"Ernest insists on being secretary?" said Nora.

"Yes, naturally. His interests are all here. He insists also that I be president."

"And why, Dad?" enquired Nora.

"Well," said Mr. Gwynne, with a slight laugh, "he frankly says he would like to be associated with me in this business. Of course, he said some nice things about me which I need not repeat."

"Oh pshaw!" exclaimed Nora, patting him on the shoulder, "I thought you were a lot smarter man than that. Can't you see why he wants to be associated with you? Surely you don't need me to tell you."

"Nora dear, hush," said her mother.

With an imploring look at her sister, Kathleen left the room.

"Indeed, Mother, I think it is no time to hush. I will tell you, Dad, why he wants to be associated with you in this coal mine business. Ernest Switzer wants our Kathleen. Mother knows it. We all know it."

Her father gazed at her in astonishment.

"Surely this is quite unwarranted, Nora," he said. "I cannot allow a matter of this kind to be dragged into a matter of business."

"How would it do to take a few days to turn it over in our minds?" said his wife. "We must not forget, dear," she continued, a note of grave anxiety in her voice, "that if we accept this proposition it will mean a complete change in our family life."

"Family life, Mother," said Mr. Gwynne with some impatience. "You don't mean—"

"I mean, my dear," replied the mother, "that we shall no longer be ranchers, but shall become coal miners. Let us think it over and perhaps you might consult with some of our neighbours, say with Mr. Waring-Gaunt."

"Surely, surely," replied her husband. "Your advice is wise, as always. I shall just step over to Mr. Waring-Gaunt's immediately."

After Mr. Gwynne's departure, the others sat silent for some moments, their minds occupied with the question raised so abruptly by Nora.

"You may as well face it, Mother," said the girl. "Indeed, you must face it, and right now. If this Company goes on with Ernest as secretary, it means that he will necessarily be thrown into closer relationship with our family. This will help his business with Kathleen. This is what he means. Do you wish to help it on?"

The mother sat silent, her face showing deep distress. "Nora dear," at length she said, "this matter is really not in our hands. Surely you can see that. I can't discuss it with you." And so saying she left the room.

"Now, Nora," said Larry severely, "you are not to worry Mother. And besides you can't play Providence in this way. You must confess that you have a dreadful habit of trying to run things. I believe you would have a go at running the universe."

"Run things?" cried Nora. "Why not? There is altogether too much of letting things slide in this family. It is all very well to trust to Providence. Providence made the trees grow in the woods, but this house never would have been here if Mr. Sleighter had not got on to the job. Now I am going to ask you a straight question. Do you want Ernest Switzer to have Kathleen?"

"Well, he's a decent sort and a clever fellow," began Larry.

"Now, Larry, you may as well cut that 'decent sort,' 'clever fellow' stuff right out. I want to know your mind. Would you like to see Ernest Switzer have Kathleen, or not?"

"Would you?" retorted her brother.

"No. I would not," emphatically said Nora.

"Why not?"

"To tell the truth, ever since that concert night I feel I can't trust him. He is different from us. He is no real Canadian. He is a German."

"Well, Nora, you amaze me," said Larry. "What supreme nonsense you are talking! You have got that stuff of Romayne's into your mind. The war bug has bitten you too. For Heaven's sake be reasonable. If you object to Ernest because of his race, I am ashamed of you and have no sympathy with you."

"Not because of his race," said Nora, "though, Larry, let me tell you he hates Britain. I was close to him that night, and hate looked out of his eyes. But let that pass. I have seen Ernest with 'his women' as he calls them, and, Larry, I can't bear to think of our Kathleen being treated as he treats his mother and sister."

"Now, Nora, let us be reasonable. Let us look at this fairly," began Larry.

"Oh, Larry! stop or I shall be biting the furniture next. When you assume that judicial air of yours I want to swear. Answer me. Do you want him to marry Kathleen? Yes or no."

"Well, as I was about to say—"

"Larry, will you answer yes or no?"

"Well, no, then," said Larry.

"Thank God!" cried Nora, rushing at him and shaking him vigorously. "You wretch! Why did you keep me in suspense? How I wish that English stick would get a move on!"

"English stick? Whom do you mean?"

"You're as stupid as the rest, Larry. Whom should I mean? Jack Romayne, of course. There's a man for you. I just wish he'd waggle his finger at me! But he won't do things. He just 'glowers' at her, as old McTavish would say, with those deep eyes of his, and sets his jaw like a wolf trap, and waits. Oh, men are so stupid with women!"

"Indeed?" said Larry. "And how exactly?"

"Why doesn't he just make her love him, master her, swing her off her feet?" said Nora.

"Like Switzer, eh? The cave man idea?"

"No, no. Surely you see the difference?"

"Pity my ignorance and elucidate the mystery."

"Mystery? Nonsense. It is quite simple. It is a mere matter of emphasis."

"Oh, I see," said Larry, "or at least I don't see. But credit me with the earnest and humble desire to understand."

"Well," said his sister, "the one—"

"Which one?"

"Switzer. He is mad to possess her for his very own. He would carry her off against her will. He'd bully her to death."

"Ah, you would like that?"

"Not I. Let him try it on. The other, Romayne, is mad to have her too. He would give her his very soul. But he sticks there waiting till she comes and flings herself into his arms."

"You prefer that, eh?"

"Oh, that makes me tired!" said Nora in a tone of disgust.

"Well, I give it up," said Larry hopelessly. "What do you want?"

"I want both. My man must want me more than he wants Heaven itself, and he must give me all he has but honour. Such a man would be my slave! And such a man—oh, I'd just love to be bullied by him."

For some moments Larry stood looking into the glowing black eyes, then said quietly, "May God send you such a man, little sister, or none at all."

In a few weeks the Alberta Coal Mining and Development Company was an established fact. Mr. Waring-Gaunt approved of it and showed his confidence in the scheme by offering to take a large block of stock and persuade his friends to invest as well. He also agreed that it was important to the success of the scheme both that Mr. Gwynne should be the president of the company and that young Switzer should be its secretary. Mr. Gwynne's earnest request that he should become the treasurer of the company Mr. Waring-Gaunt felt constrained in the meantime to decline. He already had too many irons in the fire. But he was willing to become a director and to aid the scheme in any way possible. Before the end of the month such was the energy displayed by the new secretary of the company in the disposing of the stock it was announced that only a small block of about $25,000 remained unsold. A part of this Mr. Waring-Gaunt urged his brother-in-law to secure.

"Got twenty thousand myself, you know—looks to me like a sound proposition—think you ought to go in—what do you say, eh, what?"

"Very well; get ten or fifteen thousand for me," said his brother-in-law.

Within two days Mr. Waring-Gaunt found that the stock had all been disposed of. "Energetic chap, that young Switzer,—got all the stock placed—none left, so he told me."

"Did you tell him the stock was for me?" enquired Romayne.

"Of course, why not?"

"Probably that accounts for it. He would not be especially anxious to have me in."

"What do you say? Nothing in that, I fancy. But I must see about that, what?"

"Oh, let it go," said Romayne.

"Gwynne was after me again to take the treasurership," said Waring-Gaunt, "but I am busy with so many things—treasurership very hampering—demands close attention—that sort of thing, eh, what?"

"Personally I wish you would take it," said Romayne. "You would be able to protect your own money and the investments of your friends. Besides, I understand the manager is to be a German, which, with a German secretary, is too much German for my idea."

"Oh, you don't like Switzer, eh? Natural, I suppose. Don't like him myself; bounder sort of chap—but avoid prejudice, my boy, eh, what? German—that sort of thing—don't do in this country, eh? English, Scotch, Irish, French, Galician, Swede, German—all sound Canadians—melting pot idea, eh, what?"

"I am getting that idea, too," said his brother-in-law. "Sybil has been rubbing it into me. I believe it is right enough. But apart altogether from that, frankly I do not like that chap; I don't trust him. I fancy I know a gentleman when I see him."

"All right, all right, my boy, gentleman idea quite right too—but new country, new standards—'Old Family' idea played out, don't you know. Burke's Peerage not known here—every mug on its own bottom—rather touchy Canadians are about that sort of thing—democracy stuff and all that you know. Not too bad either, eh, what? for a chap who has got the stuff in him—architect of his fortune—founder of his own family and that sort of thing, don't you know. Not too bad, eh, what?"

"I quite agree," cried Jack, "at least with most of it. But all the same I hope you will take the treasurership. Not only will you protect your own and your friends' investments, but you will protect the interests of the Gwynnes. The father apparently is no business man, the son is to be away; anything might happen. I would hate to see them lose out. You understand?"

His brother-in-law turned his eyes upon him, gazed at him steadily for a few moments, then taking his hand, shook it warmly, exclaiming, "Perfectly, old chap, perfectly—good sort, Gwynne—good family. Girl of the finest—hope you put it off, old boy. Madame has put me on, you know, eh, what? Jolly good thing."

"Now what the deuce do you mean?" said Romayne angrily.

