from them a creaking protest.

As the traveller neared the summit the trail narrowed down until a hand outstretched from the conveyance could almost have brushed the tree-trunks.

Grey's eyes were upon his horses and his thoughts were miles away. Ahead of him gaped the opening in the trees which marked the brow of the hill against the skyline. He had traversed the road many times on his way to Loon Dyke Farm and knew every foot of it. It had no beauties for him. These profound woods conveyed nothing to his unimpressionable mind; not even danger, for fear was quite foreign to his nature. This feeling of security was more the result of his own lofty opinion of himself, and the contempt in which he held all law-breakers, rather than any high moral tone he possessed. Whatever his faults, fear was a word which found no place in his vocabulary. A nervous or imaginative man might have conjured weird fancies from the gloom with which he found himself surrounded at this point. But Leslie Grey was differently constituted.

Now, as he neared the summit of the hill, he leant slightly forward and gathered up the lines which he had allowed to lie slack upon his horses' backs. A resounding "chirrup" and the weary beasts strained at their neck-yoke. Something moving in amongst the trees attracted their attention. Their snorting nostrils were suddenly thrown up in startled attention. The off-side horse jumped sideways against its companion, and the sleigh was within an ace of fouling the trees. By a great effort Grey pulled the animals back to the trail and his whip fell heavily across their backs. Then he looked up to discover the cause of their fright. A dark figure, a man clad in a black sheepskin coat, stood like a statue between two trees.

His right arm was raised and his hand gripped a levelled pistol. For one brief instant Grey surveyed the apparition, and he scarcely realized his position. Then a sharp report rang out, ear-piercing in the grim silence, and his hands went up to his chest and his eyes closed.

The next moment the eyes, dull, almost unseeing, opened again, he swayed forward as though in great pain, then with an effort he flung himself backwards, settling himself against the unyielding back of the seat; his face looked drawn and grey, nor did he attempt to regain the reins which had dropped from his hands. The horses, unrestrained, broke into a headlong gallop; fright urged them on and they raced down the trail, keeping to the beaten track with their wonted instinct, even although mad with fear. A moment later and the sleigh disappeared over the brow of the hill.

All became silent again, except for the confused, distant jangle of the sleigh-bells on the horses' backs. The dark figure moved out on to the trail, and stood gazing after the sleigh. For a full minute he stood thus. Then he turned again and swiftly became lost in the black depths whence he had so mysteriously appeared.



CHAPTER VIII

GREY'S LAST WORDS

Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands quite alone as though in proud distinction for its classic vocation. Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that region of Nature's carefully-finished handiwork.

However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers' sleighs grouped about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill, whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly woodland.

The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke Farm. Hephzibah Malling had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation. Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who attended the function.

But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of serious talk—talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom. The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to officiate at the launching of his old friend's daughter upon the high seas of wedded life.

The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling's side. The younger people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering, and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched winding away towards the western horizon.

The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here at least an hour before it was necessary."

"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs. Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"

"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that black object a bush?"

"Bush," said some one shortly.

"Ah," ejaculated the parson. Then he turned to Mrs. Malling, who stood beside him staring down the trail with unblinking eyes. Her lips were pursed and twitching nervously. "There can have been no mistake about the time, I suppose?"

"Mistake? No," retorted the good lady with irritation. "Folks don't make no mistake about the hour of their wedding. Not the bridegroom, anyway. No, it's an accident, that's what it is, as sure as my name's Hephzibah Malling. And that's what comes of his staying at Ainsley when he ought to have been hereabouts. To think of a man driving forty odd miles to get married. La' sakes! It just makes me mad with him. There's my girl there most ready to cry her eyes out on her wedding morning, and small blame to her neither. It's a shame, and I'm not the one to be likely to forget to tell him so when he comes along. If he were my man he'd better his ways, I know."

No one replied to the old lady's heated complaint. They all too cordially agreed with her to defend the recalcitrant bridegroom. Mr. Danvers drew out his watch for at least the twentieth time.

"Five minutes overdue," he murmured. Then aloud and in a judicial tone: "We must allow him some margin. But, as you say, it certainly was a mistake his remaining at Ainsley."

