As her lover rode away Alice turned back to the house. The anxious look was still upon her face. She knew that there was serious trouble in the family, and she could see no way of helping these people she loved. Prudence was in sad disgrace with her mother; she had been absent from the farm for two days and had only returned that morning. Mrs. Malling had been distracted with anxiety and grief until the re-appearance of her daughter, and then, when she saw that she was well and that no accident had happened to her, she had flown into such a terrible passion that even Prudence had quailed before her. Never in her life had Alice seen the kindly old soul give way to such rage. No disparaging epithet had been too bad for her child, and she had literally chased the girl from the room in which they had met. Since then Prudence had retreated to her bedroom, and Hephzibah had poured out the vials of her wrath upon an empty kitchen, for even the long-suffering hired girl had feared to face her.

Now, as Alice approached the front door again, she heard the sound of high-pitched voices coming from the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge had come over while the farm-wife's rage was at its height; and, as Alice listened, she thought that these two old cronies were quarrelling. But her ears quickly told her that her surmise was wrong. She heard Prudence's voice raised in angry protest, and, instead of entering the house, she discreetly withdrew, passing round to the farmyard instead.

In the kitchen a stormy scene was being enacted.

Prudence was standing just inside the door. Her mother was beside a long table on which were laid out the necessaries for pastry-making. She had faced round upon the girl and stood brandishing a rolling-pin in one hand, and in the other she held a small basket of eggs. Sarah was seated in a high-backed Windsor chair. Her arms were folded across her waist, and her face expressed perplexed alarm. Prudence's face was aflame; nor were her eyes one whit less angry than her mother's.

"But I say you shall hear me, mother, whether you like it or not. I'll not let you or any one else call me the filth which you did this morning for nothing."

The girl's voice was hoarse with nervous feeling, Mrs Mailing shook her rolling-pin in a perfect fury.

"Out of this kitchen, you baggage! Out of it, do you hear me? Go an' get your garments packed up, and out ye go into the street. Child o' my flesh, are ye? Out of my house, you drab, or maybe I'll be doing you a harm. I'll teach the like o' you to be stoppin' out o' nights an' then to come back wi'out a word of explainin'. I'll teach you."

"Give the child a hearing, Hephzibah," said Sarah, in her soft even tones, as there came a lull in the angry mother's tirade.

Prudence shot a grateful glance in her preceptor's direction.

Hephzibah turned swiftly on the peaceful Sarah. But the words of anger which hovered upon her lips remained unspoken. Sarah was an influence in the old lady's life, and long association was not without effect. She visibly calmed. Prudence saw the change and took advantage of it.

"How could I explain when you wouldn't listen to me?" she exclaimed resentfully. "Almost before I could say a word you called me all the shameful things you could think of. You drove me to silence when I was willing to tell you all—I was more than willing. You must know all, for the story I have to tell as nearly affects you as it does me. I stayed away from home to save an innocent man from the dreadful charge of murder, and your son from perpetrating the most wanton act of his worthless life."

A dead silence followed her words. Hephzibah stared at her with an expression of stupefied amazement, while Sarah turned in her chair with a movement which was almost a jolt. The silence was at last broken by the girl's mother.

"Murder? Hervey?"

And there was no understanding in her tone. Her mind seemed to be groping blindly, and she merely repeated the two words which struck her most forcibly.

"Yes, 'murder' and 'Hervey,'" Prudence retorted. "Hervey has accused George Iredale of the murder of Leslie Grey. Now will you listen to my explanation?"

Hephzibah precipitated herself into a chair. The rolling-pin was returned to its place upon the dough-board with a clatter, and the basket of eggs was set down with a force that sorely jeopardized its contents.

"Yes, girl. Tell me all. Let me hear what devil's work my Hervey's been up to. La sakes! an' George Iredale a murderer!"