"All right—don't wish to intrude, don't you know. Fine girl though—quite the finest thing I've seen—could go anywhere."

His brother-in-law's face flushed fiery red. "Now look here, Tom," he said angrily, "don't be an ass. Of course I know what you mean but as the boys say here, 'Nothing doing!'"

"What? You mean it? Nothing doing? A fine girl like that—sweet girl—good clean stock—wonderful mother—would make a wife any man would be proud of—the real thing, you know, the real thing—I have known her these eight years—watched her grow up—rare courage—pure soul. Nothing doing? My God, man, have you eyes?" It was not often that Tom Waring-Gaunt allowed himself the luxury of passion, but this seemed to him to be an occasion in which he might indulge himself. Romayne stood listening to him with his face turned away, looking out of the window. "Don't you hear me, Jack?" said Waring-Gaunt. "Do you mean there's nothing in it, or have you burned out your heart with those fool women of London and Paris?"

Swiftly his brother-in-law turned to him. "No, Tom, but I almost wish to God I had. No, I won't say that; rather do I thank God that I know now what it is to love a woman. I am not going to lie to you any longer, old chap. To love a sweet, pure woman, sweet and pure as the flowers out there, to love her with every bit of my heart, with every fibre of my soul, that is the finest thing that can come to a man. I have treated women lightly in my time, Tom. I have made them love me, taken what they have had to give, and left them without a thought. But if any of them have suffered through me, and if they could know what I am getting now, they would pity me and say I had got enough to pay me out. To think that I should ever hear myself saying that to another man, I who have made love to women and laughed at them and laughed at the poor weak devils who fell in love with women. Do you get me? I am telling you this and yet I feel no shame, no humiliation! Humiliation, great heaven! I am proud to say that I love this girl. From the minute I saw her up there in the woods I have loved her. I have cursed myself for loving her. I have called myself fool, idiot, but I cannot help it. I love her. It is hell to me or heaven, which you like. It's both." He was actually trembling, his voice hoarse and shaking.

Amazement, then pity, finally delight, succeeded each other in rapid succession across the face of his brother-in-law as he listened. "My dear chap, my dear chap," he said when Romayne had finished. "Awfully glad, you know—delighted. But why the howl? The girl is there—go in and get her, by Jove. Why not, eh, what?"

"It's no use, I tell you," said Romayne. "That damned German has got her. I have seen them together too often. I have seen in her eyes the look that women get when they are ready to give themselves body and soul to a man. She loves that man. She loves him, I tell you. She has known him for years. I have come too late to have a chance. Too late, my God, too late!" He pulled himself up with an effort, then with a laugh said, "Do you recognise me, Tom? I confess I do not recognise myself. Well, that's out. Let it go. That's the last you will get from me. But, Tom, this is more than I can stand. I must quit this country, and I want you to make it easy for me to go. We'll get up some yarn for Sibyl. You'll help me out, old man? God knows I need help in this."

"Rot, beastly rot. Give her up to that German heel-clicking bounder—rather not. Buck up, old man—give the girl a chance anyway—play the game out, eh, what? Oh, by the way, I have made up my mind to take that treasurership—beastly nuisance, eh? Goin'? Where?"

"Off with the dogs for a run somewhere."

"No, take the car—too beastly hot for riding, don't you know. Take my car. Or, I say, let's go up to the mine. Must get to know more about the beastly old thing, eh, what? We'll take the guns and Sweeper—we'll be sure to see some birds and get the evening shoot coming back. But, last word, my boy, give the girl a chance to say no. Think of it, a German, good Lord! You go and get the car ready. We'll get Sybil to drive while we shoot."

Tom Waring-Gaunt found his great, warm, simple heart overflowing with delight at the tremendous news that had come to him. It was more than his nature could bear that he should keep this from his wife. He found her immersed in her domestic duties and adamant against his persuasion to drive them to the mine.

"A shoot," she cried, "I'd love to. But, Tom, you forget I am a rancher's wife, and you know, or at least you don't know, what that means. Run along and play with Jack. Some one must work. No, don't tempt me. I have my programme all laid out. I especially prayed this morning for grace to resist the lure of the outside this day. 'Get thee behind me—' What? I am listening, but I shouldn't be. What do you say? Tom, it cannot be!" She sat down weakly in a convenient chair and listened to her husband while he retailed her brother's great secret.

"And so, my dear, we are going to begin a big campaign—begin to-day—take the girls off with us for a shoot—what do you say, eh?"

"Why, certainly, Tom. Give me half an hour to get Martha fairly on the rails, and I am with you. We'll take those dear girls along. Oh, it is perfectly splendid. Now let me go; that will do, you foolish boy. Oh, yes, how lovely. Trust me to back you up. What? Don't spoil things. Well, I like that. Didn't I land you? That was 'some job,' as dear Nora would say. You listen to me, Tom. You had better keep in the background. Finesse is not your forte. Better leave these things to me. Hurry up now. Oh, I am so excited."

Few women can resist an appeal for help from a husband. The acknowledgment of the need of help on the part of the dominating partner is in itself the most subtle flattery and almost always irresistible. No woman can resist the opportunity to join in that most fascinating of all sport—man-hunting. And when the man runs clear into the open wildly seeking not escape from but an opening into the net, this only adds a hazard and a consequent zest to the sport. Her husband's disclosures had aroused in Sybil Waring-Gaunt not so much her sporting instincts, the affair went deeper far than that with her. Beyond anything else in life she desired at that time to bring together the two beings whom, next to her husband, she loved best in the world. From the day that her brother had arrived in the country she had desired this, and more or less aggressively had tried to assist Providence in the ordering of events. But in Kathleen, with all her affection and all her sweet simplicity, there was a certain shy reserve that prevented confidences in the matter of her heart affairs.

"How far has the German got with her? That is what I would like to know," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt to herself as she hastily prepared for the motor ride. "There's no doubt about him. Every one can see how he stands, and he has such a masterful way with him that it makes one think that everything is settled. If it is there is no chance for Jack, for she is not the changing kind." Meantime she would hope for the best and play the game as best she could.

"Would you mind running into the Gwynnes' as we pass, Tom?" said his wife as they settled themselves in the car. "I have a message for Nora."

"Righto!" said her husband, throwing his wife a look which she refused utterly to notice. "But remember you must not be long. We cannot lose the evening shoot, eh, what?"

"Oh, just a moment will do," said his wife.

At the door Nora greeted them. "Oh, you lucky people—guns and a dog, and a day like this," she cried.

"Come along—lots of room—take my gun," said Mr. Waring-Gaunt.

"Don't tempt me, or I shall come."

"Tell us what is your weakness, Miss Nora," said Jack. "How can we get you to come?"

"My weakness?" cried the girl eagerly, "you all are, and especially your dear Sweeper dog there." She put her arms around the neck of the beautiful setter, who was frantically struggling to get out to her.

"Sweeper, lucky dog, eh, Jack, what?" said Mr. Waring-Gaunt, with a warm smile of admiration at the wholesome, sun-browned face. "Come along, Miss Nora—back in a short time, eh, what?"

"Short time?" said Nora. "Not if I go. Not till we can't see the birds."

"Can't you come, Nora?" said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "I want to talk to you, and we'll drive to-day and let the men shoot. Where is Kathleen? Is she busy?"

"Busy? We are all positively overwhelmed with work. But, oh, do go away, or I shall certainly run from it all."

"I am going in to get your mother to send you both out. Have you had a gun this fall? I don't believe you have," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.

"Not once. Yes, once. I had a chance at a hawk that was paying too much attention to our chickens. No, don't go in, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I beg of you. Well, go, then; I have fallen shamelessly. If you can get Kathleen, I am on too."

In a few moments Mrs. Waring-Gaunt returned with Kathleen and her mother. "Your mother says, Nora, that she does not need you a bit, and she insists on your coming, both of you. So be quick."

"Oh, Mother," cried the girl in great excitement. "You cannot possibly get along without us. There's the tea for all those men."

"Nonsense, Nora, run along. I can do quite well without you. Larry is coming in early and he will help. Run along, both of you."

"But there isn't room for us all," said Kathleen.

"Room? Heaps," said Mr. Waring-Gaunt. "Climb in here beside me, Miss Nora."

"Oh, it will be great," said Nora. "Can you really get along, Mother?"

"Nonsense," said the mother. "You think far too much of yourself. Get your hat."

"Hat; who wants a hat?" cried the girl, getting in beside Mr. Waring-Gaunt. "Oh, this is more than I had ever dreamed, and I feel so wicked!"

"All the better, eh, what?"

"Here, Kathleen," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, "here between us."

"I am so afraid I shall crowd you," said the girl, her face showing a slight flush.

"Not a bit, my dear; the seat is quite roomy. There, are you comfortable? All right, Tom. Good-bye, Mrs. Gwynne. So good of you to let the girls come."

In high spirits they set off, waving their farewell to the mother who stood watching till they had swung out of the lane and on to the main trail.