"Mistake—mistake, indeed," Mrs. Malling retorted, with all the scorn she was capable of. "He's that fool-headed that he won't listen to no reason. Why couldn't he have stopped at the farm? Propriety— fiddlesticks!" Her face was flushed and her brow ominously puckered; she folded her fat hands with no uncertain grip across the slight frontal hollow which answered her purpose for a waist. Her anger was chiefly based upon alarm, and that alarm was not alone for her daughter. She was anxious for the man himself, and her anxiety found vent in that peculiar angry protest which is so little meant by those who resort to it. The good dame was on pins and needles of nervous suspense. Had Grey suddenly appeared upon the scene doubtless her kindly face would have at once wreathed itself into a broad expanse of smiles. But the moments flew by and still the little group waited for the coming which was so long delayed.

Three of the young men approached the agitated mother from the juvenile gathering. Their faces were solemn. Their own optimism had given way before the protracted delay. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers came first, Andy, the choreman, brought up the rear.

"We've been thinking," said Tim, feeling it necessary to explain the process which had brought them to a certain conclusion, "that maybe we might just drive down the trail to see if we can see anything of him, Mrs. Malling. Ye can't just say how things have gone with him. Maybe he's struck a 'dump' and his sleigh's got smashed up. There's some tidy drifts to come through, and it's dead easy to get dumped in 'em. Peter and Andy here have volunteered to go with me."

"That's real sensible of you, Tim," replied Mrs. Malling, with an air of relief. She felt quite convinced that an accident had happened. She turned to the minister. In this matter she considered he was the best judge. Like many of her neighbours, she looked to the minister as the best worldly as well as spiritual adviser of his flock. "Like as not the boys will be able to help him?" she suggested, in a tone of inquiry.

"I don't think I should let them go yet," the man of the cloth replied. "I should give him an hour. It seems to me it will be time enough then. Ah, here's Mrs. Gurridge," as that lady appeared in the doorway. "There's no sign of him," he called out in anticipation of her inquiry. "I hope you are not letting the bride worry too much."

"It's too dreadful," said Mrs. Ganthorn, as her thoughts reverted to Prudence waiting in the school-ma'am's sitting-room.

"Whatever can have happened to him?"

"That's what's been troubling us this hour and more," snapped the girl's mother. She was in no humour to be asked silly questions, however little they were intended to be answered.

She turned to Sarah. In this trouble the peaceful Sarah would act as oil on troubled waters.

Sarah understood her look of inquiry.

"She's bearing up bravely, Hephzibah. She's not one of the crying sort. Too much of your Silas in her for that. I've done my best to console her."

She did not say that she had propounded several mottos more or less suitable to the occasion, which had been delivered with great unction to the disconsolate girl. Prudence had certainly benefited by the good woman's company, but not in the way Sarah had hoped and believed. It was the girl's own sense of humour which had helped her.

Mrs. Malling turned away abruptly. Her red face had grown a shade paler, and her round, brown eyes were suspiciously watery. But she gazed steadily down the trail on which all her hopes were set. The guests stood around in respectful silence. The party which had arrived so light-heartedly had now become as solemn as though they had come to attend a funeral. The minister continued to glance at his watch from time to time. He had probably never in his life so frequently referred to that faithful companion of his preaching hours. Tim Gleichen and Peter Furrers and Andy had moved off in the direction of the sleighs. The others followed Mrs. Malling's example and bent their eyes upon the vanishing point of the trail.

Suddenly an ejaculation escaped one of the bystanders. Something moving had just come into view. All eyes concentrated upon a black speck which was advancing rapidly in a cloud of ground snow. Hope rose at a bound to wild, eager delight. The object was a sleigh. And the speed at which it was coming down the trail told them that it was bearing the belated bridegroom, who, conscious of his fault, was endeavouring to make up the lost time. Mrs. Malling's round face shone again in her relief, and a sigh of content escaped her. Word was sent at once to the bride, and all was enthusiasm again. Then followed a terrible shock. Peter Furrer, more long-sighted than the rest, delivered it in a boorish fashion all his own.

"Ther' ain't no one aboard of that sleigh," he called out. "Say, them plugs is just boltin'. Gum, but they be comin' hell-belt-fer-leckshuns." Every one understood his expression, and faces that a moment before had been radiant with hope changed their expression with equal suddenness to doubt, then in a moment to apprehension.

"You don't say——" Mrs. Malling gasped; it was all she could say.

"It can't——" The minister got no further, and he fingered his watch from force of habit.

"It's——" some one said and broke off. Then followed an excited murmur. "What's Peter going to do?"