And Prudence, her anger evaporated as swiftly as her mother's, told the two old ladies of her love for Iredale, and how he had asked her to be his wife. She told them how Hervey had come to her with the story of his discovery; how, after attempting to blackmail his victim, he had offered his information to her at a price. How she forced him to prove his case, and had sent him to Winnipeg with that object; how she had been nearly distracted, and eventually made up her mind to go and see Iredale himself; how the accused man had established to her his innocence beyond any doubt, and how he had shown her how impossible it would be for him to use the same means of clearing himself in a court of law. She dwelt upon each point, so that these two, who were so dear to her, should not fail to understand as she understood. Then she told them how, recognizing George's danger, she had resolved to intercept Hervey, and, with her mother's assistance, pay him off; and, finally, how she had been overtaken by the forest fire; and how, her mare exhausted, she had arrived at Damside in time to send her message to her brother; and how, failing any other means of returning home, she had taken shelter with the elevator clerk's wife until her mare had recovered and she was able to resume her journey to the farm.

It was a long story, and the many interruptions of her mother gave the girl much extra trouble in the telling; but with a wonderful patience, born of her anxiety for her lover, she dealt with every little point that puzzled her audience.

When the story was finished its effect was made curiously manifest. The one thing which seemed to have gripped her mother's intensest feeling was the part her boy had played. Her round eyes had grown stern, and her comely lips had parted as her breath came heavy and fast. At last she burst out with a curious mixture of anger and sorrow in her words.

"Bone of my Silas; flesh of my flesh; an' to think o' the like. My Hervey a whelp of hell; a bloodsucker. Oh, that I should ha' lived to see such a day," and she rocked herself, with her hand supporting her head and her elbows planted upon her knees. "Oh, them travellin's in foreign parts. My poor, poor Silas; if he'd jest lived long 'nough to git around our boy with a horsewhip we might ha' been spared this disgrace. Prudence, girl, I'm that sorry for what I've said to you."

Tears welled in the old eyes, which had now become very wistful, and slowly rolled down the plump cheeks. Suddenly she gathered up her apron and flung it up over her head, and the rocking continued dismally. Prudence came over to her and knelt at her side, caressing her stout figure in sympathy. Sarah sat looking away towards the window with dreamy eyes. The old school-mistress made no comment; she was thinking deeply.

"Don't cry, mother," said Prudence, with an ominous catch in her voice. "Whatever Hervey's faults, he will reap his own punishment. I want you to help me now, dear. I want you to give me the benefit of your experience and your sound, practical sense. I must see this through. I have a wicked brother and an obstinate lover to deal with, and I want you to help me, and tell me what is best to do."

The apron was removed from Mrs. Malling's head, and her eyes, red and watery, looked at the girl at her side with a world of love in their depths.

"These two men will be here this afternoon," the girl went on. "George is coming to tell you his story himself, that you may judge him. He declares that, come what may, he will not rest with this shadow upon him. In justice to us, his friends, and to himself, he must face the consequences of his years of wrongdoing. Hervey will be here for his money. This is the position; and, according to my reckoning, they will arrive at about the same time. I don't quite know why, but I want to confront Hervey with the man he accuses. Now tell me what you think."

"I'm thinking you make the third of a pack of fool-heads," said the farm-wife gently. "George is no murderer, he's not the killin' sort. He's a man, he is. Then why worrit? An' say, if that boy o' mine comes along he'll learn that them Ar'tic goldfields is a cooler place for his likes than his mother's farm." The old woman's choler was rising again with tempestuous suddenness. "Say, he's worse'n a skunk, and a sight more dangerous than a Greaser. My, but he'll learn somethin' from them as can teach him!"

"Yes, mother," replied the girl, a little impatiently; "but you don't seem to see the seriousness of what he charges——"

"That I do, miss. Am I wantin' in understandin'? George is as innocent as an unborn babe, so what's the odds along o' Hervey's accusin'? It don't amount to a heap o' corn shucks. That boy ain't responsible, I tell ye. He's like to get locked up himself in a luny 'sylum. I'll give him accusin'!"

"But, mother, that won't do any good. He must be paid off."

"An' so he shall—and so he shall, child. There's more dollars in this farm than he reckons on, and they're ready for usin' when I say the word. If it's pay that's needed, he shall be paid, though I ain't just understandin' the need."