CHAPTER XIII

A DAY IN SEPTEMBER

A September day in Alberta. There is no other day to be compared to it in any other month or in any other land. Other lands have their September days, and Alberta has days in other months, but the combination of September day in Alberta is sui generis. The foothill country with plain, and hill, and valley, and mighty mountain, laced with stream, and river, and lake; the over-arching sheet of blue with cloud shapes wandering and wistful, the kindly sun pouring its genial sheen of yellow and gold over the face of the earth below, purple in the mountains and gold and pearly grey, and all swimming in air blown through the mountain gorges and over forests of pine, tingling with ozone and reaching the heart and going to the head like new wine—these things go with a September day in Alberta.

And like new wine the air seemed to Jack Romayne as the Packard like a swallow skimmed along the undulating prairie trail, smooth, resilient, of all the roads in the world for motor cars the best. For that day at least and in that motor car life seemed good to Jack Romayne. Not many such days would be his, and he meant to take all it gave regardless of cost. His sister's proposal to call at the Gwynnes' house he would have rejected could he have found a reasonable excuse. The invitation to the Gwynne girls to accompany them on their shoot he resented also, and still more deeply he resented the arrangement of the party that set Kathleen next to him, a close fit in the back seat of the car. But at the first feeling of her warm soft body wedged closely against him, all emotions fled except one of pulsating joy. And this, with the air rushing at them from the western mountains, wrought in him the reckless resolve to take what the gods offered no matter what might follow. As he listened to the chatter about him he yielded to the intoxication of his love for this fair slim girl pressing soft against his arm and shoulder. He allowed his fancy to play with surmises as to what would happen should he turn to her and say, "Dear girl, do you know how fair you are, how entrancingly lovely? Do you know I am madly in love with you, and that I can hardly refrain from putting this arm, against which you so quietly lean your warm soft body, about you?" He looked boldly at the red curves of her lips and allowed himself to riot in the imagination of how deliciously they would yield to his pressed against them. "My God!" he cried aloud, "to think of it."

The two ladies turned their astonished eyes upon him. "What is it, Jack? Wait, Tom. Have you lost something?"

"Yes, that is, I never had it. No, go on, Tom, it cannot be helped now. Go on, please do. What a day it is!" he continued. "'What a time we are having,' as Miss Nora would say."

"Yes, what a time!" exclaimed Nora, turning her face toward them. "Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I think I must tell you that your husband is making love to me so that I am quite losing my head."

"Poor things," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "How could either of you help it?"

"Why is it that all the nice men are married?" inquired Nora.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Nora," said Jack in a pained voice.

"I mean—why—I'm afraid I can't fix that up, can I?" she said, appealing to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.

"Certainly you can. What you really mean is, why do all married men become so nice?" said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.

"Oh, thank you, the answer is so obvious. Do you know, I feel wild to-day."

"And so do I," replied Kathleen, suddenly waking to life. "It is the wonderful air, or the motor, perhaps."

"Me, too," exclaimed Jack Romayne, looking straight at her, "only with me it is not the air, nor the motor."

"What then!" said Kathleen with a swift, shy look at him.

"'The heart knoweth its own bitterness and a stranger intermeddleth not with its joy.'"

"That's the Bible, I know," said Kathleen, "and it really means 'mind your own business.'"

"No, no, not that exactly," protested Jack, "rather that there are things in the heart too deep if not for tears most certainly for words. You can guess what I mean, Miss Kathleen," said Jack, trying to get her eyes.

"Oh, yes," said the girl, "there are things that we cannot trust to words, no, not for all the world."

"I know what you are thinking of," replied Jack. "Let me guess."

"No, no, you must not, indeed," she replied quickly. "Look, isn't that the mine? What a crowd of people! Do look."

Out in the valley before them they could see a procession of teams and men weaving rhythmic figures about what was discovered to be upon a nearer view a roadway which was being constructed to cross a little coolee so as to give access to the black hole on the hillside beyond which was the coal mine. In the noise and bustle of the work the motor came to a stop unobserved behind a long wooden structure which Nora diagnosed as the "grub shack."

"In your English speech, Mr. Romayne, the dining room of the camp. He is certainly a hustler," exclaimed Nora, gazing upon the scene before them.

"Who?" inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.

"Ernest Switzer," said Nora, unable to keep the grudge out of her voice. "It is only a week since I was up here and during that time he has actually made this village, the streets, the sidewalks—and if that is not actually a system of water pipes."

"Some hustler, as you say, Miss Nora, eh, what?" said Tom.

"Wonderful," replied Nora; "he is wonderful."

Jack glanced at the girl beside him. It seemed to him that it needed no mind-reader to interpret the look of pride, yes and of love, in the wonderful blue-grey eyes. Sick as from a heavy blow he turned away from her; the flicker of hope that his brother-in-law's words had kindled in his heart died out and left him cold. He was too late; why try to deceive himself any longer? The only thing to do was to pull out and leave this place where every day brought him intolerable pain. But today he would get all he could, to-day he would love her and win such poor scraps as he could from her eyes, her smiles, her words.

"Glorious view that," he said, touching her arm and sweeping his hand toward the mountains.

She started at his touch, a faint colour coming into her face. "How wonderful!" she breathed. "I love them. They bring me my best thoughts."

Before he could reply there came from behind the grub shack a torrent of abusive speech florid with profane language and other adornment and in a voice thick with rage.

"That's him," said Nora. "Some one is getting it." The satisfaction in her voice and look were in sharp contrast to the look of dismay and shame that covered the burning face of her sister. From English the voice passed into German, apparently no less vigorous or threatening. "That's better," said Nora with a wicked glance at Romayne. "You see he is talking to some one of his own people. They understand that. There are a lot of Germans from the Settlement, Freiberg, you know."

As she spoke Switzer emerged from behind the shack, driving before him a cringing creature evidently in abject terror of him. "Get back to your gang and carry out your orders, or you will get your time." He caught sight of the car and stopped abruptly, and, waving his hand imperiously to the workman, strode up to the party, followed by a mild-looking man in spectacles.

"Came to see how you are getting on, Switzer, eh, what?" said Tom.

"Getting on," he replied in a loud voice, raising his hat in salutation. "How can one get on with a lot of stupid fools who cannot carry out instructions and dare to substitute their own ideas for commands. They need discipline. If I had my way they would get it, too. But in this country there is no such thing as discipline." He made no attempt to apologise for his outrageous outburst, was probably conscious of no need of apology.

"This is your foreman, I think?" said Nora, who alone of the party seemed to be able to deal with the situation.

"Oh, yes, Mr. Steinberg," said Switzer, presenting the spectacled man.

"You are too busy to show us anything this afternoon?" said Nora sweetly.

"Yes, much too busy," said Switzer, gruffly. "I have no time for anything but work these days."

"You cannot come along for a little shoot?" she said, innocently. Nora was evidently enjoying herself.

"Shoot!" cried Switzer in a kind of contemptuous fury. "Shoot, with these dogs, these cattle, tramping around here when they need some one every minute to drive them. Shoot! No, no. I am not a gentleman of leisure."

The distress upon Kathleen's face was painfully apparent. Jack was in no hurry to bring relief. Like Nora he was enjoying himself as well. It was Tom who brought about the diversion.

"Well, we must go on, Switzer. Coming over to see you one of these days and go over the plant. Treasurer's got to know something about it, eh, what?"

Switzer started and looked at him in surprise. "Treasurer, who? Are you to be treasurer of the company? Who says so? Mr. Gwynne did not ask—did not tell me about it."

"Ah, sorry—premature announcement, eh?" said Tom. "Well, good-bye. All set."

The Packard gave forth sundry growls and snorts and glided away down the trail.

Nora was much excited. "What's this about the treasurership?" she demanded. "Are you really to be treasurer, Mr. Waring-Gaunt? I am awfully glad. You know this whole mine was getting terribly Switzery. Isn't he awful? He just terrifies me. I know he will undertake to run me one of these days."

"Then trouble, eh, what?" said Waring-Gaunt, pleasantly.

After a short run the motor pulled up at a wheat field in which the shocks were still standing and which lay contiguous to a poplar bluff.

"Good chicken country, eh?" said Tom, slipping out of the car quietly. "Nora, you come with me. Quiet now. Off to the left, eh, what? You handle Sweeper, Jack."

"I'll drive the car," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "Go on with Jack, Kathleen."

"Come on, Miss Kathleen, you take the gun, and I'll look after the dog. Let me have the whistle, Tom."

They had not gone ten yards from the car when the setter stood rigid on point. "Steady, old boy," said Jack. "Move up quickly, Miss Kathleen. Is your gun ready? Sure it's off safe?"

"All right," said the girl, walking steadily on the dog.

