"Especially when they will keep away," said Kate.

"Well, what are they good for if not to entertain us? I wish we could do without them! But I do think Ranald might have come."

"Well," said Kate, emphatically, "I can't see why you should expect him."

"Why not?"

"I think you ought to know."

"I, how should I know?" Maimie's innocent blue eyes were wide open with surprise.

"Nonsense," cried Kate, with impatience rare in her, "don't be absurd, Maimie; I am not a child."

"What do YOU mean?"

"You needn't tell me you don't know why Ranald comes. Do you want him to come?"

"Why, of course I do; how silly you are."

"Well," said Kate, deliberately, "I would rather be silly than cruel and unkind."

"Why, Kate, how dreadful of you!" exclaimed Maimie; "'cruel and unkind!'"

"Yes." said Kate; "you are not treating Ranald well. You should not encourage him to—to—care for you when you do not mean to—to—go on with it."

"Oh, what nonsense; Ranald is not a baby; he will not take any hurt."

"Oh, Maimie," said Kate, and her voice was low and earnest, "Ranald is not like other men. He does not understand things. He loves you and he will love you more every day if you let him. Why don't you let him go?"

"Let him go!" cried Maimie, "who's keeping him?" But as she spoke the flush in her cheek and the warm light in her eye told more clearly than words that she did not mean to let him go just then.

"You are," said Kate, "and you are making him love you."

"Why, how silly you are," cried Maimie; "of course he likes me, but—"

"No, Maimie," said Kate, with sad earnestness, "he loves you; you can see it in the way he looks at you; in his voice when he speaks and—oh, you shouldn't let him unless you mean to—to—go on. Send him right away!" There were tears in Kate's dark eyes.

"Why, Katie," cried Maimie, looking at her curiously, "what difference does it make to you? And besides, how can I send him away? I just treat him as I do Mr. De Lacy."

"De Lacy!" cried Kate, indignantly. "De Lacy can look after himself, but Ranald is different. He is so serious and—and so honest, and he means just what he says, and you are so nice to him, and you look at him in such a way!"

"Why, Kate, do you mean that I try to—" Maimie was righteously indignant.

"You perhaps don't know," continued Kate, "but you can't help being fascinating to men; you know you are, and Ranald believes you so, and—and you ought to be quite straightforward with him!" Poor Kate could no longer command her voice.

"There, now," said Maimie, caressing her friend, not unpleased with Kate's description of her; "I'm going to be good. I will just be horrid to both of them, and they'll go away! But, oh, dear, things are all wrong! Poor Ranald," she said to herself, "I wonder if he will come to the picnic on Saturday?"

Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears.

"Indeed I hope he will not," she said, indignantly, "for I know you mean to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him."

"Tell him what?" said Maimie, smiling.

"Just what you mean to do."

"I wish you would tell me that."

"Now I tell you, Maimie," said Kate, "if you go on with Ranald so any longer I will just tell him you are playing with him."

"Do," said Maimie, scornfully, "and be careful to make clear to him at the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest!"

Kate's face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word, nor did Maimie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside her door entreating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate! Maimie's shaft had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her. Was it for Ranald's sake alone she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart?

Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was. For long she had heard of the Glengarry lad from Maimie and more from Harry till there had grown up in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him for herself! How little after all had they told her of him. What a man he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes could fill with love! She started up. Love? Love? Ah, where was her joy! How chill the day had grown and how hateful the sunlight on the river. She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed, shivering and sick with pain—the bitterest that heart can know. Once more she started up.

"She is not worthy of him!" she exclaimed, aloud; "her heart is not deep enough; she does not, cannot love him, and oh, if some one would only let him know!"

She would tell him herself. No! No! Maimie's sharp arrow was quivering still in her heart. Once more she threw herself upon the bed. How could she bear this that had stricken her? She would go home. She would go to her mother to-morrow. Go away forever from—ah—could she? No, anything but that! She could not go away.

Over the broad river the warm sunlight lay with kindly glow, and the world was full of the soft, sweet air of spring, and the songs of mating birds; but the hours passed, and over the river the shadows began to creep, and the whole world grew dark, and the songs of the birds were hushed to silence. Then, from her room, Kate came down with face serene, and but for the eyes that somehow made one think of tears, without a sign of the storm that had swept her soul. She did not go home. She was too brave for that. She would stay and fight her battle to the end.

That was a dreary week for Ranald. He was lonely and heartsick for the woods and for his home and friends, but chiefly was he oppressed with the sense of having played the fool in his quarrel with De Lacy, whom he was beginning to admire and like. He surely might have avoided that; and yet whenever he thought of the game that had swept away from Rouleau all his winter's earnings, and of the cruel blow that had followed, he felt his muscles stiffen and his teeth set tight in rage. No, he would do it all again, nor would he retreat one single step from the position he had taken, but would see his quarrel through to the end. But worst of all he had not seen Maimie all the week. His experience with Harry in the ordering of his suit had taught him the importance of clothes, and he now understood as he could not before, Maimie's manner to him. "That would be it," he said to himself, "and no wonder. What would she do with a great, coarse tyke like me!" Then, in spite of all his loyalty, he could not help contrasting with Maimie's uncertain and doubtful treatment of him, the warm, frank friendliness of Kate. "SHE did not mind my clothes," he thought, with a glow of gratitude, but sharply checking himself, he added, "but why should she care?" It rather pleased him to think that Maimie cared enough to feel embarrassed at his rough dress. So he kept away from the Hotel de Cheval Blanc till his new suit should be ready. It was not because of his dress, however, that he steadily refused Harry's invitation to the picnic.

"No, I will not go," he said, with blunt decision, after listening to Harry's pleading. "It is Lieutenant De Lacy's picnic, and I will have nothing to do with him, and indeed he will not be wanting me!"

"Oh, he's forgotten all about that little affair," cried Harry.

"Has he? Indeed then if he is a man he has not!"

"I guess he hasn't remembered much of anything for the last week," said Harry, with a slight laugh.

"Why not?"

"Oh, pshaw, he's been on a big tear. He only sobered up yesterday."

"Huh!" grunted Ranald, contemptuously. He had little respect for a man who did not know when he had had enough. "What about his job?" he asked.

"His job? Oh, I see. His job doesn't worry him much. He's absent on sick-leave. But he's all fit again and I know he will be disappointed if you do not come to-morrow."

"I will not go," said Ranald, with final decision, "and you can tell him so, and you can tell him why."

And Harry did tell him with considerable fullness and emphasis not only of Ranald's decision, but also Ranald's opinion of him, for he felt that it would do that lordly young man no harm to know that a man whom he was inclined to patronize held him in contempt and for cause. The lieutenant listened for a time to all Harry had to say with apparent indifference, then suddenly interrupting him, he said: "Oh, I say, old chap, I wouldn't rub it in if I were you. I have a more or less vague remembrance of having rather indulged in heroics. One can't keep his head with poker and unlimited brandy-and-sodas; they don't go together. It's a thing I almost never do; never in a big game, but the thing got interesting before I knew. But I say, that Glengarry chap plays a mighty good game. Must get him on again. Feels hot, eh? I will make that all right, and what's the French chap's name—Boileau, Rondeau, eh? Rouleau. Yes, and where could one see him?"

"I can find out from LeNoir, who will be somewhere near Ranald. You can't get him away from him."

"Well, do," said the lieutenant, lazily. "Bring LeNoir to see me. I owe that Rouleau chap an apology. Beastly business! And I'll fix it up with Macdonald. He has the right of it, by Jove! Rather lucky, I fancy, he didn't yield to my solicitations for a try at the other game—from what I remember of the street riot, eh? Would not mind having a go with him with the gloves, though. I will see him to-morrow morning. Keep your mind at rest."

Next morning when LeNoir came to his work he was full of the lieutenant's praises to Ranald.

"Das fine feller le Capitaine, eh? Das de Grand Seigneur for sure! He's mak eet all right wit Rouleau! He's pay de cash money and he's mak eet de good posish for him, an' set him up the champagne, too, by gar!"

"Huh," grunted Ranald. "Run that crib around the boom there LeNoir; break it up and keep your gang moving to-day!"

"Bon!" said LeNoir, with alacrity. "I give 'em de big move, me!"

But however unwilling Ranald was to listen to LeNoir singing the lieutenant's praises, when he met Harry at noon in the office he was even more enthusiastic than LeNoir in his admiration of De Lacy.

"I never saw the likes of him," he said. "He could bring the birds out of the trees with that tongue of his. Indeed, I could not have done what he did whatever. Man, but he is a gentleman!"

"And are you going this evening?"

"That I am," said Ranald. "What else could I do? I could not help myself; he made me feel that mean that I was ready to do anything."

"All right," said Harry, delighted, "I will take my canoe around for you after six."

"And," continued Ranald, with a little hesitation, "he told me he would be wearing a jersey and duck trousers, and I think that was very fine of him."

"Why, of course," said Harry, quite mystified, "what else would he wear?"

Ranald looked at him curiously for a moment, and said: "A swallow-tail, perhaps, or a blanket, maybe," and he turned away leaving Harry more mystified than ever.