Sarah's voice broke in at this point.

"The child's right, Hephzibah; there's money to be spent over this thing, or I'm no judge of human nature. Hervey's got a strong case, and, from what the story tells us, George is a doomed man if he goes before the court. Innocent he may be—innocent he is, I'll wager; but if he's obstinate he's done for."

The farm-wife made no reply, but sat gazing wistfully before her.

"Yes, yes," Prudence said earnestly. "It is just the money—nothing more. We must not let an innocent man suffer. And, 'Aunt' Sarah, we must prevail upon George to let us stop Hervey's mouth. That is our chief difficulty. You will help me—you and mother. You are so clever, 'Aunt' Sarah. George will listen to you. Oh, we must—must save him, even against himself."

Sarah nodded her head sagely; she was deeply affected by all she had heard, but she gave no outward sign.

"Child," she replied, "we will all do our best—for him—for you; but yours is the tongue that will persuade him best. He loves you, child, and you love him. He will not persist, if you are set against it."

"I hope it will be as you say," replied Prudence dubiously. "But when he comes you will let him tell his story in his own way. You will listen patiently to him. Then you can laugh at his determination and bring your arguments to bear. Then we will keep him until Hervey arrives, and we will settle the matter for ever. Oh, mother, I dread what is to come."

Mrs. Mailing did not seem to be paying much heed, but, as the girl moved away from her side, she spoke. There was no grief, no anger in her voice now. She spoke quite coldly, and Sarah Gurridge looked keenly over at her.

"Yes, girl, we'll settle this rumpus, and—Hervey."

Prudence moved towards the door. She turned at her mother's words.

"I will go up-stairs," she said. "I want to think."

She opened the door and nearly fell against the dog Neche, who was standing outside it. There was a fanciful suggestion of the eavesdropper about the creature; his attitude was almost furtive. He moved slowly away, and walked with the girl to the foot of the stairs, where he laid himself down with a complacent grunt. The girl went up to her room.

"This day's doin's will be writ on my heart for ever," said the farm-wife plaintively, as the door closed behind her daughter.

"An' see you, Hephzibah, and let no eyes read of them, for there will be little credit for anyone in those same doings," said Sarah solemnly.

Mrs. Malling hugged herself, and again began to rock slowly. But there were no signs of tears in her round, dark eyes. Now and again her lips moved, and occasionally she muttered to herself. Sarah heard the name "Hervey" pass her lips once or twice, and she knew that her old friend had been sorely stricken.

As the time for Iredale's arrival drew near, Prudence became restless. Her day had been spent in idleness as far as her farm work was concerned. She had chosen the companionship of Alice, and had unburdened her heart to her. But sympathetic and practical as her friend was, she was quite unable to help her.

As four o'clock drew near, however, Alice did the only thing possible. She took herself off for a walk down the Lakeville trail. She felt that it was better for everybody that she should be away while the trouble was on, and, besides, she would meet her lover on his way to the farm, and give him timely warning against making his meditated stay for the night.

At the appointed hour there came the clatter of a pacer's hoofs at the front gate, and a moment later Prudence led her lover into the parlour. After a few brief words she hurriedly departed to summon her mother and Sarah. There was a significant solemnity in this assembling; nor was it lessened by the smuggler's manner. Even the wolfish Neche seemed impressed with what was happening, for he clung to the girl's heels, following her wherever she went, and finally laid down upon the trailing portion of her skirt when she took up her position beside her lover and waited for him to begin.

The opening was a painful one for everybody. Iredale scarcely knew how to face those gentle folk and recount his disgraceful story. He thought of all they had been to him during his long years upon the prairie. He thought of their implicit trust and faith in him. He almost quailed before the steady, honest eyes of the old people. However, he at last forced himself to his task, and plunged into his story with uncompromising bluntness.

"I am accused of murder," he said, and paused, while a sickly feeling pervaded his stomach.

Mrs. Malling nodded her head. She was too open to remain silent long.