Bang! Bang! went Nora's gun. Two birds soared safely aloft. Bang! Bang! went Kathleen's gun. "Double, by jove! Steady, Sweeper!" Again the dog stood on point. Swiftly Jack loaded the gun. "Here you are, Miss Kathleen. You will get another," he said. "There are more here." As he spoke a bird flew up at his right. Bang! went Kathleen's gun. "Another, good work." Bang! went Nora's gun to the left. "Look out, here he comes," cried Jack, as Nora's bird came careening across their front. It was a long shot. Once more Kathleen fired. The bird tumbled in the air and fell with a thump right at their feet.

Sweeper, released from his point, went bounding joyfully over the stubble. Jack rushed up toward the girl, and taking her hand in both of his, shook it warmly. "Oh, splendid, partner, splendid, great shooting!"

"Oh, it was easy. Sweeper had them fast," said Kathleen. "And that last shot was just awfully good luck."

"Good luck! Good Lord! it was anything but luck. It was great shooting. Well, come along. Oh, we're going to have a glorious day, aren't we, partner?" And catching hold of her arm, he gave her a friendly little shake.

"Yes," she cried, responding frankly to his mood, "we will. Let's have a good day."

"Where did you learn to shoot?" inquired Jack.

"Nora and I have always carried guns in the season," replied Kathleen, "even when we were going to school. You see, Larry hates shooting. We loved it and at times were glad to get them—the birds, I mean. We did not do it just for sport."

"Can your sister shoot as well as you?"

"Hardly, I think. She pulls too quickly, you see, but when she steadies down she will shoot better than I."

"You are a wonder," said Jack enthusiastically.

"Oh, not a wonder," said the girl.

"Wait till I get the birds back to the car," he cried.

"He-l-l-o," cried his sister as he came running. "What, four of them?"

"Four," he answered. "By jove, she's a wonder, isn't she. She really bowls me over."

"Nonsense," said his sister in a low voice. "She's just a fine girl with a steady hand and a quick eye, and," she added as Jack turned away from her, "a true heart."

"A true heart," Jack muttered to himself, "and given to that confounded bully of a German. If it had been any other man—but we have got one day at least." Resolutely he brushed away the thoughts that maddened him as he ran to Kathleen's side. Meantime, Tom and Nora had gone circling around toward the left with Sweeper ranging widely before them.

"Let's beat round this bluff," suggested Kathleen. "They may not have left the trees yet."

Together they strolled away through the stubble, the girl moving with an easy grace that spoke of balanced physical strength, and with an eagerness that indicated the keen hunter's spirit. The bluff brought no result.

"That bluff promised chickens if ever a bluff did," said Kathleen in a disappointed voice. "We'll get them further down, and then again in the stubble."

"Cheer-o," cried Jack. "The day is fine and we are having a ripping time, at least I am."

"And I, too," cried the girl. "I love this, the open fields,—and the sport, too."

"And good company," said Jack boldly.

"Yes, good company, of course," she said with a quick, friendly glance. "And you ARE good company to-day."

"To-day?"

"Yes. Sometimes, you know, you are rather—I don't know what to say—but queer, as if you did not like—people, or were carrying some terrible secret," she added with a little laugh.

"Secret? I am, but not for long. I am going to tell you the secret. Do you want to hear it now?"

The note of desperation in his voice startled the girl. "Oh, no," she cried hurriedly. "Where have we got to? There are no birds in this open prairie here. We must get back to the stubble."

"You are not interested in my secret, then?" said Jack. "But I am going to tell you all the same, Kathleen."

"Oh, please don't," she replied in a distressed voice. "We are having such a splendid time, and besides we are after birds, aren't we? And there are the others," she added, pointing across the stubble field, "and Sweeper is on point again. Oh, let's run." She started forward quickly, her foot caught in a tangle of vetch vine and she pitched heavily forward. Jack sprang to catch her. A shot crashed at their ears. The girl lay prone.

"My God, Kathleen, are you hurt?" said Jack.

"No, no, not a bit, but awfully scared," she panted. Then she shrieked, "Oh, oh, oh, Jack, you are wounded, you are bleeding!"

He looked down at his hand. It was dripping blood. "Oh, oh," she moaned, covering her face with her hands. Then springing to her feet, she caught up his hand in hers.

"It is nothing at all," he said. "I feel nothing. Only a bit of skin. See," he cried, lifting his arm up. "There's nothing to it. No broken bones."

"Let me see, Jack—Mr. Romayne," she said with white lips.

"Say 'Jack,'" he begged.

"Let me take off your coat—Jack, then. I know a little about this. I have done something at it in Winnipeg."

Together they removed the coat. The shirt sleeve was hanging in a tangled, bloody mass from the arm.

"Awful!" groaned Kathleen. "Sit down."

"Oh, nonsense, it is not serious."

"Sit down, Jack, dear," she entreated, clasping her hands about his sound arm.

"Say it again," said Jack.

"Oh, Jack, won't you sit down, please?"

"Say it again," he commanded sternly.

"Oh, Jack, dear, please sit down," she cried in a pitiful voice.

He sat down, then lay back reclining on his arm. "Now your knife, Jack," she said, feeling hurriedly through his pockets.

"Here you are," he said, handing her the knife, biting his lips the while and fighting back a feeling of faintness.

Quickly slipping behind him, she whipped off her white petticoat and tore it into strips. Then cutting the bloody shirt sleeve, she laid bare the arm. The wound was superficial. The shot had torn a wide gash little deeper than the skin from wrist to shoulder, with here and there a bite into the flesh. Swiftly, deftly, with fingers that never fumbled, she bandaged the arm, putting in little pads where the blood seemed to be pumping freely.

"That's fine," said Jack. "You are a brick, Kathleen. I think—I will—just lie down—a bit. I feel—rather rotten." As he spoke he caught hold of her arm to steady himself. She caught him in her arms and eased him down upon the stubble. With eyes closed and a face that looked like death he lay quite still.

"Jack," she cried aloud in her terror. "Don't faint. You must not faint."

But white and ghastly he lay unconscious, the blood still welling right through the bandages on his wounded arm. She knew that in some way she must stop the bleeding. Swiftly she undid the bandages and found a pumping artery in the forearm. "What is it that they do?" she said to herself. Then she remembered. Making a tourniquet, she applied it to the upper arm. Then rolling up a bloody bandage into a pad, she laid it upon the pumping artery and bound it firmly down into place. Then flexing the forearm hard upon it, she bandaged all securely again. Still the wounded man lay unconscious. The girl was terrified. She placed her hand over his heart. It was beating but very faintly. In the agony and terror of the moment as in a flash of light her heart stood suddenly wide open to her, and the thing that for the past months had lain hidden within her deeper than her consciousness, a secret joy and pain, leaped strong and full into the open, and she knew that this man who lay bleeding and ghastly before her was dearer to her than her own life. The sudden rush of this consciousness sweeping like a flood over her soul broke down and carried away the barrier of her maidenly reserve. Leaning over him in a passion of self-abandonment, she breathed, "Oh, Jack, dear, dear Jack." As he lay there white and still, into her love there came a maternal tender yearning of pity. She lifted his head in her arm, and murmured brokenly, "Oh, my love, my dear love." She kissed him on his white lips.

At the touch of her lips Jack opened his eyes, gazed at her for a moment, then with dawning recognition, he said with a faint smile, "Do—it—again."

"Oh, you heard," she cried, the red blood flooding face and neck, "but I don't care, only don't go off again. You will not, Jack, you must not."

"No—I won't," he said. "It's rotten—of me—to act—like this and—scare you—to death. Give me—a little—time. I will be—all right."

"If they would only come! If I could only do something!"

"You're all right—Kathleen. Just be—patient with me—a bit. I am feeling—better every minute."

For a few moments he lay quiet. Then with a little smile he looked up at her again and said, "I would go off again just to hear you say those words once more."

"Oh, please don't," she entreated, hiding her face.

"Forgive me, Kathleen, I am a beast. Forget it. I am feeling all right. I believe I could sit up."

"No, no, no," she cried. "Lie a little longer."

She laid his head down, ran a hundred yards to the wheat field, returning with two sheeves, and made a support for his head and shoulders. "That is better," she said.

"Good work," he said. "Now I am going to be fit for anything in a few moments. But," he added, "you look rather badly, as if you might faint yourself."

"I? What difference does it make how I look? I am quite right. If they would only come! I know what I will do," she cried. "Where are your cartridges?" She loaded the gun and fired in quick succession half a dozen shots. "I think I see them," she exclaimed, "but I am not sure that they heard me." Again she fired several shots.

"Don't worry about it," said Jack, into whose face the colour was beginning to come back. "They are sure to look us up. Just sit down, won't you please, beside me here? There, that's good," he continued, taking her hand. "Kathleen," he cried, "I think you know my secret."

"Oh, no, no, please don't," she implored, withdrawing her hand and hiding her face from him. "Please don't be hard on me. I really do not know what I am doing and I am feeling dreadfully."

"You have reason to feel so, Kathleen. You have been splendidly brave, and I give you my word I am not going to worry you."

"Oh, thank you; you are so good, and I love you for it," she cried in a passion of gratitude. "You understand, don't you?"