Soon after six, Harry paddled around in his canoe, and gave the stern to Ranald. What a joy it was to him to be in a canoe stern again; to feel the rush of the water under his knees; to have her glide swiftly on her soundless way down the full-bosomed, sunbathed river; to see her put her nose into the little waves and gently, smoothly push them asunder with never a splash or swerve; to send her along straight and true as an arrow in its flight, and then flip! flip to swing her off a floating log or around an awkward boat lumbering with clumsy oars. That was to be alive again. Oh, the joy of it! Of all things that move to the will of man there is none like the canoe. It alone has the sweet, smooth glide, the swift, silent dart answering the paddle sweep; the quick swerve in response to the turn of the wrist. Ranald felt as if he could have gladly paddled on right out to the open sea; but sweeping around a bend a long, clear call hailed them, and there, far down at the bottom of a little bay, at the foot of the big, scarred, and wrinkled rock the smoke and glimmer of the camp-fire could be seen. A flip of the stern paddle, and the canoe pointed for the waving figure, and under the rhythmic sweep of the paddles, sped like an arrow down the waters, sloping to the shore. There, on a great rock, stood Kate, directing their course.

"Here's a good landing," she cried. Right at the rock dashed the canoe at full speed. A moment more and her dainty nose would be battered out of all shape on the cruel rock, but a strong back stroke, a turn of the wrist, flip, and she lay floating quietly beside the rock.

"Splendid!" cried Kate.

"Well done, by Jove!" exclaimed the lieutenant, who was himself an expert with the paddle.

"I suppose you have no idea how fine you look," cried Kate.

"And I am quite sure," answered Harry, "you have no suspicion of what a beautiful picture you all make." And a beautiful picture it was: the great rocky cliff in the background, tricked out in its new spring green of moss and shrub and tree; the grassy plot at its foot where a little stream gurgled out from the rock; the blazing camp-fire with the little group about it; and in front the sunlit river. How happy they all were! And how ready to please and to be pleased. Even little Mr. Sims had his charm. And at the making of the tea, which Kate had taken in charge with Ranald superintending, what fun there was with burning of fingers and upsetting of kettles! And then, the talk and the laughter at the lieutenant's brilliant jokes, and the chaffing of the "lumbermen" over their voracious appetites! It was an hour of never-to-be-forgotten pleasure. They were all children again, and with children's hearts were happy in childhood's simple joys. And why not? There are no joys purer than those of the open air; of grass and trees flooded with the warm light and sweet scents of the soft springtime. Too soon it all came to an end, and then they set off to convoy the stately old lady to her carriage at the top of the cliff. Far in front went Kate, disdaining the assistance of Harry and Mr. Sims, who escorted her. Near at hand the lieutenant was in attendance upon Maimie, who seemed to need his constant assistance; for the way was rough, and there were so many jutting points of rock for wonderful views, and often the very prettiest plants were just out of reach. Last of all came Madame De Lacy, climbing the steep path with difficulty and holding fast to Ranald's arm. With charming grace she discoursed of the brave days of old in which her ancestors had played a worthy part. An interesting tale it was, but in spite of all her charm of speech, and grace of manner, Ranald could not keep his mind from following his heart and eyes that noted every step and move of the beautiful girl, flitting in and out among the trees before them. And well it was that his eyes were following so close; for, as she was reaching for a dainty spray of golden birch, holding by the lieutenant's hand, the treacherous moss slipped from under Maimie's feet, and with a piercing shriek she went rolling down the sloping mountain-side, dragging her escort with her. Like a flash of light Ranald dropped madame's arm, and seizing the top of a tall birch that grew up from the lower ledge, with a trick learned as a boy in the Glengarry woods, he swung himself clear over the edge, and dropping lightly on the mossy bank below, threw himself in front of the rolling bodies, and seizing them held fast. In another moment leaving the lieutenant to shift for himself, Ranald was on his knees beside Maimie, who lay upon the moss, white and still. "Some water, for God's sake!" he cried, hoarsely, to De Lacy, who stood dazed beside him, and then, before the lieutenant could move, Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms, as if she had been an infant, and bore her down to the river's edge, and laid her on the grassy bank. Then, taking up a double handful of water, he dashed it in her face. With a little sigh she opened her eyes, and letting them rest upon his face, said, gently, "Oh, Ranald, I am so glad you—I am so sorry I have been so bad to you." She could say no more, but from her closed eyes two great tears made their way down her pale cheeks.

"Oh, Maimie, Maimie," said Ranald, in a broken voice, "tell me you are not hurt."

Again she opened her eyes and said, "No, I am not hurt, but you will take me home; you will not leave me!" Her fingers closed upon his hand.

With a quick, strong clasp, he replied: "I will not leave you."

In a few minutes she was able to sit up, and soon they were all about her, exclaiming and lamenting.

"What a silly girl I am," she said, with a little tremulous laugh, "and what a fright I must have given you all!"

"Don't rise, my dear," said Madame De Lacy, "until you feel quite strong."

"Oh, I am quite right," said Maimie, confidently; "I am sure I am not hurt in the least."

"Oh, I am so thankful!" cried Kate.

"It is the Lord's mercy," said Ranald, in a voice of deep emotion.

"Are you quite sure you are not hurt?" said Harry, anxiously.

"Yes, I really think I am all right, but what a fright I must look!"

"Thank God!" said Harry fervently; "I guess you're improving," at which they all laughed.

"Now I think we must get home," said Madame De Lacy. "Do you think you can walk, Maimie?"

"Oh, yes," cried Maimie, and taking Ranald's hand, she tried to stand up, but immediately sank back with a groan.

"Oh, it is my foot," she said, "I am afraid it is hurt."

"Let me see!" cried Harry. "I don't think it is broken," he said, after feeling it carefully, "but I have no doubt it is a very bad sprain. You can't walk for certain."

"Then we shall have to carry her," said Madame De Lacy, and she turned to her son.

"I fear I can offer no assistance," said the lieutenant, pointing to his arm which was hanging limp at his side.

"Why, Albert, are you hurt? What is the matter? You are hurt!" cried his mother, anxiously.

"Not much, but I fear my arm is useless. You might feel it," he said to Ranald.

Carefully Ranald passed his hand down the arm.

"Say nothing," whispered the lieutenant to him. "It's broken. Tie it up some way." Without a word Ranald stripped the bark of a birch tree, and making a case, laid the arm in it and bound it firmly with his silk handkerchief.

"We ought to have a sling," he said, turning to Kate.

"Here," said Madame De Lacy, untying a lace scarf from her neck, "take this."

Kate took the scarf, and while Ranald held the arm in place she deftly made it into a sling.

"There," said the lieutenant, "that feels quite comfortable. Now let's go."

"Come, Maimie, I'll carry you up the hill," said Harry.

"No," said Ranald, decidedly, "she will go in the canoe. That will be easier."

"Quite right," said the lieutenant. "Sims, perhaps you will give my mother your arm, and if Miss Kate will be kind enough to escort me, we can all four go in the carriage; but first we shall see the rest of the party safely off."

"Come, then, Maimie," said Harry, approaching his sister; "let me carry you."

But Maimie glanced up at Ranald, who without a word, lifted her in his arms.

"Put your arm about his neck, Maimie," cried Harry, "you will go more comfortably that way. Ranald won't mind," he added, with a laugh.

At the touch of her clinging arms the blood mounted slowly into Ranald's neck and face, showing red through the dark tan of his skin.

"How strong you are," said Maimie, softly, "and how easily you carry me. But you would soon tire of me," she added with a little laugh.

"I would not tire forever," said Ranald, as he laid her gently down in the canoe.

"I shall send the carriage to the wharf for you," said Madame De Lacy, "and you will come right home to me, and you, too, Miss Raymond."

Ranald took his place in the stern with Maimie reclining in the canoe so as to face him.

"You are sure you are comfortable," he said, with anxious solicitude in his tone.

"Quite," she replied, with a cosy little snuggle down among the cushions placed around her.

"Then let her go," cried Ranald, dipping in his paddle.

"Good by," cried Kate, waving her hand at them from the rock. "We'll meet you at the wharf. Take good care of your invalid, Ranald."

With hardly a glance at her Ranald replied: "You may be sure of that," and with a long, swinging stroke shot the canoe out into the river. For a moment or two Kate stood looking after them, and then, with a weary look in her face, turned, and with the lieutenant, followed Madame De Lacy and Mr. Sims.

"You are tired," said the lieutenant, looking into her face.

"Yes," she replied, with a little sigh, "I think I am tired."

The paddle home was all too short to Ranald, but whether it took minutes or hours he could not have told. As in a dream he swung his paddle and guided his canoe. He saw only the beautiful face and the warm light in the bright eyes before him. He woke to see Kate on the wharf before them, and for a moment he wondered how she came there. Once more, as he bore her from the canoe to the carriage, he felt Maimie's arms clinging about his neck and heard her whisper, "You will not leave me, Ranald," and again he replied, "No, I will not leave you."

Swiftly the De Lacy carriage bore them through the crooked, climbing streets of the city and out along the country road, then up a stately avenue of beeches, and drew up before the stone steps, of a noble old chateau. Once more Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms and carried her up the broad steps, and through the great oak-paneled hall into Madame De Lacy's own cosy sitting-room, and there he laid her safely in a snug nest of cushions prepared for her. There was nothing more to do, but to say good by and come away, but it was Harry that first brought this to Ranald's mind.

"Good by, Ranald," said Maimie, smiling up into his face. "I cannot thank you for all you have done to-day, but I am sure Madame De Lacy will let you come to see me sometimes."

"I shall be always glad to see you," said the little lady, with gentle, old-fashioned courtesy, "for we both owe much to you this day."

"Thank you," said Ranald, quietly, "I will come," and passed out of the room, followed by Harry and Kate.

At the great hall door, Kate stood and watched them drive away, waving her hand in farewell.

"Good by," cried Harry, "don't forget us in your stately palace," but Ranald made no reply. He had no thought for her. But still she stood and watched the carriage till the beeches hid it from her view, and then, with her hand pressed against her side, she turned slowly into the hall.