The young giant had darted off down the trail in the direction of the approaching sleigh. He lurched heavily over the snow, his ungainly body rolling to his gait, but he was covering ground in much the same way that a racing elephant might. His stride carried him along at a great pace. The onlookers wondered and exclaimed, their gaze alternating in amazement between the two objects, the oncoming sleigh and the huge lurching figure of the boy.

Now the sleigh was near enough for them to note the truth of Peter's statement. The horses, ungoverned by any guiding hand, were tearing along at a desperate pace. The cutter bumped and swayed in a threatening manner; now it was lifted bodily from the trail as its runners struck the banked sides of the furrows; now it balanced on one side, hovering between overturning and righting itself, now on the other; then again it would jerk forward with a rush on to the heels of the affrighted horses with maddening effect. The poor brutes stretched themselves wildly to escape from their terror. On they came amidst a whirl of flying snow, and Peter had halted beside the trail awaiting them.

Those who were watching saw the boy move outside the beaten track. Already the panting of the runaways could be heard by those looking on. If the animals were not stayed in their mad career they must inevitably crash into the school-house or collide with the sleighs at the tying-posts. There was no chance of their leaving the beaten trail, for they were prairie horses.

Some of the men, as the realization of this fact dawned upon them, hurried away to remove their possessions to some more secure position, but most of them remained gaping at the runaway team.

Now they saw Peter crouch down, beating the snow under his feet to give himself a firm footing. Barely fifty yards separated him from the sleigh. He settled himself into an attitude as though about to spring. Nearer drew the sleigh. The boy's position was fraught with the greatest danger. The onlookers held their breath. What did he contemplate? Peter had methods peculiar to himself, and those who looked wondered. Nearer—nearer came the horses. A moment more and the boy was lost in the cloud of snow which rose beneath the horses' speeding feet. A sigh broke from many of the ladies as they saw him disappear. Then, next, there came an exclamation of relief as they saw his bulky figure struggling wildly to draw himself up over the high back of the sleigh. It was no easy task, but Peter's great strength availed him. They saw him climb over and stand upon the cushion, then, for a moment, he looked down as though in doubt.

At last he leaned forward, and, laying hold of the rail of the incurved dashboard, he climbed laboriously out on to the setting of the sleigh's tongue. The flying end of one of the reins was waving annoyingly beyond his reach. He ventured out further, still holding to the dashboard, which swayed and bent under the unaccustomed weight. Suddenly he made a grab and caught the elusive strap and overbalanced in the effort. He came within an ace of falling, but was saved by lurching on to the quarters of one of the horses. With a struggle he recovered himself and regained the sleigh. The rest was the work of a few seconds.

Bracing himself, he leant his whole weight on the single rein. The horses swerved at once, and leaving the trail plunged into the deep snow. The frantic animals fell, recovered themselves, and floundered on, then with a great jolt the sleigh turned over. Peter shot clear of the wreck, but with experience of such capsizes, he clung tenaciously to the rein. He was dragged a few yards; then, trembling and ready to start off again at a moment's notice, the jaded beasts stood.

There was a rush of men to Peter's assistance. The women followed. But the latter never reached the sleigh. Something clad in the brown fur of the buffalo was lying beside the trail where the cutter had overturned. Here they came to a stand, and found themselves gazing down upon the inanimate form of Leslie Grey.

It was a number of the younger ladies of the party who reached the injured man first; the Furrer girls and one of the Miss Covills. They paused abruptly within a couple of yards of the fur-clad object and craned forward, gazing down at it with horrified eyes. The next minute they were thrust aside by the parson. He came, followed by Mrs. Malling.

In a moment he had thrown himself upon his knees and was looking into the pallid face of the prostrate man, and almost unconsciously his hand pushed itself in through the fastenings of the fur coat. He withdrew it almost instantly, giving vent to a sharp exclamation. It was covered with blood.

"Stand back, please, everybody," he commanded.

He was obeyed implicitly. But his order came too late. They had seen the blood upon his hand.

Miss Ganthorn began to faint and was led away. Other girls looked as though they might follow suit. Only Hephzibah Malling stood her ground. Her face was blanched, but her mouth was tightly clenched. She uttered no sound. All her anger against the prostrate man had vanished; a world of pity was in her eyes as she silently looked on.

The parson summoned some of the men.

"Bear a hand, boys," he said, in a business-like tone which deceived no one. "We'd better get him into the house." Then, seeing Mrs. Malling, he went on, "Get Prudence away at once. She must not see."