"I think I do," he said. "By the way, do you know I think I could smoke."

"Oh, splendid!" she cried, and, springing up, she searched through his coat pockets, found pipe, pouch, matches, and soon he had his pipe going. "There, that looks more like living," said Kathleen, laughing somewhat hysterically. "Oh, you did frighten me!" Again the red flush came into her face and she turned away from him.

"There they are coming. Sure enough, they are coming," she cried with a sob in her voice.

"Steady, Kathleen," said Jack quietly. "You won't blow up now, will you? You have been so splendid! Can you hold on?"

She drew a deep breath, stood for a minute or two in perfect silence, and then she said, "I can and I will. I am quite right now."

Of course they exclaimed and stared and even wept a bit—at least the ladies did—but Jack's pipe helped out amazingly, and, indeed, he had recovered sufficient strength to walk unhelped to the car. And while Tom sent the Packard humming along the smooth, resilient road he kept up with Nora and his sister a rapid fire of breezy conversation till they reached their own door. It was half an hour before Tom could bring the doctor, during which time they discussed the accident in all its bearings and from every point of view.

"I am glad it was not I who was with you," declared Nora. "I cannot stand blood, and I certainly should have fainted, and what would you have done then?"

"Not you," declared Jack. "That sort of thing does not go with your stock. God knows what would have happened to me if I had had a silly fool with me, for the blood was pumping out all over me. But, thank God, I had a woman with a brave heart and clever hands."

When the doctor came, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt went in to assist him, but when the ghastly bloody spectacle lay bare to her eyes she found herself grow weak and hurried to the kitchen where the others were.

"Oh, I am so silly," she said, "but I am afraid I cannot stand the sight of it."

Kathleen sprang at once to her feet. "Is there no one there?" she demanded with a touch of impatience in her voice, and passed quickly into the room, where she stayed while the doctor snipped off the frayed patches of skin and flesh and tied up the broken arteries, giving aid with quick fingers and steady hands till all was over.

"You have done this sort of thing before, Miss Gwynne?" said the doctor.

"No, never," she replied.

"Well, you certainly are a brick," he said, turning admiring eyes upon her. He was a young man and unmarried. "But this is a little too much for you." From a decanter which stood on a side table he poured out a little spirits. "Drink this," he said.

"No, thank you, Doctor, I am quite right," said Kathleen, quietly picking up the bloody debris and dropping them into a basin which she carried into the other room. "He is all right now," she said to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, who took the basin from her, exclaiming,

"My poor dear, you are awfully white. I am ashamed of myself. Now you must lie down at once."

"No, please, I shall go home, I think. Where is Nora?"

"Nora has gone home. You won't lie down a little? Then Tom shall take you in the car. You are perfectly splendid. I did not think you had it in you."

"Oh, don't, don't," cried the girl, a quick rush of tears coming to her eyes. "I must go, I must go. Oh, I feel terrible. I don't know what I have done. Let me go home." She almost pushed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt from her and went out of the house and found Tom standing by the car smoking.

"Take her home, Tom," said his wife. "She needs rest."

"Come along, Kathleen; rest—well, rather. Get in beside me here. Feel rather rotten, eh, what? Fine bit of work, good soldier—no, don't talk—monologue indicated." And monologue it was till he delivered her, pale, weary and spent, to her mother.



CHAPTER XIV

AN EXTRAORDINARY NURSE

"A letter for you, Nora," said Larry, coming just in from the post office.

"From Jane!" cried Nora, tearing open the letter. "Oh, glory," she continued. "They are coming. Let's see, written on the ninth, leaving to-morrow and arrive at Melville Station on the twelfth. Why, that's tomorrow."

"Who, Nora?" said Larry. "Jane?"

"Yes, Jane and her father. She says, 'We mean to stay two or three days, if you can have us, on our way to Banff.'"

"Hurrah! Good old Jane! What train did you say?" cried Larry.

"Sixteen-forty-five to-morrow at Melville Station."

"'We'll have one trunk and two boxes, so you will need some sort of rig, I am afraid. I hope this will not be too much trouble.'"

"Isn't that just like Jane?" said Larry. "I bet you she gives the size of the trunk, doesn't she, Nora?"

"A steamer trunk and pretty heavy, she says."

"Same old girl. Does she give you the colour?" inquired Larry. "Like an old maid, she is."

"Nonsense," said Nora, closing up her letter. "Oh, it's splendid. Let's see, it is eight years since we saw her."

"Just about fifteen months since I saw her," said Larry.

"And about four months for me," said Kathleen.

"But eight years for me," cried Nora, "and she has never missed writing me every week, except once when she had the mumps, and she made her father write that week. Now we shall have to take our old democrat to meet her, the awful old thing," said Nora in a tone of disgust.

"Jane won't mind if it is a hayrack," said Larry.

"No, but her father. He's such a swell. I hate meeting him with that old bone cart. But we can't help it. Oh, I am just nutty over her coming. I wonder what she's like?"

"Why, she's the same old Jane," said Larry. "That's one immense satisfaction about her. She is always the same, no matter when, how or where you meet her. There's never a change in Jane."

"I wonder if she has improved—got any prettier, I mean."

"Prettier! What the deuce are you talking about?" said Larry indignantly. "Prettier! Like a girl that is! You never think of looks when you see Jane. All you see is just Jane and her big blue eyes and her smile. Prettier! Who wants her prettier?"

"Oh, all right, Larry. Don't fuss. She IS plain-looking, you know. But she is such a good sort. I must tell Mrs. Waring-Gaunt."

"Do," said Larry, "and be sure to ask her for her car."

Nora made a face at him, but ran to the 'phone and in an ecstatic jumble of words conveyed the tremendous news to the lady at the other end of the wire and to all the ears that might be open along the party line.

"Is that Mrs. Waring-Gaunt?—it's Nora speaking. I have the most glorious news for you. Jane is coming!—You don't know Jane? My friend, you know, in Winnipeg. You must have often heard me speak of her.—What?—Brown.—No, Brown, B-r-o-w-n. And she's coming to-morrow.—No, her father is with her.—Yes, Dr. Brown of Winnipeg.—Oh, yes. Isn't it splendid?—Three days only, far too short. And we meet her to-morrow.—I beg your pardon?—Sixteen-forty-five, she says, and she is always right. Oh, a change in the time table is there?—Yes, I will hold on.—Sixteen-forty-five, I might have known.—What do you say?—Oh, could you? Oh, dear Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, how perfectly splendid of you! But are you sure you can?—Oh, you are just lovely.—Yes, she has one trunk, but that can come in the democrat. Oh, that is perfectly lovely! Thank you so much. Good-bye.—What? Yes, oh, yes, certainly I must go.—Will there be room for him? I am sure he will love to go. That will make five, you know, and they have two bags. Oh, lovely; you are awfully good.—We shall need to start about fifteen o'clock. Good-bye. Oh, how is Mr. Romayne?—Oh, I am so sorry, it is too bad. But, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, you know Dr. Brown is a splendid doctor, the best in Winnipeg, one of the best in Canada. He will tell you exactly what to do.—I beg your pardon?—Yes, she's here. Kathleen, you are wanted. Hurry up, don't keep her waiting. Oh, isn't she a dear?"

"What does she want of me?" said Kathleen, a flush coming to her cheek.

"Come and see," said Nora, covering the transmitter with her hand, "and don't keep her waiting. What is the matter with you?"

Reluctantly Kathleen placed the receiver to her ear. "Yes, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, it is Kathleen speaking.—Yes, thank you, quite well.—Oh, I have been quite all right, a little shaken perhaps.—Yes, isn't it splendid? Nora is quite wild, you know. Jane is her dearest friend and she has not seen her since we were children, but they have kept up a most active correspondence. Of course, I saw a great deal of her last year. She is a splendid girl and they were so kind; their house was like a home to me. I am sure it is very kind of you to offer to meet them.—I beg your pardon?—Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. We thought he was doing so well. What brought that on?—Blood-poisoning!—Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, you don't say so? How terrible! Isn't it good that Dr. Brown is coming? He will know exactly what is wrong.—Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Sleeplessness is so trying.—Yes—Yes—Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I am afraid I couldn't do that." Kathleen's face had flushed bright crimson. "But I am sure Mother would be so glad to go, and she is a perfectly wonderful nurse. She knows just what to do.—Oh, I am afraid not. Wait, please, a moment."

"What does she want?" asked Nora.

Kathleen covered the transmitter with her hand. "She wants me to go and sit with Mr. Romayne while she drives you to the station. I cannot, I cannot do that. Where is Mother? Oh, Mother, I cannot go to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's. I really cannot."

"What nonsense, Kathleen!" cried Nora impatiently. "Why can't you go, pray? Let me speak to her." She took the receiver from her sister's hand. "Yes, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, it is Nora.—I beg your pardon?—Oh, yes, certainly, one of us will be glad to go.—No, no, certainly not. I would not have Mr. Waring-Gaunt leave his work for the world.—I know, I know, awfully slow for him. We had not heard of the change. It is too bad.—Yes, surely one of us will be glad to come. We will fix it up some way. Good-bye."