"Of Leslie Grey," she said at once. "And ye needn't to tell us nothin' more, George. We know the yarn you are about to tell us. An' d'ye think we're goin' to believe any addle-pated scalliwag such as my Hervey, agin' you? Smuggler you may be, but that you've sunk to killin' human flesh not even a minister o' the Gospel's goin' to convince me. Here, I respects the man I give my hand to. Shake me by the hand, George—shake me by the hand." And the farm-wife rose from her chair and ambled across the room with her hand outstretched.

Iredale clasped it in both of his. And never in his life had he experienced such a burst of thankfulness as he did at that moment. His heart was too full to speak. Prudence smiled gravely as she watched this whole-hearted token of her mother's loyalty to a friend. Nor was Sarah backward in her expression of goodwill.

"Hephzibah's right, George, and she speaks for both of us. But there's work to be done for all that. Hervey's to be dealt with."

"To be bribed," said Hephzibah uncompromisingly, as she returned to her seat.

Iredale shook his head and his face set sternly. Prudence saw the look she feared creep into her lover's eyes. She opened her lips to protest, but the words remained unspoken. She had heard the rattle of a buckboard outside. The sound died away, and she knew that the vehicle had passed round to the barn. She waited in an agony of suspense for her brother's appearance.

"You needn't to shake your head," went on the farm-wife. "This matter's my concern. It's my dollars as is goin' to pay Master Hervey—an' when he gets 'em may they blister his fingers, I sez."

Prudence heard a footstep in the hall. The crucial moment had arrived, and her heart palpitated with nervous apprehension. Before Iredale could reply the door was flung open, and Hervey stood in their midst. Instantly every eye was turned upon him. He stood for a moment and looked round. There was a slight unsteadiness in his attitude. His great eyes looked wilder than ever, and they were curiously bloodshot. At least one of the three ladies possessed an observant mind. Sarah saw that the man had been drinking. To her the signs, though slight, were unmistakable. The others did not seem to notice his condition.

"Ah," he said, with an attempt at pleasantry, "a nice little party. Well, I've come for the dibs."

His eyes lit upon the figure of George Iredale, and he broke off. The next moment he went on angrily—

"What's that man doing in this house?" he cried, his eyes fairly blazing with sudden rage. "Is the place turned into a refuge for—murderers?"

The man's fury had set fire to the powder train. His mother was on her feet in a twinkling. Her comfortable body fairly shook in her indignation. Her face was a flaming scarlet, and her round eyes sparkled wickedly.

"And who be you to question the calling of my house, Hervey Malling?" she cried; "since when comes it that you've the right to raise your voice against my guests? An' by what right d'ye dare to accuse an innocent man? Answer me, you imp of Evil," she demanded. But she gave him no time to speak, and went on, her voice rising to a piercing crescendo. "Spare your wicked tongue, which should be forked by reason of the lies as has fallen from it. Oh, that you should be able to call me 'mother.' I'd rather mother the offspring of a rattlesnake than you. What have you done by us all your life but bring sorrow an' trouble upon those who've done all that which in them is to help you? Coward! Traitor! An' you come now with lies on your tongue to harm an innocent man what's done you no harm." She breathed hard. Then her wrath swept on, and the room rang with the piercing pitch of her voice. "You've come for your blood-money—your thirty pieces. You villain; if your poor father were alive this day he should lay a raw hide about you till your bones were flayed. Sakes! I've a mind to set about you myself. Look at him, the black-heart! Look at him all! Was ever such filth of a man? and him my son. Blood-money! Blood-money! And to think that I'm living to know it."

She paused. Hervey broke in—

"Silence, you old fool! You don't know what you're talking about. That man," pointing over at Iredale, who sat waiting for an opportunity to interfere, "is the murderer of Leslie Grey. I suppose he has been priming you with blarney and yarns. But I tell you he murdered Grey. I'm not here for any tomfoolery. I got Prudence's message to say the money was forthcoming. Where is it? Fifteen thousand dollars buys me, and that I want at once. If I have any more yapping I'll make it twenty thousand."