As the carriage rolled down the stately avenue, Ranald sat absorbed in deepest thought, heeding not his companion's talk.

"What's the matter with you, Ranald? What are you thinking of?" at last cried Harry, impatiently.

"What?" answered Ranald, in strange confusion, "I cannot tell you." Unconsciously as he spoke he put up his hand to his neck, for he was still feeling the pressure of those clinging arms, and all the way back the sounds of the rolling wheels and noisy, rattling streets wrought themselves into one sweet refrain, "You will not leave me, Ranald," and often in his heart he answered, "No, I will not," with such a look on his face as men wear when pledging life and honor.



CHAPTER XXI

I WILL REMEMBER

The Albert was by all odds the exclusive club in the capital city of upper Canada, for men were loath to drop the old name. Its members belonged to the best families, and moved in the highest circles, and the entre was guarded by a committee of exceeding vigilance. They had a very real appreciation of the rights and privileges of their order, and they cherished for all who assayed to enter the most lofty ideal. Not wealth alone could purchase entrance within those sacred precincts unless, indeed, it were of sufficient magnitude and distributed with judicious and unvulgar generosity. A tinge of blue in the common red blood of humanity commanded the most favorable consideration, but when there was neither cerulean tinge of blood nor gilding of station the candidate for membership in the Albert was deemed unutterable in his presumption, and rejection absolute and final was inevitable. A single black ball shut him out. So it came as a surprise to most outsiders, though not to Ranald himself, when that young gentleman's name appeared in the list of accepted members in the Albert. He had been put up by both Raymond and St. Clair, but not even the powerful influence of these sponsors would have availed with the members had it not come to be known that young Macdonald was a friend of Captain De Lacy's of Quebec, don't you know! and a sport, begad, of the first water; for the Alberts favored athletics, and loved a true sport almost as much as they loved a lord. They never regretted their generous concession in this instance, for during the three years of his membership, it was the Glengarry Macdonald that had brought glory to their club more than any half dozen of their other champions. In their finals with the Montrealers two years ago, it was he, the prince of all Canadian half-backs, as every one acknowledged, who had snatched victory from the exultant enemy in the last quarter of an hour. Then, too, they had never ceased to be grateful for the way in which he had delivered the name of their club from the reproach cast upon it by the challenge long flaunted before their aristocratic noses by the cads of the Athletic, when he knocked out in a bout with the gloves, the chosen representative of that ill-favored club—a professional, too, by Jove, as it leaked out later.

True, there were those who thought him too particular, and undoubtedly he had peculiar ideas. He never drank, never played for money, and he never had occasion to use words in the presence of men that would be impossible before their mothers and sisters; and there was a quaint, old-time chivalry about him that made him a friend of the weak and helpless, and the champion of women, not only of those whose sheltered lives had kept them fair and pure, but of those others as well, sad-eyed and soul-stained, the cruel sport of lustful men. For his open scorn of their callous lust some hated him, but all with true men's hearts loved him.

The club-rooms were filling up; the various games were in full swing.

"Hello, little Merrill!" Young Merrill looked up from his billiards.

"Glengarry, by all the gods!" throwing down his cue, and rushing at Ranald. "Where in this lonely universe have you been these many months, and how are you, old chap?" Merrill was excited.

"All right, Merrill?" inquired the deep voice.

"Right, so help me—" exclaimed Merrill, solemnly, lifting up his hand. "He's inquiring after my morals," he explained to the men who were crowding about; "and I don't give a blank blank who knows it," continued little Merrill, warmly, "my present magnificent manhood," smiting himself on the breast, "I owe to that same dear old solemnity there," pointing to Ranald.

"Shut up, Merrill, or I'll spank you," said Ranald.

"You will, eh?" cried Merrill, looking at him. "Look at him vaunting his beastly fitness over the frail and weak. I say, men, did you ever behold such condition! See that clear eye, that velvety skin, that—Oh, I say! pax! pax! peccavi!"

"There," said Ranald, putting him down from the billiard-table, "perhaps you will learn when to be seen."

"Brute," murmured little Merrill, rubbing the sore place; "but ain't he fit?" he added, delightedly. And fit he looked. Four years of hard work and clean living had done for him everything that it lies in years to do. They had made of the lank, raw, shanty lad a man, and such a man as a sculptor would have loved to behold. Straight as a column he stood two inches over six feet, but of such proportions that seeing him alone, one would never have guessed his height. His head and neck rose above his square shoulders with perfect symmetry and poise. His dark face, tanned now to a bronze, with features clear-cut and strong, was lit by a pair of dark brown eyes, honest, fearless, and glowing with a slumbering fire that men would hesitate to stir to flame. The lines of his mouth told of self-control, and the cut of his chin proclaimed a will of iron, and altogether, he bore himself with an air of such quiet strength and cool self-confidence that men never feared to follow where he led. Yet there was a reserve about him that set him a little apart from men, and a kind of shyness that saved him from any suspicion of self-assertion. In vain he tried to escape from the crowd that gathered about him, and more especially from the foot-ball men, who utterly adored him.

"You can't do anything for a fellow that doesn't drink," complained Starry Hamilton, the big captain of the foot-ball team.

"Drink! a nice captain you are, Starry," said Ranald, "and Thanksgiving so near."

"We haven't quite shut down yet," explained the captain.

"Then I suppose a cigar is permitted," replied Ranald, ordering the steward to bring his best. In a few minutes he called for his mail, and excusing himself, slipped into one of the private rooms. The manager of the Raymond & St. Clair Company and prominent clubman, much sought after in social circles, he was bound to find letters of importance awaiting him, but hastily shuffling the bundle, he selected three, and put the rest in his pocket.

"So she's back," he said to himself, lifting up one in a square envelope, addressed in large, angular writing. He turned it over in his hand, feasting his eyes upon it, as a boy holds a peach, prolonging the blissful anticipation. Then he opened it slowly and read:

MY DEAR RANALD: All the way home I was hoping that on my return, fresh from the "stately homes of England," and from association with lords and dukes and things, you would be here to receive your share of the luster and aroma my presence would shed (that's a little mixed, I fear); but with a most horrible indifference to your privileges you are away at the earth's end, no one knows where. Father said you were to be home to-day, so though you don't in the least deserve it, I am writing you a note of forgiveness; and will you be sure to come to my special party to-morrow night? I put it off till to-morrow solely on your account, and in spite of Aunt Frank, and let me tell you that though I have seen such heaps of nice men, and all properly dear and devoted, still I want to see you, so you must come. Everything else will keep. Yours,

MAIMIE.

Over and over again he read the letter, till the fire in his eyes began to gleam and his face became radiant with a tender glow.

"'Yours, Maimie,' eh? I wonder now what she means," he mused. "Seven years and for my life I don't know yet, but to-morrow night—yes, to-morrow night, I will know!" He placed the letter in its envelope and put it carefully in his inside pocket. "Now for Kate, dear old girl, no better anywhere." He opened his letter and read:

DEAR RANALD: What a lot of people will be delighted to see you back! First, dear old Dr. Marshall, who is in despair over the Institute, of which he declares only a melancholy ruin will be left if you do not speedily return. Indeed, it is pretty bad. The boys are quite terrible, and even my "angels" are becoming infected. Your special pet, Coley, after reducing poor Mr. Locke to the verge of nervous prostration, has "quit," and though I have sought him in his haunts, and used my very choicest blandishments, he remains obdurate. To my remonstrances, he finally deigned to reply: "Naw, they ain't none of 'em any good no more; them ducks is too pious for me." I don't know whether you will consider that a compliment or not. So the Institute and all its people will welcome you with acclaims of delight and sighs of relief. And some one else whom you adore, and who adores you, will rejoice to see you. I have begged her from Maimie for a few precious days. But that's a secret, and last of all and least of all, there is

Your friend,

KATE.

P. S.—Of course you will be at the party to-morrow night. Maimie looks lovelier than ever, and she will be so glad to see you.

K.

"What a trump she is," murmured Ranald; "unselfish, honest to the core, and steady as a rock. 'Some one else whom you adore.' Who can that be? By Jove, is it possible? I will go right up to-night."

His last letter was from Mr. St. Clair, who was the chief executive of the firm. He glanced over it hurriedly, then with a curious blending of surprise, perplexity, and dismay on his face, he read it again with careful deliberation:

MY DEAR RANALD: Welcome home! We shall all be delighted to see you. Your letter from North Bay, which reached me two days ago, contained information that places us in rather an awkward position. Last May, just after you left for the north, Colonel Thorp, of the British-American Coal and Lumber Company, operating in British Columbia and Michigan, called to see me, and made an offer of $75,000 for our Bass River limits. Of course you know we are rather anxious to unload, and at first I regarded his offer with favor. Soon afterwards I received your first report, sent apparently on your way up. I thereupon refused Colonel Thorp's offer. Then evidently upon the strength of your report, which I showed him, Colonel Thorp, who by the way is a very fine fellow, but a very shrewd business man, raised his offer to an even hundred thousand. This offer I feel inclined to accept. To tell you the truth, we have more standing timber than we can handle, and as you know, we are really badly crippled for ready money. It is a little unfortunate that your last report should be so much less favorable in regard to the east half of the limits. However, I don't suppose there is any need of mentioning that to Colonel Thorp, especially as his company are getting a good bargain as it is, and one which of themselves, they could not possibly secure from the government. I write you this note in case you should run across Colonel Thorp in town to-morrow, and inadvertently say something that might complicate matters. I have no doubt that we shall be able to close the deal in a few days.