Nora hung up the receiver and turned fiercely upon her sister. "Now, what nonsense is this," she said, "and she being so nice about the car, and that poor man suffering there, and we never even heard that he was worse? He was doing so splendidly, getting about all right. Blood-poisoning is so awful. Why, you remember the Mills boy? He almost lost his arm."

"Oh, my dear Nora," said her mother. "There is no need of imagining such terrible things, but I am glad Dr. Brown is to be here. It is quite providential. I am sure he will put poor Mr. Romayne right. Kathleen, dear," continued the mother, turning to her elder daughter, "I think it would be very nice if you would run over to-morrow while Mrs. Waring-Gaunt drives to the station. I am sure it is very kind of her."

"I know it is, Mother dear," said Kathleen. "But don't you think you would be so much better?"

"Oh, rubbish!" cried Nora. "If it were not Jane that is coming, I would go myself; I would only be too glad to go. He is perfectly splendid, so patient, and so jolly too, and Kathleen, you ought to go."

"Nora, dear, we won't discuss it," said the mother in the tone that the family knew meant the end of all conversation. Kathleen hurried away from them and took refuge in her own room. Then shutting the door, she began pacing the floor, fighting once more the battle which during that last ten days she had often fought with herself and of which she was thoroughly weary. "Oh," she groaned, wringing her hands, "I cannot do it. I cannot look at him." She thought of that calm, impassive face which for the past three months this English gentleman had carried in all of his intercourse with her, and over against that reserve of his she contrasted her own passionate abandonment of herself in that dreadful moment of self-revelation. The contrast caused her to writhe in an agony of self-loathing. She knew little of men, but instinctively she felt that in his sight she had cheapened herself and never could she bear to look at him again. She tried to recall those glances of his and those broken, passionate words uttered during the moments of his physical suffering that seemed to mean something more than friendliness. Against these, however, was the constantly recurring picture of a calm cold face and of intercourse marked with cool indifference. "Oh, he cannot love me," she cried to herself. "I am sure he does not love me, and I just threw myself at him." In her march up and down the room she paused before her mirror and looked at the face that stared so wildly back at her. Her eyes rested on the red line of her mouth. "Oh," she groaned, rubbing vigorously those full red lips. "I just kissed him." She paused in the rubbing operation, gazed abstractedly into the glass; a tender glow drove the glare from her eyes, a delicious softness as from some inner well overflowed her countenance, the red blood surged up into her white face; she fled from her accusing mirror, buried her burning face in the pillow in an exultation of rapture. She dared not put into words the thoughts that rioted in her heart. "But I loved it, I loved it; I am glad I did." Lying there, she strove to recall in shameless abandon the sensation of those ecstatic moments, whispering in passionate self-defiance, "I don't care what he thinks. I don't care if I was horrid. I am NOT sorry. Besides, he looked so dreadful." But she was too honest not to acknowledge to herself that not for pity's sake but for love's she had kissed him, and without even his invitation. Then once again she recalled the look in his eyes of surprise in the moment of his returning consciousness, and the little smile that played around his lips. Again wave upon wave of sickening self-loathing flooded from her soul every memory of the bliss of that supreme moment. Even now she could feel the bite of the cold, half humorous scorn in the eyes that had opened upon her as she withdrew her lips from his. On the back of this came another memory, sharp and stabbing, that this man was ill, perhaps terribly ill. "We are a little anxious about him," his sister had said, and she had mentioned the word "blood-poisoning." Of the full meaning of that dread word Kathleen had little knowledge, but it held for her a horror of something unspeakably dangerous. He had been restless, sleepless, suffering for the last two days and two nights. That very night and that very hour he was perhaps tossing in fever. An uncontrollable longing came over her to go to him. Perhaps she might give him a few hours' rest, might indeed help to give him the turn to health again. After all, what mattered her feelings. What difference if he should despise her, provided she brought him help in an hour of crisis. Physically weary with the long struggle through which she had been passing during the last ten days, sick at heart, and torn with anxiety for the man she loved, she threw herself upon her bed and abandoned herself to a storm of tears. Her mother came announcing tea, but this she declined, pleading headache and a desire to sleep. But no sooner had her mother withdrawn than she rose from her bed and with deliberate purpose sat herself down in front of her mirror again. She would have this out with herself now. "Well, you are a beauty, sure enough," she said, addressing her swollen and disfigured countenance. "Why can't you behave naturally? You are acting like a fool and you are not honest with yourself. Come now, tell the truth for a few minutes if you can. Do you want to go and see this man or not? Answer truly." "Well, I do then." The blue eyes looked back defiantly at her. "Why? to help him? for his sake? Come, the truth." "Yes, for his sake, at least partly." "And for your own sake, too? Come now, none of that. Never mind the blushing." "Yes, for my own sake, too." "Chiefly for your own sake?" "No, I do not think so. Chiefly I wish to help him." "Then why not go?" Ah, this is a poser. She looks herself fairly in the eye, distinctly puzzled. Why should she not simply go to him and help him through a bad hour? With searching, deliberate persistence she demanded an answer. She will have the truth out of herself. "Why not go to him if you so desire to help him?" "Because I am ashamed, because I have made myself cheap, and I cannot bear his eyes upon me. Because if I have made a mistake and he does not care for me—oh, then I never want to see him again, for he would pity me, and that I cannot bear." "What? Not even to bring him rest and relief from his pain? Not to help him in a critical hour? He has been asking for you, remember." Steadily they face each other, eye to eye, and all at once she is conscious that the struggle is over, and, looking at the face in the glass, she says, "Yes, I think I would be willing to do that for him, no matter how it would shame me." Another heart-searching pause, and the eyes answer her again, "I will go to-morrow." At once she reads a new peace in the face that gazes at her so weary and wan, and she knows that for the sake of the man she loves she is willing to endure even the shame of his pity. The battle was over and some sort of victory at least she had won. An eager impatience possessed her to go to him at once. "I wish it were to-morrow now, this very minute."

She rose and looked out into the night. There was neither moon nor stars and a storm was brewing, but she knew she could find her way in the dark. Quietly and with a great peace in her heart she bathed her swollen face, changed her dress to one fresh from the ironing board—pale blue it was with a dainty vine running through it—threw a wrap about her and went out to her mother.

"I am going up to the Waring-Gaunts', Mother. They might need me," she said in a voice of such serene control that her mother only answered,

"Yes, dear, Larry will go with you. He will soon be in."

"There is no need, Mother, I am not afraid."

Her mother made no answer but came to her and with a display of tenderness unusual between them put her arms about her and kissed her. "Good-night, then, darling; I am sure you will do them good."

The night was gusty and black, but Kathleen had no fear. The road was known to her, and under the impulse of the purpose that possessed her she made nothing of the darkness nor of the approaching storm. She hurried down the lane toward the main trail, refusing to discuss with herself the possible consequence of what she was doing. Nor did she know just what situation she might find at the Waring-Gaunts'. They would doubtless be surprised to see her. They might not need her help at all. She might be going upon a fool's errand, but all these suppositions and forebodings she brushed aside. She was bent upon an errand of simple kindness and help. If she found she was not needed she could return home and no harm done.

Receiving no response to her knock, she went quietly into the living room. A lamp burned low upon the table. There was no one to be seen. Upstairs a child was wailing and the mother's voice could be heard soothing the little one to sleep. From a bedroom, of which the door stood open, a voice called. The girl's heart stood still. It was Jack's voice, and he was calling for his sister. She ran upstairs to the children's room.

"He is calling for you," she said to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt without preliminary greeting. "Let me take Doris."

But Doris set up a wail of such acute dismay that the distracted mother said, "Could you just step in and see what is wanted? Jack has been in bed for two days. We have been unable to get a nurse anywhere, and tonight both little girls are ill. I am so thankful you came over. Indeed, I was about to send for one of you. Just run down and see what Jack wants. I hope you don't mind. I shall be down presently when Doris goes to sleep."

"I am not going to sleep, Mamma," answered Doris emphatically. "I am going to keep awake, for if I go to sleep I know you will go away."

"All right, darling, Mother is going to stay with you," and she took the little one in her arms, adding, "Now we are all right, aren't we."

Kathleen ran downstairs, turned up the light in the living room and passed quietly into the bedroom.

"Sorry to trouble you, Sybil, but there's something wrong with this infernal bandage."

Kathleen went and brought in the lamp. "Your sister cannot leave Doris, Mr. Romayne," she said quietly. "Perhaps I can be of use."

For a few moments the sick man gazed at her as at a vision. "Is this another of them?" he said wearily. "I have been having hallucinations of various sorts for the last two days, but you do look real. It is you, Kathleen, isn't it?"

"Really me, Mr. Romayne," said the girl cheerfully. "Let me look at your arm."