He looked about him savagely, and his eyes finally paused at George Iredale, seated beside Prudence. He cared nothing for his mother's vituperation, but he was watchful of the smuggler.

Suddenly the burly rancher sprang to his feet. He stepped up to Hervey. The latter moved a pace back.

"Not one cent, you cowardly hound!" he roared. "Not one cent shall you have; do you hear? I thank God that I am here to stop you robbing these, your mother and sister." Mrs. Malling tried to interfere, but he waved her back. "I've come at the right time, and I tell you that you shall not take one cent of the money. I will never leave you lest you should wheedle it from them. I will spoil your game. This is what I intend to do. You and I will set out for Winnipeg to-night, and together we will interview the Commissioner of Police. Do you understand me? I have the whip hand now. And I promise you your silence shall not be bought."

Prudence interfered.

"Listen to me, George. I implore you not to do this thing. Hervey can have all he wants—everything. You are innocent we know, but you cannot prove your innocence. Why should you break my heart when there is a way out of the difficulty? There is but one person who can denounce you, and his silence we can purchase. Oh, George," the girl went on passionately, "as you love me, listen. My heart will break if this thing you meditate comes to pass. Oh, my love, say you won't do it! Let mother pay the man off that he may pass out of our lives for ever. See, mother is going for the money now. It is so easy; so simple."

Mrs. Mailing had risen from her seat and moved away to the door. Hervey stood at the far end of the parlour facing the open window. He saw his mother pass out, and a great look of satisfaction came into his eyes. After all, these women meant to treat him fairly, he thought.

He grinned over at Iredale.

"Better drop it, Iredale, and don't play the fool. When I get the money I shall forget that I ever knew you."

The smuggler was about to fire a swift retort when the sound of voices coming in at the open window interrupted him. The voices were a man's and a woman's. Prudence recognized Alice's tones. The other's she did not recognize at once.

Sarah Gurridge, who had been a silent observer of the scene, had heard the sound too, but she was absorbed in what was being enacted about her. Her eyes were upon Hervey. She saw him start, and his great haunting eyes were turned upon the window. Suddenly he rushed forward towards it. He had to pass round the table, close to where Prudence was now standing. In doing so he kicked against the dog, which was standing with its ears pricked up and its head turned in the direction whence the voices sounded.

The man's evil face was blanched. A wild, hunted look was in his eyes. Iredale saw, was startled, and his reply died upon his lips as he wondered at this sudden change.

"Shut the window. Do you hear?" cried Hervey excitedly. "Don't let them hear. Don't let them——"

He had reached the window to carry out his own instructions. His hands were upon the casements, and he was about to fling the glass frames together. But suddenly his arms dropped to his sides. He stood face to face with the figure of Robb Chillingwood!

There was a dreadful silence. Then slowly Hervey backed away; his glaring eyes were fixed upon the stern countenance of the ex-Customs officer. Slowly he backed, backed from the apparition; and the onlookers noted the pallid cheeks and blazing eyes, and they wondered helplessly. Nor did Hervey pause until he reached the wall furthest from the window. Then he stood, and his lips silently moved.

Suddenly there was a cry, and it rang with vengeful triumph. It came from the man at the window—Robb Chillingwood.

"By God! it's Zachary Smith!"

The next instant and he was in the room.

The onlookers gazed blankly from one to the other of the two men. What did it mean? Who was Zachary Smith? And why did Robb so call Hervey? Then their eyes settled on the man against the wall. The cheeks were no longer pallid; they were flushed with a hectic colouring, and those strange eyes were filled with an awful, murderous light. The lips continued to move, but he did not speak; only his right hand slipped round behind him.

Then Robb's voice sounded through the room again.

"So, Mr. Zachary Smith, we meet again. And, by the Lord Harry, you shall swing for what you did in the mountains! Highway robbery of the Government bullion under the charge of Leslie Grey, and the murder of our Indian guide, Rainy-Moon." Then he turned—"Hold that door!" he shouted; and Iredale sprang to obey.

"But——" Prudence rushed forward, but Sarah stopped her and drew her back.