Now I want to say again how delighted we all are to have you back. We never realized how much we were dependent upon you. Mr. Raymond and I have been talking matters over, and we have agreed that some changes ought to be made, which I venture to say will not be altogether disagreeable to you. I shall see you first thing in the morning about the matter of the limits.

Maimie has got home, and is, I believe, expecting you at her party to-morrow night. Indeed, I understand she was determined that it should not come off until you had returned, which shows she shares the opinion of the firm concerning you.

I am yours sincerely,

EUGENE ST. CLAIR.

Ranald sat staring at the letter for a long time. He saw with perfect clearness Mr. St. Clair's meaning, and a sense of keen humiliation possessed him as he realized what it was that he was expected to do. But it took some time for the full significance of the situation to dawn upon him. None knew better than he how important it was to the firm that this sale should be effected. The truth was if the money market should become at all close the firm would undoubtedly find themselves in serious difficulty. Ruin to the company meant not only the blasting of his own prospects, but misery to her whom he loved better than life; and after all, what he was asked to do was nothing more than might be done any day in the world of business. Every buyer is supposed to know the value of the thing he buys, and certainly Colonel Thorp should not commit his company to a deal involving such a large sum of money without thoroughly informing himself in regard to the value of the limits in question, and when he, as an employee of the Raymond and St. Clair Lumber Company, gave in his report, surely his responsibility ceased. He was not asked to present any incorrect report; he could easily make it convenient to be absent until the deal was closed. Furthermore, the chances were that the British-American Coal and Lumber Company would still have good value for their money, for the west half of the limits was exceptionally good; and besides, what right had he to besmirch the honor of his employer, and to set his judgment above that of a man of much greater experience? Ranald understood also Mr. St. Clair's reference to the changes in the firm, and it gave him no small satisfaction to think that in four years he had risen from the position of lumber checker to that of manager, with an offer of a partnership; nor could he mistake the suggestion in Mr. St. Clair's closing words. Every interest he had in life would be furthered by the consummation of the deal, and would be imperiled by his refusing to adopt Mr. St. Clair's suggestion. Still, argue as he might, Ranald never had any doubt as to what, as a man of honor, he ought to do. Colonel Thorp was entitled to the information that he and Mr. St. Clair alone possessed. Between his interests and his conscience the conflict raged.

"I wish I knew what I ought to do," he groaned, all the time battling against the conviction that the information he possessed should by rights be given to Colonel Thorp. Finally, in despair of coming to a decision, he seized his hat, saying, "I will go and see Kate," and slipping out of a side door, he set off for the Raymond home. "I will just look up Coley on the way," he said to himself, and diving down an alley, he entered a low saloon with a billiard hall attached. There, as he had expected, acting as marker, he found Coley.

Mike Cole, or Coley, as his devoted followers called him, was king of St. Joseph's ward. Everywhere in the ward his word ran as law. About two years ago Coley had deigned to favor the Institute with a visit, his gang following him. They were welcomed with demonstrations of joy, and regaled with cakes and tea, all of which Coley accepted with lordly condescension. After consideration, Coley decided that the night classes might afford a not unpleasant alternative on cold nights, to alley-ways and saloons, and he allowed the gang to join. Thenceforth the successful conduct of the classes depended upon the ability of the superintendent to anticipate Coley's varying moods and inclinations, for that young man claimed and exercised the privilege of introducing features agreeable to the gang, though not necessarily upon the regular curriculum of study. Some time after Ranald's appearance in the Institute as an assistant, it happened one night that a sudden illness of the superintendent laid upon his shoulders the responsibility of government. The same night it also happened that Coley saw fit to introduce the enlivening but quite impromptu feature of a song and dance. To this Ranald objected, and was invited to put the gang out if he was man enough. After the ladies had withdrawn beyond the reach of missiles, Ranald adopted the unusual tactics of preventing exit by locking the doors, and then immediately became involved in a discussion with Coley and his followers. It cost the Institute something for furniture and windows, but thenceforth in Ranald's time there was peace. Coley ruled as before, but his sphere of influence was limited, and the day arrived when it became the ambition of Coley's life to bring the ward and its denizens into subjection to his own over-lord, whom he was prepared to follow to the death. But like any other work worth doing, this took days and weeks and months.

"Hello, Coley!" said Ranald, as his eyes fell upon his sometime ally and slave. "If you are not too busy I would like you to go along with me."

Coley looked around as if seeking escape.

"Come along," said Ranald, quietly, and Coley, knowing that anything but obedience was impossible, dropped his marking and followed Ranald out of the saloon.

"Well, Coley, I have had a great summer," began Ranald, "and I wish very much you could have been with me. It would have built you up and made a man of you. Just feel that," and he held out his arm, which Coley felt with admiring reverence. "That's what the canoe did," and then he proceeded to give a graphic account of his varied adventures by land and water during the last six months. As they neared Mr. Raymond's house, Ranald turned to Coley and said: "Now I want you to cut back to the Institute and tell Mr. Locke, if he is there, that I would like him to call around at my office to-morrow. And furthermore, Coley, there's no need of your going back into that saloon. I was a little ashamed to see one of my friends in a place like that. Now, good night, and be a man, and a clean man."

Coley stood with his head hung in abject self-abasement, and then ventured to say, "I couldn't stand them ducks nohow!"

"Who do you mean?" said Ranald.

"Oh, them fellers that runs the Institute now, and so I cut."

"Now look here, Coley," said Ranald, "I wouldn't go throwing stones at better men than yourself, and especially at men who are trying to do something to help other people and are not so beastly mean as to think only of their own pleasure. I didn't expect that of you, Coley. Now quit it and start again," and Ranald turned away.

Coley stood looking after him for a few moments in silence, and then said to himself, in a voice full of emphasis: "Well, there's just one of his kind and there ain't any other." Then he set out at a run for the Institute.

It was Kate herself who came to answer Ranald's ring.

"I knew it was you," she cried, with her hand eagerly outstretched and her face alight with joy. "Come in, we are all waiting for you, and prepare to be surprised." When they came to the drawing-room she flung open the door and with great ceremony announced "The man from Glengarry, as Harry would say."

"Hello, old chap!" cried Harry, springing to his feet, but Ranald ignored him. He greeted Kate's mother warmly for she had shown him a mother's kindness ever since he had come to the city, and they were great friends, and then he turned to Mrs. Murray, who was standing waiting for him, and gave her both his hands.

"I knew from Kate's letter," he said, "that it would be you, and I cannot tell you how glad I am." His voice grew a little unsteady and he could say no more. Mrs. Murray stood holding his hands and looking into his face.

"It cannot be possible," she said, "that this is Ranald Macdonald! How changed you are!" She pushed him a little back from her. "Let me look at you; why, I must say it, you are really handsome!"

"Now, auntie," cried Harry, reprovingly, "don't flatter him. He is utterly ruined now by every one, including both Kate and her mother."

"But really, Harry," continued Mrs. Murray, in a voice of delighted surprise, "it is certainly wonderful; and I am so glad! And I have been hearing about your work with the boys at the Institute, and I cannot tell you the joy it gave me."

"Oh, it is not much that I have done," said Ranald, deprecatingly.

"Indeed, it is a noble work and worthy of any man," said Mrs. Murray, earnestly, "and I thank God for you."

"Then," said Ranald, firmly, "I owe it all to yourself, for it is you that set me on this way."

"Listen to them admiring each other! It is quite shameless," said Harry.

Then they began talking about Glengarry, of the old familiar places, of the woods and the fields, of the boys and girls now growing into men and women, and of the old people, some of whom were passed away. Before long they were talking of the church and all the varied interests centering in it, but soon they went back to the theme that Glengarry people everywhere are never long together without discussing—the great revival. Harry had heard a good deal about it before, but to Kate and her mother the story was mostly new, and they listened with eager interest as Mrs. Murray and Ranald recalled those great days. With eyes shining, and in tones of humble, grateful wonder they reminded each other of the various incidents, the terrors, the struggles, the joyful surprises, the mysterious powers with which they were so familiar during those eighteen months. Then Mrs. Murray told of the permanent results; how over three counties the influence of the movement was still felt, and how whole congregations had been built up under its wonderful power.

"And did you hear," she said to Ranald, "that Donald Stewart was ordained last May?"

"No," replied Ranald; "that makes seven, doesn't it?"

"Seven what?" said Kate.

"Seven men preaching the Gospel to-day out of our own congregation," replied Mrs. Murray.

"But, auntie," cried Harry, "I have always thought that all that must have been awfully hard work."

"It was," said Ranald, emphatically; and he went on to sketch Mrs. Murray's round of duties in her various classes and meetings connected with the congregation.

"Besides what she has to do in the manse!" exclaimed Harry; "but it's a mere trifle, of course, to look after her troop of boys."

"How can you do it?" said Kate, gazing at her in admiring wonder.

"It isn't so terrible as Harry thinks. That's my work, you see," said Mrs. Murray; "what else would I do? And when it goes well it is worth while."

"But, auntie, don't you feel sometimes like getting away and having a little fun? Own up, now."

"Fun?" laughed Mrs. Murray.

"Well, not fun exactly, but a good time with things you enjoy so much, music, literature, and that sort of thing. Do you remember, Kate, the first time you met auntie, when we took her to Hamlet?"

Kate nodded.

"She wasn't quite sure about it, but I declare till I die I will never forget the wonder and the delight in her face. I tell you I wept that night, but not at the play. And how she criticised the actors; even Booth himself didn't escape," continued Harry; "and so I say it's a beastly shame that you should spend your whole life in the backwoods there and have so little of the other sort of thing. Why you are made for it!"