"Oh, hang it, say 'Jack,' won't you, and be decent to a fellow. My God, I have wanted you for these ten days. Why didn't you come to me? What did I do? I hurt you somehow, but you know I wouldn't willingly. Why have you stayed away from me?" He raised himself upon his elbow, his voice was high, thin, weak, his eyes glittering, his cheeks ghastly with the high lights of fever upon them.

Shocked, startled and filled with a poignant mothering pity, Kathleen struggled with a longing to take him in her arms and comfort him as the mother was the little wailing child upstairs.

"Excuse me just a moment," she cried, and ran out into the living room and then outside the door and stood for a moment in the dark, drawing deep breaths and struggling to get control of the pity and of the joy that surged through her heart. "Oh, God," she cried, lifting her hands high above her head in appeal, "help me to be strong and steady. He needs me and he wants me too."

From the darkness in answer to her appeal there came a sudden quietness of nerve and a sense of strength and fitness for her work. Quickly she entered the house and went again to the sick room.

"Thank God," cried Jack. "I thought I was fooled again. You won't go away, Kathleen, for a little while, will you? I feel just like a kiddie in the dark, do you know? Like a fool rather. You won't go again?" He raised himself upon his arm, the weak voice raised to a pitiful appeal.

It took all her own fortitude to keep her own voice steady. "No, Jack, I am going to stay. I am your nurse, you know, and I am your boss too. You must do just as I say. Remember that. You must behave yourself as a sick man should."

He sank back quietly upon the pillow. "Thank God. Anything under heaven I promise if only you stay, Kathleen. You will stay, won't you?"

"Didn't you hear me promise?"

"Yes, yes," he said, a great relief in his tired face. "All right, I am good. But you have made me suffer, Kathleen."

"Now, then, no talk," said Kathleen. "We will look at that arm."

She loosened the bandages. The inflamed and swollen appearance of the arm sickened and alarmed her. There was nothing she could do there. She replaced the bandages. "You are awfully hot. I am going to sponge your face a bit if you will let me."

"Go on," he said gratefully, "do anything you like if only you don't go away again."

"Now, none of that. A nurse doesn't run away from her job, does she?" She had gotten control of herself, and her quick, clever fingers, with their firm, cool touch, seemed to bring rest to the jangling nerves of the sick man. Whatever it was, whether the touch of her fingers or the relief of the cool water upon his fevered face and arm, by the time the bathing process was over, Jack was lying quietly, already rested and looking like sleep.

"I say, this is heavenly," he murmured. "Now a drink, if you please. I believe there is medicine about due too," he said. She gave him a drink, lifting up his head on her strong arm. "I could lift myself, you know," he said, looking up into her face with a little smile, "but I like this way so much better if you don't mind."

"Certainly not; I am your nurse, you know," replied Kathleen. "Now your medicine." She found the bottle under his direction and, again lifting his head, gave him his medicine.

"Oh, this is fine. I will take my medicine as often as you want me to, and I think another drink would be good." She brought him the glass. "I like to drink slowly," he said, looking up into her eyes. But she shook her head at him.

"No nonsense now," she warned him.

"Nonsense!" he said, sinking back with a sigh, "I want you to believe me, Kathleen, it is anything but nonsense. My God, it is religion!"

"Now then," said Kathleen, ignoring his words, "I shall just smooth out your pillows and straighten down your bed, tuck you in and make you comfortable for the night and then—"

"And then," he interrupted eagerly, "oh, Kathleen, all good children get it, you know."

A deep flush tinged her face. "Now you are not behaving properly."

"But, Kathleen," he cried, "why not? Listen to me. There's no use. I cannot let you go till I have this settled. I must know. No, don't pull away from me, Kathleen. You know I love you, with all my soul, with all I have, I love you. Oh, don't pull away from me. Ever since that day when I first saw you three months ago I have loved you. I have tried not to. God knows I have tried not to because I thought you were pledged to that—that German fellow. Tell me, Kathleen. Why you are shaking, darling! Am I frightening you? I would not frighten you. I would not take advantage of you. But do you care a little bit? Tell me. I have had ten days of sheer hell. For one brief minute I thought you loved me. You almost said you did. But then you never came to me and I have feared that you did not care. But to-night I must know. I must know now." He raised himself up to a sitting posture. "Tell me, Kathleen; I must know."

"Oh, Jack," she panted. "You are not yourself now. You are weak and just imagine things."

"Imagine things," he cried with a kind of fierce rage. "Imagine! Haven't I for these three months fought against this every day? Oh, Kathleen, if you only knew. Do you love me a little, even a little?"

Suddenly the girl ceased her struggling. "A little!" she cried. "No, Jack, not a little, but with all my heart I love you. I should not tell you to-night, and, oh, I meant to be so strong and not let you speak till you were well again, but I can't help it. But are you quite sure, Jack? Are you sure you won't regret this when you are well again?"

He put his strong arm round about her and drew her close. "I can't half hold you, darling," he said in her ear. "This confounded arm of mine—but you do it for me. Put your arms around me, sweetheart, and tell me that you love me."

She wreathed her arms round about his neck and drew him close. "Oh, Jack," she said, "I may be wrong, but I am so happy, and I never thought to be happy again. I cannot believe it. Oh, what awful days these have been!" she said with a break in her voice and hiding her face upon his shoulder.

"Never mind, sweetheart, think of all the days before us."

"Are you sure, Jack?" she whispered to him, still hiding her face. "Are you very sure that you will not be ashamed of me? I felt so dreadful and I came in just to help you, and I was so sure of myself. But when I saw you lying there, Jack, I just could not help myself." Her voice broke.

He turned her face up a little toward him. "Look at me," he said. She opened her eyes and, looking steadily into his, held them there. "Say, 'Jack, I love you,'" he whispered to her.

A great flood of red blood rushed over her face, then faded, leaving her white, but still her eyes held his fast. "Jack," she whispered, "my Jack, I love you."

"Kathleen, dear heart," he said.

Closer he drew her lips toward his. Suddenly she closed her eyes, her whole body relaxed, and lay limp against him. As his lips met hers, her arms tightened about him and held him in a strong embrace. Then she opened her eyes, raised herself up, and gazed at him as if in surprise. "Oh, Jack," she cried, "I cannot think it is true. Are you sure? I could not bear it if you were mistaken."

There was the sound of a footstep on the stair. "Let me go, Jack; there's your sister coming. Quick! Lie down." Hurriedly, she began once more to bathe his face as Mrs. Waring-Gaunt came in.

"Is he resting?" she said. "Why, Jack, you seem quite feverish. Did you give him his medicine?"

"Yes, about an hour ago, I think."

"An hour! Why, before you came upstairs? How long have you been in?"

"Oh, no, immediately after I came down," said the girl in confusion. "I don't know how long ago. I didn't look at the time." She busied herself straightening the bed.

"Sybil, she doesn't know how long ago," said Jack. "She's been behaving as I never have heard of any properly trained nurse behaving. She's been kissing me."

"Oh, Jack," gasped Kathleen, flushing furiously.

"Kissing you!" exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, looking from one to the other.

"Yes, and I have been kissing her," continued Jack shamelessly.

"Oh, Jack," again gasped Kathleen, looking at Mrs. Waring-Gaunt beseechingly.

"Yes," continued Jack in a voice of triumph, "and we are going to do it right along every day and all day long with suitable pauses for other duties and pleasures."

"Oh, you darling," exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt rushing at her. "I am so glad. Well, you are a 'wunner' as the Marchioness says. I had thought—but never mind. Jack, dear, I do congratulate you. I think you are in awful luck. Yes, and you too, Kathleen, for he is a fine boy. I will go and tell Tom this minute."

"Do," said Jack, "and please don't hurry. My nurse is perfectly competent to take care of me in the meantime."



CHAPTER XV

THE COMING OF JANE

At sixteen-forty-five the Waring-Gaunt car was standing at the Melville Station awaiting the arrival of the train which was to bring Jane and her father, but no train was in sight. Larry, after inquiry at the wicket, announced that she was an hour late. How much more the agent, after the exasperating habit of railroad officials, could not say, nor could he assign any reason for the delay.

"Let me talk to him," said Nora impatiently. "I know Mr. Field."

Apparently the official reserve in which Mr. Field had wrapped himself was not proof against the smile which Nora flung at him through the wicket.

"We really cannot say how late she will be, Miss Nora. I may tell you, but we are not saying anything about it, that there has been an accident."

"An accident!" exclaimed Nora. "Why, we are expecting—"

"No, there is no one hurt. A freight has been derailed, and torn up the track a bit. The passenger train is held up just beyond Fairfield. It will be a couple of hours, perhaps three, before she arrives." At this point the telegraph instrument clicked. "Just a minute, Miss Nora, there may be something on the wire." With his fingers on the key he executed some mysterious prestidigitations, wrote down some words, and came to the wicket again. "Funny," he said, "it is a wire for you, Miss Nora."