A wild laugh came from Hervey's direction.

"And who's going to take me?" he cried. "You, Robb Chillingwood, you? Ha, ha!" and his maniacal laugh rang out again. "Look to yourself, you fool. Grey crossed my path, and he paid for it with his life. You shall follow him."

While his words yet rang upon the air his hand shot out from behind him, gripping a heavy revolver. The pistol was raised, and a shriek went up from the two ladies.

Suddenly there was a rush, a snarl; and a great body seemed to literally hurl itself through the air. A shot rang out; simultaneously a cry echoed through the room; Hervey staggered as something seized him by the throat and tore away the soft flesh; another shot followed.

It all happened in a twinkling. Hervey fell to the ground with a gurgling cry, and Neche, the dog, until then forgotten by everybody, rolled over by his side with one dying yelp of pain. Then silence reigned throughout the room and all was still.

Iredale returned his smoking pistol to his pocket, and went over to Hervey's side. His movements seemed to release the others from the spell under which they had been held. Robb, unharmed by Hervey's shot, came forward, and Sarah and Prudence followed in his wake. But Iredale waved the ladies back.

"Stand away, please," he said quietly. "The dog had finished him before I got my shot in to save him. The brute has literally torn his throat out." Then he looked over at the dead hound. "It's awful; I wonder what made the dog turn upon him?"

"Are they both dead?" asked Robb, in an awestruck voice.

Iredale nodded.

"It must have been the sight of Hervey's levelled pistol that made the dog rush at him," said Prudence. "I've seen him do so before."

"Strange, strange," murmured Iredale.

"That dog feared firearms," said Sarah.

"Perhaps he had reason," observed Robb significantly, "he only has three sound legs. My God! And not content with his victims in the mountains, he——But, yes, I see it. This man came here without expecting to meet Grey or me." Robb broke off and looked at Prudence. "Of course, I am beginning to understand. You and Grey were to have been married." Then he turned back to the contemplation of the dead bodies.

"Yes, the murderer of Grey lies confessed," said Iredale quietly, "and I think that his motives were even stronger than those attributed to——"

Prudence placed a hand over his mouth before he could complete his sentence.

They were startled from their horrified contemplation of the work of those last few moments by the sound of Hephzibah's voice calling from her bedroom. The sitting-room door had been opened by Alice, who had entered the moment Iredale had released the handle. Now they could hear the farm-wife moving about overhead, evidently on her way down-stairs.

Sarah was the first to recover her presence of mind. She turned upon Robb.

"Not a word to her about—about——"

Robb shook his head.

Iredale snatched the pistol from the dead man's hand.

Mrs. Malling's footsteps came creaking down the stairs. Suddenly Prudence's hands went up to her face as she thought of the shock awaiting her mother. Alice dragged her away to a chair. Iredale and Robb stood looking down at the two objects on the floor. Master and hound were lying side by side.

Sarah ran to the door and met the farm-wife. She must never know that her son was a murderer—a double murderer.

Those within the room heard the school-ma'am's gentle tones.

"No, no, Hephzibah, you must not go in there yet. There are things—things which you must not see. The hound has killed him. Hervey enraged the dog, and the wretched beast turned upon him—and he is dead."

Then there came the sound of a scuffle. The next moment mother Hephzy pushed her way into the room. She looked about her wildly; one hand was clutching a bundle of hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly her round, staring eyes fell upon the two objects lying side by side upon the ground. She looked at the hound; then she looked upon her son. Iredale had covered the torn throat with pocket-handkerchiefs.

The bills slowly fell in a shower from her hand, and her arms folded themselves over her breast. Then she looked in a dazed fashion upon those about her, muttering audibly.

"He's dead—he's dead," she repeated to herself over and over again. Then suddenly she ceased her repetitions and shook her head. "Mussy-a-me, mussy-a-me! The Lord's will be done!"

And she slowly fell in a heap by her dead son's side.