"Harry," answered Mrs. Murray, in surprise, "that was my work, given me to do. Could I refuse it? And besides after all, fun, as you say, passes; music stops; books get done with; but those other things, the things that Ranald and I have seen, will go on long after my poor body is laid away."

"But still you must get tired," persisted Harry.

"Yes, I get tired," she replied, quietly. At the little touch of weariness in the voice, Kate, who was looking at the beautiful face, so spiritual, and getting, oh, so frail, felt a sudden rush of tears in her eyes. But there was no self-pity in that heroic soul. "Yes, I get tired," she repeated, "but, Harry, what does that matter? We do our work and then we will rest. But oh, Harry, my boy, when I come to your city and see all there is to do, I wish I were a girl again, and I wonder at people thinking life is just for fun."

Harry, like other young men, hated to be lectured, but from his aunt he never took anything amiss. He admired her for her brilliant qualities, and loved her with a love near to worship.

"I say, auntie," he said, with a little uncertain laugh, "it's like going to church to hear you, only it's a deal more pleasant."

"But, Harry, am I not right?" she replied, earnestly. "Do you think that you will get the best out of your life by just having fun? Oh, do you know when I went with Kate to the Institute the other night and saw those boys my heart ached. I thought of my own boys, and—" The voice ceased in a pathetic little catch, the sensitive lips trembled, the beautiful gray-brown eyes filled with sudden tears. For a few moments there was silence; then, with a wavering smile, and a gentle, apologetic air, she said: "But I must not make Harry think he is in church."

"Dear Aunt Murray," cried Harry, "do lecture me. I'd enjoy it, and you can't make it too strong. You are just an angel." He left his seat, and going over to her chair, knelt down and put his arms about her.

"Don't you all wish she was your aunt?" he said, kissing her.

"She IS mine," cried Kate, smiling at her through shining tears.

"She's more," said Ranald, and his voice was husky with emotion.

But with the bright, joyous little laugh Ranald knew so well, she smoothed back Harry's hair, and kissing him on the forehead, said: "I am sure you will do good work some day. But I shall be quite spoiled here; I must really get home."

As Ranald left the Raymond house he knew well what he should say to Mr. St. Clair next morning. He wondered at himself that he had ever been in doubt. He had been for an hour in another world where the atmosphere was pure and the light clear. Never till that night had he realized the full value of that life of patient self-sacrifice, so unconscious of its heroism. He understood then, as never before, the mysterious influence of that gentle, sweet-faced lady over every one who came to know her, from the simple, uncultured girls of the Indian Lands to the young men about town of Harry's type. Hers was the power of one who sees with open eyes the unseen, and who loves to the forgetting of self those for whom the Infinite love poured Itself out in death.

"Going home, Harry?" inquired Ranald.

"Yes, right home; don't want to go anywhere else to-night. I say, old chap, you're a better and cleaner man than I am, but it ain't your fault. That woman ought to make a saint out of any man."

"Man, you would say so if you knew her," said Ranald, with a touch of impatience; "but then no one does know her. They certainly don't down in the Indian Lands, for they don't know what she's given up."

"That's the beauty of it," replied Harry; "she doesn't feel it that way. Given up? not she! She thinks she's got everything that's good!"

"Well," said Ranald, thoughtfully, after a pause, "she knows, and she's right."

When they came to Harry's door Ranald lingered just a moment. "Come in a minute," said Harry.

"I don't know; I'm coming in to-morrow."

"Oh, come along just now. Aunt Frank is in bed, but Maimie will be up," said Harry, dragging him along to the door.

"No, I think not to-night." While they were talking the door opened and Maimie appeared.

"Ranald," she cried, in an eager voice, "I knew you would be at Kate's, and I was pretty sure you would come home with Harry. Aren't you coming in?"

"Where's Aunt Frank?" asked Harry.

"She's upstairs," said Maimie.

"Thank the Lord, eh?" added Harry, pushing in past her.

"Go away in and talk to her," said Maimie. Then turning to Ranald and looking into his devouring eyes, she said, "Well? You might say you're glad to see me." She stood where the full light of the doorway revealed the perfect beauty of her face and figure.

"Glad to see you! There is no need of saying that," replied Ranald, still gazing at her.

"How beautiful you are, Maimie," he added, bluntly.

"Thank you, and you are really quite passable."

"And I AM glad to see you."

"That's why you won't come in."

"I am coming to-morrow night."

"Everybody will be here to-morrow night."

"Yes, that's certainly a drawback."

"And I shall be very busy looking after my guests. Still," she added, noticing the disappointment in his face, "it's quite possible—"

"Exactly," his face lighting up again.

"Have you seen father's study?" asked Maimie, innocently.

"No," replied Ranald, wonderingly. "Is it so beautiful?"

"No, but it's upstairs, and—quiet."

"Well?" said Ranald.

"And perhaps you might like to see it to-morrow night."

"How stupid I am. Will you show it to me?"

"I will be busy, but perhaps Harry—"

"Will you?" said Ranald, coming close to her, with the old imperative in his voice.

Maimie drew back a little.

"Do you know what you make me think of?" she asked, lowering her voice.

"Yes, I do. I have thought of it every night since."

"You were very rude, I remember."

"You didn't think so then," said Ranald, boldly.

"I ought to have been very angry," replied Maimie, severely.

"But you weren't, you know you weren't; and do you remember what you said?"

"What I said? How awful of you; don't you dare! How can I remember?"

"Yes, you do remember, and then do you remember what I said?"

"What YOU said indeed! Such assurance!"

"I have kept my word," said Ranald, "and I am coming to-morrow night. Oh, Maimie, it has been a long, long time." He came close to her and caught her hand, the slumbering fire in his eyes blazing now in flame.

"Don't, don't, I'm sure there's Aunt Frank. No, no," she pleaded, in terror, "not to-night, Ranald!"

"Then will you show me the study to-morrow night?"

"Oh, you are very mean. Let me go!"

"Will you?" he demanded, still holding her hand.

"Yes, yes, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. My hand is quite sore. There, now, good night. No, I won't shake hands! Well, then, if you must have it, good night."



CHAPTER XXII

FORGET THAT I LOVED YOU

"The night for dreaming, but the morn for seeing." And so Ranald found it; for with the cold, calm light of the morning, he found himself facing his battle with small sense of victory in his blood. He knew he had to deal that morning with the crisis of his life. Upon the issue his whole future would turn, but his heart without haste or pause preserved its even beat. The hour of indecision had passed. He saw his way and he meant to walk it. What was beyond the turn was hid from his eyes, but with that he need not concern himself now. Meantime he would clear away some of this accumulated correspondence lying on his desk. In the midst of his work Harry came in and laid a bundle of bills before him.

"Here you are, old chap," he said, quietly. "That's the last of it."

Ranald counted the money.

"You are sure you can spare all this? There is no hurry, you know."

"No," said Harry, "I can't spare it, but it's safer with you than with me, and besides, it's yours. And I owe you more than money." He drew a deep breath to steady himself, and then went on: "And I want to say, Ranald, that I have bet my last stake."

Ranald pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

"Now that's the best thing I've heard for some time," he said, offering Harry his hand; "and that's the last of that business."

He sat down, drew in his chair, and turning over his papers with a nervousness that he rarely showed, he continued: "And, Harry, I want you to do something for me. Before you go home this afternoon, will you come in here? I may want to send a note to Maimie by you."

"But—" began Harry.

"Wait a moment. I want to prevent all possibility of mistake. There may be a reply, and Harry, old chap, I'd rather not answer any questions."

Harry gazed at him a moment in perplexity. "All right, Ranald," he said, quietly, "you can trust me. I haven't the ghost of an idea what's up, but I know you're square."

"Thanks, old fellow," said Ranald, "I will never give you reason to change your opinion. Now get out; I'm awfully busy."

For some minutes after Harry had left the room Ranald sat gazing before him into space.

"Poor chap, he's got his fight, too, but I begin to think he'll win," he said to himself, and once more returned to his work. He had hardly begun his writing when the inner door of his office opened and Mr. St. Clair came in. His welcome was kindly and cordial, and Ranald's heart, which had been under strong discipline all morning, leaped up in warm response.

"You had a pleasant trip, I hope?" inquired Mr. St. Clair.

"Fine most of the way. Through May and June the flies were bad, but not so bad as usual, they said, and one gets used to them."

"Good sport?"

"Never saw anything like it. What a country that is!" cried Ranald, his enthusiasm carrying him away. "Fishing of all kinds and superb. In those little lonely lakes you get the finest black and white bass, beauties and so gamy. In the bigger waters, maskalonge and, of course, any amount of pike and pickerel. Then we were always running up against deer, moose and red, and everywhere we got the scent of bear. Could have loaded a boat with furs in a week."

"We must go up some day," replied Mr. St. Clair. "Wish I could get away this fall, but the fact is we are in shallow water, Ranald, and we can't take any chances."

Ranald knew well how serious the situation was. "But," continued Mr. St. Clair, "this offer of the British-American Lumber and Coal Company is most fortunate, and will be the saving of us. With one hundred thousand set free we are certain to pull through this season, and indeed, the financial stringency will rather help than hinder our operations. Really it is most fortunate. Indeed," he added, with a slight laugh, "as my sister-in-law would say, quite providential!"

"I have no doubt of that," said Ranald, gravely; "but, Mr. St. Clair—"

"Yes, no doubt, no doubt," said Mr. St. Clair, hastening to recover the tone, which by his unfortunate reference to Mrs. Murray, he had lost. The thought of her was not in perfect harmony with purely commercial considerations. "The fact is," he continued, "that before this offer came I was really beginning to despair. I can tell you that now."

Ranald felt his heart tighten.