The old farm-wife hurried off, and the others gently raised the body of the unconscious man and bore it towards the house.

Thus did Leslie Grey attend his wedding.

The body was taken in by a back way to Sarah Gurridge's bedroom and laid upon the bed. Tim Gleichen was dispatched at once to Lakeville for the doctor. Then, dismissing everybody but Harry Gleichen, Mr. Danvers proceeded to remove the sick man's outer clothing.

The room was small, the one window infinitely so. A single sunbeam shone coldly in through the latter and lit up the well-scrubbed bare floor. There was nothing but the plainest of "fixings" in the apartment, but they had been set in position by the deft hand of a woman of taste. The bed on which the unconscious man had been placed was narrow and hard. Its coverlet was a patchwork affair of depressing hue.

Mr. Danvers bent to his work with a full appreciation of the tragedy which had happened. His face was solemn, and expressive of the most tender solicitude for the injured man. In a whisper he dispatched his assistant for warm water and bandages, whilst he unfastened and removed the fur coat. Inside the clothing was saturated with still warm blood. The minister's lips tightened as the truth of what had happened slowly forced itself upon his mind.

So absorbed was he in his ministrations that he failed to heed the sound of excited whisperings which came to him from beyond the door. It was not until the creaking of the hinges had warned him that the door was ajar, that he looked up from his occupation. At that moment there was a rustle of silk, the noise of swift footsteps across the bare boards, and Prudence was at the opposite side of the bed.

The soft oval of the girl's face was drawn, and deep lines of anxious thought had broken up the smooth expanse of her forehead. Her eyes seemed to be straining out of their sockets, and the whites were bloodshot. She did not speak, but her look displayed an anguish unspeakable. Her eyes were turned upon the face of the prostrate man; she did not appear to see the minister. Her look suggested some mute question, which seemed to pass from her troubled eyes to the silent figure. Watching her, Danvers understood that, for the present, it would be dangerous to break the dreadful silence that held her. He stooped again and drew back the waistcoat and began to cut away the under-garments from Grey's chest.

Swiftly as the minister's deft fingers moved about the man's body, his thoughts travelled faster. He was not a man given to morbid sentimentality; his calling demanded too much of the practical side of human nature. He was there to aid his flock, materially as well as spiritually, but at the moment he felt positively sick in the stomach with sorrow and pity for the woman who stood like a statue on the other side of what he knew to be this man's deathbed. He dared not look over at her again. Instead, he bent his head lower and concentrated his, mind on the work before him.

The silence continued, broken only by an occasional heavy gasp of breath from the girl. The dripping shirt was cut clear of the man's chest, and the woollen under-shirt was treated in a similar manner. The exposed flesh was crimson with the blood which was slowly oozing from a small wound a few inches higher up in the chest than where the heart was so faintly beating. One glance sufficed to tell the parson that medical aid would be useless. The wound was through the lungs.

For a moment he hesitated. His better sense warned him to keep silence, but pity urged him to speak. Pity swayed him with the stronger hand.

"He is alive," he said. And the next moment he regretted his words.

The tension of the girl's dreadful expression relaxed instantly. It was as the lifting of a dead weight which had crushed her heart within her. She had been numbed, paralyzed. Actual suffering had not been hers, she had experienced a suspension of feeling which had resulted from the shock. But that suspension was far more dreadful than the most acute suffering. Her whole soul had asked her senses, "What is it?" and the waiting for the answer had been to her in the nature of a blank.

The minister's low murmured sentence had supplied her with an answer. "He is alive." The words touched the springs of life within her and a glad flush swept over her straining nerves. Reason once more resumed its sway, and thought flowed through her brain in an unchecked torrent It seemed to Prudence as though some barrier had suddenly shut off the simple life which had always been hers, and had opened out for her a fresh existence in which she found herself alone with the still, broken body of her lover. For one brief instant her lips quivered, and a faint in-catching of the breath told of the woman, which, at the first return of feeling, had leapt uppermost in her. But before the maturity of emotion brought about the breakdown, a calm strength came to her aid and steadied her nerves and checked the tears which had so suddenly come into her eyes. Women are like this. At a crisis in sickness they rise superior to all emotion. When the crisis is past, whether for good or ill, it is different.