Nora took the yellow slip and read: "Delayed by derailed freight. Time of arrival uncertain. Very sorry, Jane."

"What do you think of this?" cried Nora, carrying the telegram out to the car. "Isn't it perfectly exasperating? That takes off one of their nights."

"Where is the accident?" inquired Mrs. Waring-Gaunt.

"Just above Fairfield."

"Fairfield! The poor things! Jump in and we will be there in no time. It is not much further to Wolf Willow from Fairfield than from here. Hurry up, we must make time."

"Now, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I know your driving. Just remember that I am an only son. I prefer using all four wheels on curves, please."

"Let her go," cried Nora.

And Mrs. Waring-Gaunt "let her go" at such speed that Larry declared he had time for only two perfectly deep breaths, one before they started, the other after they had pulled up beside the Pullman car at the scene of the wreck.

"Jane, Jane, Jane," yelled Larry, waving his hands wildly to a girl who was seen sitting beside a window reading. The girl looked up, sprang from her seat, and in a moment or two appeared on the platform. "Come on," yelled Larry. He climbed over a wire fence, and up the steep grade of the railroad embankment. Down sprang the girl, met him half way up the embankment, and gave him both her hands. "Jane, Jane," exclaimed Larry. "You are looking splendidly. Do you know," he added in a low voice, "I should love to kiss you right here. May I? Look at all the people; they would enjoy it so much."

The girl jerked away her hands, the blood showing dully under her brown skin. "Stop it, you silly boy. Is that Nora? Yes, it is." She waved her hand wildly at Nora, who was struggling frantically with the barbed wire fence. "Wait, I am coming, Nora," cried Jane.

Down the embankment she scrambled and, over the wire, the two girls embraced each other to the delight of the whole body of the passengers gathered at windows and on platforms, and to the especial delight of a handsome young giant, resplendent in a new suit of striped flannels, negligee shirt, blue socks with tie to match, and wearing a straw hat adorned with a band in college colours. With a wide smile upon his face he stood gazing down upon the enthusiastic osculation of the young ladies.

"Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, this is Jane," cried Nora. "Mrs. Waring-Gaunt has come to meet you and take you home," she added to Jane. "You know we have no car of our own."

"How do you do," said Jane, smiling at Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. "I can't get at you very well just now. It was very kind of you to come for us."

"And she has left her brother very sick at home," said Nora in a low voice.

"We won't keep you waiting," said Jane, beginning to scramble up the bank again. "Come, Larry, I shall get father and you shall help with our things."

"Right you are," said Larry.

"Met your friends, I see, Miss Brown," said the handsome giant. "I know it is mean of me, but I am really disgusted. It is bad enough to be held up here for a night, but to lose your company too."

"Well, I am awfully glad," said Jane, giving him such a delighted smile that he shook his head disconsolately.

"No need telling me that. Say," he added in an undertone, "that's your friend Nora, ain't it? Stunning girl. Introduce me, won't you?"

"Yes, if you will help me with my things. I am in an awful hurry and don't want to keep them waiting. Larry, this is Mr. Dean Wakeham." The young man shook hands with cordial frankness, Larry with suspicion in his heart.

"Let me have your check, Jane, and I will go and get your trunk," said Larry.

"No, you come with me, Larry," said Jane decidedly. "The trunk is too big for you to handle. Mr. Wakeham, you will get it for me, won't you, please? I will send a porter to help."

"Gladly, Miss Brown. No, I mean with the deepest pain and regret," said Wakeham, going for the trunk while Larry accompanied her in quest of the minor impedimenta that constituted her own and her father's baggage.

"Jane, have you any idea how glad I am to see you?" demanded Larry as they passed into the car.

Jane's radiant smile transformed her face. "Yes, I think so," she said simply. "But we must hurry. Oh, here is Papa."

Dr. Brown hailed Larry with acclaim. "This is very kind of you, my dear boy; you have saved us a tedious wait."

"We must hurry, Papa," said Jane, cutting him short. "Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, who has come for us in her car, has left her brother ill at home." She marshalled them promptly into the car and soon had them in line for the motor, bearing the hand baggage and wraps, the porter following with Jane's own bag. "Thank you, porter," said Jane, giving him a smile that reduced that functionary to the verge of grinning imbecility, and a tip which he received with an air of absent-minded indifference. "Good-bye, porter; you have made us very comfortable," said Jane, shaking hands with him.

"Thank you, Miss; it shuah is a pleasuah to wait on a young lady like you, Miss. It shuah is, Miss. Ah wish you a prospec jounay, Miss, Ah do."

"I wonder what is keeping Mr. Wakeham," said Jane. "I am very sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt. Larry, would you mind?"

"Certainly not," said Larry, hurrying off toward the baggage car. In a few minutes Mr. Wakeham appeared with the doleful news that the trunk was not in the car and must have been left behind.

"I am quite sure it is there," said Jane, setting off herself for the car, the crestfallen Mr. Wakeham and the porter following behind her.

At the door of the car the baggage man met her with regretful apologies. "The trunk must have been left behind."

He was brusquely informed by Jane that she had seen it put on board.

"Then it must have been put off by mistake at Calgary?" This suggestion was brushed aside as unworthy of consideration. The trunk was here in this car, she was sure. This the baggage man and Mr. Wakeham united in declaring quite impossible. "We have turned the blasted car upside down," said the latter.

"Impossible?" exclaimed Jane, who had been exploring the dark recesses of the car. "Why, here it is, I knew it was here."

"Hurrah," cried Larry, "we have got it anyway."

Mr. Wakeham and the baggage man went to work to extricate the trunk from the lowest tier of boxes. They were wise enough to attempt no excuse or explanation, and in Jane's presence they felt cribbed, cabined and confined in the use of such vocabulary as they were wont to consider appropriate to the circumstances, and in which they prided themselves as being adequately expert. A small triumphal procession convoyed the trunk to the motor, Jane leading as was fitting, Larry and Mr. Wakeham forming the rear guard. The main body consisted of the porter, together with the baggage man, who, under a flagellating sense of his incompetence, was so moved from his wonted attitude of haughty indifference as to the fate of a piece of baggage committed to his care when once he had contemptuously hurled it forth from the open door of his car as to personally aid in conducting by the unusual and humiliating process of actually handling this particular bit of baggage down a steep and gravelly bank and over a wire fence and into a motor car.

"Jane's a wonder," confided Larry to Mr. Wakeham.

"She sure is," said that young man. "You cannot slip anything past her, and she's got even that baggage man tamed and tied and ready to catch peanuts in his mouth. First time I have seen that done."

"You just wait till she smiles her farewell at him," said Larry, hugely enjoying the prospect.

Together they stood awaiting the occurrence of this phenomenon. "Gosh-a-mighty, look at him," murmured Mr. Wakeham. "Takes it like pie. He'd just love to carry that blasted trunk up the grade and back to the car, if she gave him the wink. Say, she ain't much to look at, but somehow she's got me handcuffed and chained to her chariot wheels. Say," he continued with a shyness not usual with him, "would you mind introducing me to the party?"

"Come along," said Larry.

The introduction, however, was performed by Jane, who apparently considered Mr. Wakeham as being under her protection. "Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, this is Mr. Wakeham. Mr. Wakeham is from Chicago, but," she hastened to add, "he knows some friends of ours in Winnipeg."

"So you see I am fairly respectable," said Mr. Wakeham, shaking hand with Mrs. Waring-Gaunt and Nora.

When the laughter had ceased, Mr. Wakeham said, "If your car were only a shade larger I should beg hospitality along with Dr. and Miss Brown."

"Room on the top," said Mrs. Waring-Gaunt with a smile, "but it seems the only place left. You are just passing through, Mr. Wakeham?"

"Yes, I am going on to Manor Mine."

"Oh, that's only twenty miles down the line."

"Then may I run up to see you?" eagerly asked Mr. Wakeham.

"Certainly, we shall be delighted to see you," said the lady.

"Count on me, then," said the delighted Mr. Wakeham, lifting his hat in farewell.

Dr. Brown took his place in the front seat beside Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, the three young people occupying the seat in the rear.

"Who is he?" asked Larry when they had finally got under way.

"A friend of the James Murrays in Winnipeg. You remember them, don't you? Ethel Murray was in your year. He is very nice indeed, don't you think so, Papa?" said Jane, appealing to her father.

"Fine young chap," said Dr. Brown with emphasis. "His father is in mines in rather a big way, I believe. Lives in Chicago, has large holdings in Alberta coal mines about here somewhere, I fancy. The young man is a recent graduate from Cornell and is going into his father's business. He strikes me as an exceptionally able young fellow." And for at least five miles of the way Dr. Brown discussed the antecedents, the character, the training, the prospects of the young American till Larry felt qualified to pass a reasonably stiff examination on that young man's history, character and career.

"Now tell me," said Larry to Jane at the first real opening that offered, "what does this talk about a three days' visit to us mean. The idea of coming a thousand miles on your first visit to your friends, some of whom you have not seen for eight years and staying three days!"