"One does not mind for one's self, but when family interests are involved—but that's all over now, thank God!"

Ranald tried to speak, but his mind refused to suggest words. His silence, however, was enough for Mr. St. Clair, who, with nervous haste once more changed the theme. "In my note to you last night—you got it, I suppose—I referred to some changes in the firm."

Ranald felt that he was being crowded against the ropes. He must get to freer fighting ground. "I think before you go on to that, Mr. St. Clair," he began, "I ought to—"

"Excuse me, I was about to say," interrupted Mr. St. Clair, hastily, "Mr. Raymond and I have felt that we must strengthen our executive. As you know, he has left this department almost entirely to me, and he now realizes what I have long felt, that the burden has grown too heavy for one to carry. Naturally we think of you, and I may say we are more than glad, though it is a very unusual thing in the business world, that we can, with the fullest confidence, offer you a partnership." Mr. St. Clair paused to allow the full weight of this announcement to sink into his manager's mind.

Then Ranald pulled himself together. He must break free or the fight would be lost before he had struck a blow.

"I need not say," he began once more, "how greatly gratified I am by this offer, and I feel sure you will believe that I am deeply grateful." Ranald's voice was low and even, but unknown to himself there was in it a tone of stern resolve that struck Mr. St. Clair's ear. He knew his manager. That tone meant war. Hastily he changed his front.

"Yes, yes, we are quite sure of that," he said, with increasing nervousness, "but we are thinking of our own interests as well as yours. Indeed, I feel sure"—here his voice became even more kindly and confidential—"that in advancing your position and prospects we are—I am only doing what will bring myself the greatest satisfaction in the end, for you know, Ranald, I—we do not regard you as a stranger." Ranald winced and grew pale. "We—my family—have always felt toward you as—well, in fact, as if you were one of us."

Mr. St. Clair had delivered his last and deadliest blow and it found Ranald's heart, but with pain blanching his cheek Ranald stood up determined to end the fight. It was by no means easy for him to strike. Before him he saw not this man with his ingenious and specious pleading—it would not have been a difficult matter to have brushed him aside—but he was looking into the blue eyes of the woman he had for seven years loved more than he loved his life, and he knew that when his blow fell it would fall upon the face that, only a few hours ago, had smiled upon him, and upon the lips that had whispered to him, "I will remember, Ranald." Yet he was none the less resolved. With face set and bloodless, and eyes of gleaming fire, he faced the man that represented what was at once dearest in life and what was most loathsome in conduct.

"Give me a moment, Mr. St. Clair," he said, with a note of authority in his tone. "You have made me an offer of a position such as I could hardly hope to expect for years to come, but I value it chiefly because it means you have absolute confidence in me; you believe in my ability and in my integrity. I am determined that you will never have cause to change your opinion of me. You are about to complete a deal involving a very large sum of money. I have a report here," tapping his desk, "which you have not yet seen."

"It really doesn't matter!" interjected Mr. St. Clair; "you see, my dear fellow—"

"It matters to me. It is a report which not only you ought to have, but which, in justice, the buyer of the Bass River Limits ought to see. That report, Mr. St. Clair, ought to be given to Colonel Thorp."

"This is sheer folly," exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, impatiently.

"It is the only honorable course."

"Do you mean to insult me, sir?"

"There is only one other thing I would rather not do," said Ranald, in a grave voice, "and that is refuse Colonel Thorp the information he is entitled to from us."

"Sir!" exclaimed Mr. St. Clair, "this is outrageous, and I demand an apology or your resignation!"

"Colonel Thorp," announced a clerk, opening the door.

"Tell Colonel Thorp I cannot—ah, Colonel Thorp, I am glad to see you. Will you step this way?" opening the door leading to his own office.

The colonel, a tall, raw-boned, typical "Uncle Sam," even to the chin whisker and quid of tobacco, had an eye like an eagle. He shot a keen glance at Mr. St. Clair and then at Ranald.

"Yes," he said, helping himself to a chair, "this here's all right. This is your manager, eh?"

"Mr. Macdonald," said Mr. St. Clair, introducing him.

"How do you do? Heard about you some," said the colonel, shaking hands with him. "Quite a knocker, I believe. Well, you rather look like it. Used to do some myself. Been up north, so the boss says. Good country, eh?"

"Fine sporting country, Colonel," interrupted St. Clair. "The game, Mr. Macdonald says, come right into your tent and bed to be shot."

"Do, eh?" The colonel's eagle eye lighted up. "Now, what sort of game?"

"Almost every kind, Colonel," replied Ranald.

"Don't say! Used to do a little myself. Moose?"

"Yes, I saw a number of moose and any amount of other deer and, of course, plenty of bear."

"Don't say! How'd you come to leave them? Couldn't have done it myself, by the great Sam! Open timber?"

"Well," replied Ranald, slowly, "on the east of the Bass River—"

"All that north country, Colonel," said Mr. St. Clair, "is pretty much the same, I imagine; a little of all kinds."

"Much water, streams, and such?"

"Yes, on the west side of the Bass there is plenty of water, a number of small streams and lakes, but—"

"Oh, all through that north country, Colonel, you are safe in having a canoe in your outfit," said Mr. St. Clair, again interrupting Ranald.

"Lots of water, eh? Just like Maine, ha, ha!" The colonel's quiet chuckle was good to hear.

"Reminds me"—here he put his hand into his inside pocket and pulled out a flask, "excuse the glass," he said, offering it to Mr. St. Clair, who took a slight sip and handed it back.

"Have a little refreshment," said the colonel, offering it to Ranald.

"I never take it, thank you."

"Don't? Say, by the great Sam, how'd you get through all that wet country? Wall, it will not hurt you to leave it alone," solemnly winking at St. Clair, and taking a long pull himself. "Good for the breath," he continued, putting the flask in his pocket. "Now, about those limits of mine, the boss here has been telling you about our deal?"

"A little," said Ranald.

"We've hardly had time to look into anything yet," said Mr. St. Clair; "but if you will step into my office, Colonel, I have the papers and maps there." Mr. St. Clair's tone was anxious. Once more the colonel shot a glance at him.

"You have been on the spot, I judge," he said to Ranald, rising and following Mr. St. Clair.

"Yes, over it all."

"Wall, come along, you're the map we want, eh? Maps are chiefly for purposes of deception, I have found, ha, ha! and there ain't none of 'em right," and he held the door for Ranald to enter.

Mr. St. Clair was evidently annoyed. Unfolding a map he laid it out on the table. "This is the place, I believe," he said, putting his finger down upon the map.

"Ain't surveyed, I judge," said the colonel to Ranald.

"No, only in part; the old Salter lines are there, but I had to go away beyond these."

"Warn't 'fraid of gettin' lost, eh? Ha, ha! Wall show us your route."

Ranald put his finger on the map, and said: "I struck the Bass River about here, and using that as a base, first explored the whole west side, for, I should say, about ten miles back from the river."

"Don't say! How'd you grub? Game mostly?"

"Well, we carried some pork and Hudson Bay hard tack and tea, and of course, we could get all the fish and game we wanted."

"Lots of game, eh? Small and big?" The colonel was evidently much interested in this part of Ranald's story. "By the great Sam, must go up there!"

"It would do you all the good in the world, Colonel," said Mr. St. Clair, heartily. "You must really go up with your men and help them lay out the ground, you know."

"That's so! Now if you were lumbering in there, how'd you get the timber out?"

"Down the Bass River to Lake Nipissing," said Ranald, pointing out the route.

"Yes, but how'd you get it to the Bass? These limits, I understand, lie on both sides of the Bass, don't they?"

"Yes."

"And the Bass cuts through it the short way?"

"Yes."

"Wall, does that mean six or eight or ten miles of a haul?"

"On the west side," replied Ranald, "no. There are a number of small streams and lakes which you could utilize."

"And on the east side?"

"You see, Colonel," broke in Mr. St. Clair, "that whole country is one net-work of water-ways. Notice the map here; and there are always a number of lakes not marked."

"That is quite true," said Ranald, "as a rule; but on the east side—"

"Oh, of course," said Mr. St. Clair, hastily, "you will find great differences in different parts of the country."

Mr. St. Clair folded up the map and threw it on the table.

"Let's see," said the colonel, taking up the map again. "Now how about the camps, Mr. Macdonald, where do you locate them?"

"I have a rough draught here in which the bases for camps are indicated," said Ranald, ignoring the imploring and angry looks of his chief.

"Let's have a look at 'em," said the colonel.

"Oh, you haven't shown me this," said Mr. St. Clair, taking the draught from Ranald.

"No, sir, you have not seen my final report."

"No, not yet, of course. We have hardly had time yet, Colonel, but Mr. Macdonald will make a copy of this for you and send it in a day or two," replied Mr. St. Clair, folding up the sketch, nervously, and placing it on his desk. The colonel quietly picked up the sketch and opened it out.

"You have got that last report of yours, I suppose," he said, with a swift glance at Mr. St. Clair. That gentleman's face was pallid and damp; his whole fortune hung on Ranald's reply. It was to him a moment of agony.

Ranald glanced at his face, and paused. Then drawing his lips a little tighter, he said: "Colonel Thorp, my final report has not yet been handed in. Mr. St. Clair has not seen it. In my judgment—" here Mr. St. Clair leaned his hand hard upon his desk—"you are getting full value for your money, but I would suggest that you go yourself or send your inspector to explore the limits carefully before you complete the deal."

Colonel Thorp, who had been carefully scanning the sketch in his hand, suddenly turned and looked Ranald steadily in the eye. "These marks on the west side mean camps?"

"Yes."

"There are very few on the east side?"