The water was brought, and the minister set about cleaning the discoloured flesh, while Prudence looked on in silence. She was very pale, and her eyes were painfully bright. While her gaze followed the gentle movements of the minister, her thoughts were running swiftly over the scenes of her life in which the wounded man had played his part. She remembered every look of the now closed eyes, and every expression of his well-loved features. She called to mind his words of hope, and the carefully-laid plans for his advancement. Nor was there any taint of his selfishness in her recollection of these things. Everything about him, to her, was good and true. She loved him with all the passionate intensity of one who had only just attained to perfect womanhood. He had been to her something of a hero, by reason of his headstrong, dominating ways—ways which more often attract the love of woman in the first flush of her youth than in her maturer, more experienced years.

The sponging cleaned the flesh of the ghastly stain, and the small wound with its blackened rim lay revealed in all its horrid significance. The girl's eyes fixed themselves on it, and for some seconds she watched the blood as it welled up to the surface. The meaning of the puncture forced itself slowly upon her mind, and she realized that it was no accident which had laid her lover low. Her eyes remained directed towards the crimson flow, but their expression had changed, as had the set of her features. A hard, relentless look had replaced the one of tender pity—a look which indexed a feeling more strong than any other in the human organism. She was beginning to understand now that a crime had been committed, and a vengeful hate for some person unknown possessed her.

She pointed at the wound, and her voice sounded icily upon the stillness of the room.

"That," she said. "They have murdered him."

"He has been shot." The parson looked up into the girl's face.

Then followed a pause. Sarah Gurridge and Prudence's mother stole softly in and approached the bedside. The former carried a tumbler of brandy in her hand and came to Mr. Danvers's side; Mrs. Malling ranged herself beside her daughter, but the latter paid no heed to her.

The farm-wife lifted the girl's hand from the bedpost and caressed it in loving sympathy. Then she endeavoured to draw her away.

"Come, child, come with me. You can do no good here."

Prudence shook her off roughly. Nor did she answer. Her mother did not renew her attempt.

All watched while Danvers forced some of the spirit between Grey's tightly-closed lips and then stood up to note the effect.

He was actuated by a single thought. He knew that the man was doomed, but he hoped that consciousness might be restored before the tiny spark of life burnt itself out. There was something to be said if human aid could give the dying man the power to say it. Prudence seemed to understand the minister's motive, for she vaguely nodded her approval as she saw the spirit administered.

All waited eagerly for the sign of life which the stimulating properties of the spirit might reveal. The girl allowed her thoughts to drift away to the lonely trail over which her lover had driven. She saw in fancy the crouching assailants firing from the cover of some wayside bluff. She seemed to hear many shots, to see the speeding horses, to hear the dull sound of the fatal bullet as her man was hit. She pictured to herself the assassins, with callous indifference, as the cutter passed out of view, mounting their horses and riding away. Her thoughts had turned to the only criminals she understood—horse-thieves.

The sign of life which had been so anxiously awaited came at last. It was apparent in the flicker of the wax-like eyelids; in the faintest of sighs from between the colourless lips. Danvers bent again over the dying man and administered more of the spirit It took almost instantaneous effect. The eyelids half opened and the mouth distinctly moved. The action was like that of one who is parched with thirst. Grey gasped painfully, and a strange rattle came from his throat.

Danvers shook his head as he heard the sound. Prudence, whose eyes had never left the dying man's face, spoke sharply. She voiced a common thought "Who did it, Leslie?"

The minister nodded approval. For a moment his eyes rested admiringly on the girl's eager face. Her courage astonished him. Then, as he read her expression aright, his wonder lessened. The gulf is bridged by a single span at the point of transition from the girl to the woman. He understood that she had crossed that bridge.

Grey struggled to speak, but only succeeded in uttering an inarticulate sound. The minutes dragged. The suspense was dreadful. They all realized that he was fast sinking, but in every heart was a hope that he would speak, would say one word which might give some clue to what had happened.

The minister applied the rest of the brandy. The dying man's breathing steadied. The eyes opened wider. Prudence leaned forward. Her whole soul was in the look she bestowed upon the poor drawn face, and in the tones of her voice.

"Leslie, Leslie, speak to me. My poor, poor boy. Tell me, how did it happen? Who did it?"

The man gasped in response. He seemed to be making one last great struggle against the overwhelming weakness which was his. His head moved and a feeble cough escaped his lips. The girl put her arm under his head and slightly raised it, and the dying eyes looked into hers. She could no longer find words to utter; great passionate sobs shook her slight frame, and scalding tears coursed down her cheeks and fell upon the dingy coverlet.