IN CONCLUSION

Time, the great healer of all sufferings, all sorrows, can do much, but memory clings with a pertinacity which defies all Time's best efforts. Time may soften the poignancy of deep-rooted sorrow, but it cannot shut out altogether the pain of a mother's grief at the loss of an only son. In spite of all Hervey's crimes he was "the only son of his mother, and she was a widow." The story of his villainies was rigidly kept from her, and so she thought of him only as a prodigal, as a boy to be pitied, as one whose offences must be condoned; she sought for his good points, and, in her sweet motherly heart, saw a wonderful deal in him on which to centre her loving memory, which, had he lived, even she could never have discovered. It is something that erring man has to be humbly grateful for, that women are like this; so full of the patient, enduring love which can see no wrong in the object of their affections.

But Loon Dyke Farm became intolerable to Hephzibah Malling after the ghastly tragedy of her son's death; and when Robb and Alice saw fit to marry, urged on to that risky experiment by the two older ladies, she insisted upon leasing the place to them on ridiculously easy terms. She would have given it to them only for their steady refusal to accept such a magnificent wedding gift from her.

The old lady was rich enough for her needs and her daughter's, and, business woman as she was, she was generous to a fault where her affections were concerned. Prudence too was satisfied with any arrangement which would take her away from the farm. Knowing what she knew of her brother, Loon Dyke could never again be her home. So mother and daughter retired to Ainsley, and only once again did they return to their old home on the briefest of visits, and that was to assist at the function of christening the son and heir of the Chillingwoods.

Later on Prudence induced her mother to make Winnipeg her home, but though, for her daughter's sake, she acceded to the request, she was never quite at ease among her new surroundings. Nor was Sarah Gurridge, when she visited her old friend during her holidays, slow to observe this. "My dear," she told Alice, one day after her summer vacation, "Hephzibah is failing fast. She's quite old, although she is my junior by two years and three months. An idle life doesn't suit her; and as for Prudence, she wears fine clothes, and goes out in society all day and most of the night, but she's that thin and melancholy that you wouldn't know her for the same child. It's my opinion that she's pining—they are both pining. I found a letter from Hamilton when I got back home. It was from George Iredale, and I'm going to answer it at once."

"And what are you going to say in your reply?" laughed Alice. "I know your matchmaking propensity. So does Robb."

The quiet, dreamy face of the old school-mistress smiled over at the happy mother.

"Say?" she exclaimed. "I'm going to give George a piece of my mind for staying away so long. I know why he's doing so, and my belief as to the cause of his absence is different from what Prudence is beginning to imagine. She thinks he has left her because of her brother's doings, and it's that that's driving her to an early grave. I shall certainly tell George what I think." And Sarah wagged her head sagely.

And she was as good as her word. She had not seen fit to tell Alice that she had been in constant communication with George Iredale ever since the day of the tragedy, or that she was in his confidence as regarded Prudence. George had left the district to give both Prudence and her mother time to recover from the shock. And now that a year or more had passed away, he had written appealing to Sarah to tell him if she thought the time auspicious for his return.

In a long, carefully-worded letter Sarah advised him not to delay.

"By dint of much perseverance," she wrote, "I have persuaded the child out of her absurd notions about the reflections her brother's doings have cast upon her. She looks at things from a healthier standpoint now. Why should she not marry? What has she done to debar her from fulfilling the mission which is appointed for every woman? Nothing! And I am sure if a certain man should return and renew the appeal which he made at the time when the Lord's anger was visited upon her brother, she would give him a different reply. However, I must not waste all my space upon the silly notions of a child with a misdirected conscience."

And how her letter bore fruit, and how George Iredale returned and sought Prudence in the midst of the distractions of Winnipeg's social whirl, and how the girl's answer, when again he appealed to her, turned out to be the one Sarah had prophesied for him, were matters of great satisfaction to the sage old school-mistress.

She assisted at the wedding which followed, she saw the bride and bridegroom off at the railway depot, she remained to console her old friend for the loss of her daughter. Then she hied her off once more, back to the bleak, staring school-house, where she continued to propound sage maxims for the young of the district until her allotted task was done, and the tally of her years complete.

THE END



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THE END