"There are very few; the east side is inferior to the west."

"Much?"

"Yes, much inferior."

"But in your opinion the limit is worth the figure?"

"I would undertake to make money out of it; it is good value."

The colonel chewed hard for a minute, then turning to Mr. St. Clair, he said: "Wall, Mr. St. Clair, I'll give you one hundred thousand for your limit; but by the great Sam, I'd give twice the sum for your manager, if he's for sale! He's a man!" The emphasis on the he was ever so slight, but it was enough. Mr. St. Clair bowed, and sinking down into his chair, busied himself with his papers.

"Wall," said the colonel, "that's settled; and that reminds me," he added, pulling out his flask, "good luck to the Bass River Limits!"

He handed the flask to Mr. St. Clair, who eagerly seized it and took a long drink.

"Goes good sometimes," said the colonel, innocently. "Wall, here's lookin' at you," he continued, bowing toward Ranald; "and by the great Sam, you suit me well! If you ever feel like a change of air, indicate the same to Colonel Thorp."

"Ah, Colonel," said Mr. St. Clair, who had recovered his easy, pleasant manner, "we can sell limits but not men."

"No, by the great Sammy," replied the colonel, using the more emphatic form of his oath, "ner buy 'em! Wall," he added, "when you have the papers ready, let me know. Good day!"

"Very good, Colonel, good by, good by!"

The colonel did not notice Mr. St. Clair's offered hand, but nodding to Ranald, sauntered out of the office, leaving the two men alone. For a few moments Mr. St. Clair turned over his papers in silence. His face was flushed and smiling.

"Well, that is a most happy deliverance, Ranald," he said, rubbing his hands. "But what is the matter? You are not well."

White to the lips, Ranald stood looking at his chief with a resolved face.

"Mr. St. Clair, I wish to offer you my resignation as manager."

"Nonsense, Ranald, we will say no more about that. I was a little hasty. I hope the change I spoke of will go into immediate effect."

"I must beg to decline." The words came slowly, sternly from Ranald's white lips.

"And why, pray?"

"I have little doubt you can discover the reason, Mr. St. Clair. A few moments ago, for honorable dealing, you would have dismissed me. It is impossible that I should remain in your employ."

"Mr. Macdonald, are you serious in this? Do you know what you are doing? Do you know what you are saying?" Mr. St. Clair rose and faced his manager.

"Only too well," said Ranald, with lips that began to quiver, "and all the more because of what I must say further. Mr. St. Clair, I love your daughter. I have loved her for seven years. It is my one desire in life to gain her for my wife."

Mr. St. Clair gazed at him in utter astonishment.

"And in the same breath," he said at length, "you insult me and ask my permission."

"It is vain to ask your permission, I fear, but it is right that you should know my desire and my purpose."

"Your purpose?"

"My unalterable purpose."

"You take my daughter out of my house in—in spite of my teeth?" Mr. St. Clair could hardly find words.

"She will come with me," said Ranald, a little proudly.

"And may I ask how you know? Have you spoken to my daughter?"

"I have not spoken to her openly." The blood rose in his dark face. "But I believe she loves me."

"Well, Mr. Macdonald, your confidence is only paralleled by your prodigious insolence."

"I hope not," said Ranald, lowering his head from its proud pose. "I have no desire to be insolent."

Once more Mr. St. Clair looked at him in silence. Then slowly and with quiet emphasis, he said: "Mr. Macdonald, you are a determined man, but as God lives, this purpose of yours you will never carry out. I know my daughter, I think, better than you know her, and I tell you," here a slight smile of confidence played for a moment on his face, "she will never be your wife."

Ranald bowed his head.

"It shall be as she wills," he said, in a grave, almost sad, voice. "She shall decide," and he passed into his office.

All day long Ranald toiled at his desk, leaving himself no time for thought. In the late afternoon Harry came in on his way home.

"Thanks, old chap," said Ranald, looking up from his work; "sha'n't be able to come to-night, I am sorry to say."

"Not come?" cried Harry.

"No, it is impossible."

"What rot, and Maimie has waited ten days for you. Come along!"

"It is quite impossible, Harry," said Ranald, "and I want you to take this note to Maimie. The note will explain to her."

"But, Ranald, this is—"

"And, Harry, I want to tell you that this is my last day here."

Harry gazed at him speechless.

"Mr. St. Clair and I have had a difference that can never be made right, and to-night I leave the office for good."

"Leave the office for good? Going to leave us? What the deuce can the office do without you? And what does it all mean? Come, Ranald, don't be such a confounded sphynx! Why do you talk such rubbish?"

"It is true," said Ranald, "though I can hardly realize it myself; it is absolutely and finally settled; and I say, old man, don't make it harder for me. You don't know what it means to me to leave this place, and—you, and—all!" In spite of his splendid nerve Ranald's voice shook a little. Harry gazed at him in amazement.

"I will give your note to Maimie," he said, "but you will be back here if I know myself. I'll see father about this."

"Now, Harry," said Ranald, rising and putting his hand on his shoulder, "you are not going to mix up in this at all; and for my sake, old chap, don't make any row at home. Promise me," said Ranald again holding him fast.

"Well, I promise," said Harry, reluctantly, "but I'll be hanged if I understand it at all; and I tell you this, that if you don't come back here, neither shall I."

"Now you are talking rot, Harry," said Ranald, and sat down again to his desk. Harry went out in a state of dazed astonishment. Alone Ranald sat in his office writing steadily except that now and then he paused to let a smile flutter across his stern, set face, as a gleam of sunshine over a rugged rock on a cloudy day. He was listening to his heart, whose every beat kept singing the refrain, "I love her, I love her; she will come to me!"

At that very moment Maimie was showing her Aunt Murray her London dresses and finery, and recounting her triumphs in that land of social glory.

"How lovely, how wonderfully lovely they are," said Mrs. Murray, touching the beautiful fabrics with fond fingers; "and I am sure they will suit you well, my dear. Have you worn most of them?"

"No, not all. This one I wore the evening I went with the Lord Archers to the Heathcote's ball. Lord Heathcote, you know, is an uncle of Captain De Lacy."

"Was Captain De Lacy there?" inquired Mrs. Murray.

"Yes, indeed," cried Maimie, "and we had a lovely time!" either the memory of that evening brought the warm blushes to her face, or it may be the thought of what she was about to tell her aunt; "and Captain De Lacy is coming to-morrow."

"Coming to-morrow?"

"Yes, he has written to Aunt Frank, and to papa as well."

Mrs. Murray sat silent, apparently not knowing what to say, and Maimie stood with the dress in her hands waiting for her aunt to speak. At length Mrs. Murray said: "You knew Captain De Lacy before, I think."

"Oh, I have known him for a long time, and he's just splendid, auntie, and he's coming to—" Maimie paused, but her face told her secret.

"Do you mean he is going to speak to your father about you, Maimie?" Maimie nodded. "And are you glad?"

"He's very handsome, auntie, and very nice, and he's awfully well connected, and that sort of thing, and when Lord Heathcote dies he has a good chance of the estates and the title."

"Do you love him, Maimie?" asked her aunt, quietly.

Maimie dropped the dress, and sitting down upon a low stool, turned her face from her aunt, and looked out of the window.

"Oh, I suppose so, auntie," she said. "He's very nice and gentlemanly and I like to be with him—"

"But, Maimie, dear, are you not sure that you love him?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Maimie, petulantly. "Are you not pleased, auntie?"

"Well, I confess I am surprised. I do not know Captain De Lacy, and besides I thought it was—I thought you—" Mrs. Murray paused, while Maimie's face grew hot with fiery blushes, but before she could reply they heard Harry's step on the stairs, and in a moment he burst into the room.

"Ranald isn't coming!" he exclaimed. "Here's a note for you, Maimie. But what the—but what he means," said Harry, checking himself, "I can't make out."

"Not coming?" cried Maimie, the flush fading from her face. "What can he mean?" She opened the note, and as she read the blood rushed quickly into her face again, and as quickly fled, leaving her pale and trembling.

"Well, what does he say?" inquired Harry, bluntly.

"He says it is impossible for him to come tonight," said Maimie, putting the note into her bosom.

"Huh!" grunted Harry, and flung out of the room.

Immediately Maimie pulled out the note.

"Oh, auntie," she cried, "I am so miserable; Ranald is not coming and he says—there read it." She hurriedly thrust the note into Mrs. Murray's hands, and Mrs. Murray, opening it, read:

MY DEAR MAIMIE: It is impossible for me to go to you tonight. Your father and I have had a difference so serious that I can never enter his house again, but I am writing now to tell you what I meant to tell you to-night. I love you, Maimie. I love you with all my heart and soul. I have loved you since the night I pulled you from the fire.

"Maimie," said Mrs. Murray, handing her back the note, "I do not think you ought to give me this. That is too sacred for any eyes but your own."

"Oh, I know, auntie, but what can I do? I am so sorry for Ranald! What shall I do, auntie?"

"My dear child, in this neither I nor any one can advise you. You must be true to yourself."

"Oh, I wish I knew what to do!" cried Maimie. "He wants me to tell him—" Maimie paused, her face once more covered with blushes, "and I do not know what to say!"

"What does your heart say, Maimie?" said Mrs. Murray, quietly.

"Oh, auntie, I am so miserable!"

"But, Maimie," continued her aunt, "in this matter, as I said before, you must be true to yourself. Do you love Ranald?"

"Oh, auntie, I cannot tell," cried Maimie, putting her face in her hands.

"If Ranald were De Lacy would you love him?"

"Oh yes, yes, how happy I would be!"

Then Mrs. Murray rose. "Maimie, dear," she said, and her voice was very gentle but very firm, "let me speak to you for your dear mother's sake. Do not deceive yourself. Do not give your life for anything but love. Ranald is a noble man and he will be a great man some day, and I love him as my own son, but I would not have you give yourself to him unless you truly loved him." She did not mention De Lacy's name nor utter a word in comparison of the two, but listening to her voice, Maimie knew only too well whither her love had gone.

"Oh, auntie," she cried, "I cannot bear it!"

"Yes, Maimie dear, you can bear to do the right, for there is One in whose strength we can do all things."

Before Maimie could reply her Aunt Frances came in.

"It is dinner-time," she announced, "and your father has just come in, Maimie, and we must have dinner over at once."

Maimie rose, and going to the glass, smoothed back her hair. Her Aunt Frances glanced at her face and then at Mrs. Murray, and as if fearing Maimie's reply, went on hurriedly, "You must look your very best to-night, and even better to-morrow," she said, smiling, significantly. She came and put her hands on Maimie's shoulders, and kissing her, said: "Have you told your Aunt Murray who is coming to-morrow? I am sure I'm very thankful, my dear, you will be very happy. It is an excellent match. Half the girls in town will be wild with envy. He has written a very manly letter to your father, and I am sure he is a noble fellow, and he has excellent prospects. But we must hurry down to dinner," she said, turning to Mrs. Murray, who with a look of sadness on her pale face, left the room without a word.

"Ranald is not coming," said Maimie, when her Aunt Murray had gone.

"Indeed, from what your father says," cried Aunt Frank, indignantly, "I do not very well see how he could. He has been most impertinent."

"You are not to say that, Aunt Frank," cried Maimie. "Ranald could not be impertinent, and I will not hear it." Her tone was so haughty and fierce that Aunt Frank thought it wiser to pursue this subject no further.

"Well," she said, as she turned to leave the room, "I'm very glad he has the grace to keep away tonight. He has always struck me as a young man of some presumption."

When the door closed upon her Maimie tore the note from her bosom and pressed it again and again to her lips: "Oh, Ranald, Ranald," she cried, "I love you! I love you! Oh, why can it not be? Oh, I cannot—I cannot give him up!" She threw herself upon her knees and laid her face in the bed. In a few minutes there came a tap at the door, and her Aunt Frances's voice was heard, "Maimie, your father has gone down; we must not delay." The tone was incisive and matter-of-fact. It said to Maimie, "Now let's have no nonsense. Be a sensible woman of the world." Maimie rose from her knees. Hastily removing all traces of tears from her face, and glancing in the glass, she touched the little ringlets into place and went down to dinner.

It was a depressing meal. Mr. St. Clair was irritable; Harry perplexed and sullen; Maimie nervously talkative. Mrs. Murray was heroically holding herself in command, but the look of pain in her eyes and the pathetic tremor on her lips belied the brave smiles and cheerful words with which she seconded Aunt Frank.

After dinner the company separated, for there were still preparations to make for the evening. As Mrs. Murray was going to her room, she met Harry in the hall with his hat on.

"Where are you going, Harry?"

"Anywhere," he growled, fiercely, "to get out of this damnable hypocrisy! Pardon me, Aunt Murray, I can't help it, it IS damnable, and a whole lot of them are in it!"

Then Mrs. Murray came, and laying her hand on his arm, said: "Don't go, Harry; don't leave me; I want some one; come upstairs."

Harry stood looking at the sweet face, trying to smile so bravely in spite of the tremulous lips.

"You are a dear, brave little woman," he said, hanging up his hat, "and I'll be hanged if I don't stay by you. Come along upstairs." He stooped, and lifting her in his arms in spite of her laughing protests, carried her upstairs to her room. When they came down to the party they both looked braver and stronger.

The party was a great success. The appointments were perfect; the music the best that could be had, and Maimie more beautiful than ever. In some mysterious way, known only to Aunt Frank, the rumor of Maimie's approaching engagement got about among the guests and produced an undertone of excitement to the evenings gayety. Maimie was too excited to be quite natural, but she had never appeared more brilliant and happy, and surely she had every cause. She had achieved a dizzy summit of social success that made her at once the subject of her friends' congratulations and her rivals' secret envy, and which was the more delightful it would be hard to say. Truly, she was a fortunate girl, but still the night was long, and she was tired of it all before it was over. The room seemed empty, and often her heart gave a leap as her eyes fell upon some form that appeared more handsome and striking than others near, but only to sink again in disappointment when a second glance told her that it was only some ordinary man. Kate, too, kept aloof in a very unpleasant way, and Harry, devoting himself to Kate, had not done his duty. But in spite of everything the party had been a great success, and when it was over Maimie went straight to bed to sleep. She knew that Ranald would be awaiting the answer to his note, but she could not bring herself to face what she knew would be an ordeal that might murder sleep for her, and sleep she must have, for she must be her best to-morrow. It would have been better for all involved had she written her answer that night; otherwise Ranald would not have been standing at her door in the early afternoon asking to see her. It was Aunt Frances who came down to the drawing-room. As Ranald stood up and bowed, she adjusted her pince-nez upon her aristocratic nose, and viewed him.

"You are wishing to see Miss St. Clair," she said, in her very chilliest tone.

"I asked to see Maimie," said Ranald, looking at her with cool, steady eyes.

"I must say, Mr. Macdonald, that after your conduct to my brother yesterday, I am surprised you should have the assurance to enter his house."

"I would prefer not discussing office matters with you," said Ranald, politely, and with a suspicion of a smile. "I have come to see Maimie."

"That, I am glad to say, is impossible, for she is at present out with Captain De Lacy who has just arrived from the East to—see—to—in short, on a very special errand."

For a moment Ranald stood without reply.

"She is out, you say?" he answered at length.

"She is out with Captain De Lacy." He caught the touch of triumph in her voice.

"Will she be back soon?" inquired Ranald, looking baffled.

"Of course one cannot tell in such a case," answered Miss St. Clair, "but I should think not." Miss St. Clair was enjoying herself. It did her good to see this insolent, square-jawed young man standing helpless before her.

"It is important that I should see her," said Ranald, after a few moments' thought. "I shall wait." Had Miss St. Clair known him better she would have noticed with some concern the slow fires kindling in his eyes. As it was she became indignant.

"That, Mr. Macdonald, you shall not; and allow me to say frankly that your boldness—your insolence—I may say, is beyond all bounds."

"Insolence, and when?" Ranald was very quiet.

"You come to the house of your employer, whom you have insulted, and demand to see his daughter."

"I have a right to see her."

"Right? What right have you, pray?"

Then Ranald stood up and looked Miss St. Clair full in the face with eyes fairly alight.

"Miss St. Clair, have you ever known what it is to love with all your soul and heart?" Miss St. Clair gasped. "Because if not, you will not understand me; if you have you will know why I must see Maimie. It is seven years now since I began to love her. I remember the spot in the woods; I see the big tree there behind her and the rising ground stretching away to the right. I see the place where I pulled her out of the fire. Every morning since that time I have waked with the thought of her; every night my eyes have closed with a vision of her before me. It is for her I have lived and worked. I tell you she is mine! I love her! I love her, and she loves me. I know it." His words came low, fierce, and swift.

Miss St. Clair stood breathless. What a man he looked and how handsome he was!

With but a moment's pause Ranald went on, but his voice took a gentler tone. "Miss St. Clair, do you understand me? Yes, I know you do." The blood came flowing suddenly to her thin cheeks. "You say she is out with Captain De Lacy, and you mean me to think that she is to give herself to him. He loves her, I know, but I say she is mine! Her eyes have told me that. She is mine, I tell you, and no man living will take her from me." The fire that always slumbered in his eyes was now blazing in full fury. The great passion of his life was raging through his soul, vibrating in his voice, and glowing in his dark face. Miss St. Clair sat silent, and then motioned him to a seat.

"Mr. Macdonald," she said, with grave courtesy, "you are too late, I fear. I did not realize—Maimie will never be yours. I know my niece." At the sad earnestness of her voice, Ranald's face began to grow pale.

"I will wait for her," he said, quietly.

"I beg you will not."

"I will wait," he repeated, with lips tight pressed.

"It is vain, Mr. Macdonald, I assure you. Spare yourself and her. I know what—I could have—" Her voice grew husky.

"I will wait," once more replied Ranald, the lines of his face growing tense.

Miss St. Clair rose and gave him her hand. "I will send a friend to you, and I beg you to excuse me," Ranald bowed gravely, "and to forgive me," and she left the room. Ranald heard her pass through the hall and up the stairs and then a door closed behind her. Before he had time to gather his thoughts together he heard a voice outside that made his heart stand still. Then the front door opened quickly and Maimie and De Lacy stood in the hall. She was gayly talking. Ranald rose and stood with his back to the door. Before him was a large mirror which reflected the hall through the open door. He stood waiting for them to enter.

"Hang up your hat, Captain De Lacy, then go in and find a chair while I run upstairs," cried Maimie, gayly. "You must learn your way about here now."

"No," said De Lacy, in a low, distinct voice. "I can wait no longer, Maimie."

She looked at him a moment as if in fear.

"Come," he said, holding out his hands to her. "There was no chance in the park, and I can wait no longer." Slowly she came near. "My darling, my sweetheart," he said, in a low voice full of intense passion. Then, while she lay in his arms, he kissed her on the lips twice. Ranald stood gazing in the mirror as if fascinated. As their lips met a low groan burst from him. He faced about, and with a single step, stood in the doorway. Shriek after shriek echoed through the house as Maimie sprang from De Lacy's arms and shrank back to the wall.