As her own immediate home circle grew smaller, the intensity of her devotion increased. Her two daughters became her absorbing concern. With the modern notion that a girl might make for herself a career in life she had no sympathy whatever. To see them happily married and in homes of their own became the absorbing ambition of her life. To this end she administered her social activities, with this purpose in view she encouraged or discouraged her daughters' friendships with men. With the worldly wisdom of which she had her own share she came to the conclusion that ineligible men friends, that is, men friends unable to give her daughters a proper setting in the social world, were to be effectively eliminated. That the men of her daughters' choosing should be gentlemen in breeding went without saying, but that they should be sufficiently endowed with wealth to support a proper social position was equally essential.

That Jack Maitland had somehow dropped out of the intimate circle of friends who had in pre-war days made the Rectory their headquarters was to her a more bitter disappointment than she cared to acknowledge even to herself. Her son and the two Maitland boys had been inseparable in their school and college days, and with the two young men her daughters had been associated in the very closest terms of comradeship. But somehow Captain Jack Maitland after the first months succeeding his return from the war had drawn apart. Disappointed, perplexed, hurt, she vainly had striven to restore the old footing between the young man and her daughters. Young Maitland had taken up his medical studies for a few months at his old University in Toronto and so had been out of touch with the social life of his home town. Then after he had "chucked" his course as impossible he had at his father's earnest wish taken up work at the mills, at first in the office, later in the manufacturing department. There was something queer in Jack's attitude toward his old life and its associations, and after her first failures in attempting to restore the old relationship her eldest daughter's pride and then her own forbade further efforts.

Adrien, her eldest daughter, had always been a difficult child, and her stay in England and later her experience in war work in France where for three years she had given rare service in hospital work had somehow made her even more inaccessible to her mother. And now the situation had been rendered more distressing by her determination "to find something to do." She was firm in her resolve that she had no intention of patiently waiting in her home, ostensibly busying herself with social duties but in reality "waiting if not actually angling for a man." She bluntly informed her scandalised parent that "when she wanted a man more than a career it would be far less humiliating to frankly go out and get him than to practise alluring poses in the hopes that he might deign to bestow upon her his lordly regard." Her mother wisely forebore to argue. Indeed, she had long since learned that in argumentive powers she was hopelessly outclassed by her intellectual daughter. She could only express her shocked disappointment at such intentions and quietly plan to circumvent them.

As to Patricia, her younger daughter, she dismissed all concern. She was only a child as yet, wise beyond her years, but too thoroughly immature to cause any anxiety for some years to come. Meantime she had at first tolerated and then gently encouraged the eager and obvious anxiety of Rupert Stillwell to make a footing for himself in the Rectory family. At the outbreak of the war her antipathy to young Stillwell as a slacker had been violent. He had not joined up with the first band of ardent young souls who had so eagerly pointed the path to duty and to glory. But, when it had been made clear to the public mind that young Stillwell had been pronounced physically unfit for service and was therefore prevented from taking his place in that Canadian line which though it might wear thin at times had never broken, Mrs. Templeton relieved him in her mind of the damning count of being a slacker. Later, becoming impressed with the enthusiasm of the young man's devotion to various forms of patriotic war service at home, she finally, though it must be confessed with something of an effort, had granted him a place within the circle of her home. Furthermore, Rupert Stillwell had done extremely well in all his business enterprises and had come to be recognised as one of the coming young men of the district, indeed of the Province, with sure prospects of advancement in public estimation. Hence, the frequency with which Stillwell's big Hudson Six could be seen parked on the gravelled drive before the Rectory front door. In addition to this, Rupert and his Hudson Six were found to be most useful. He had abundance of free time and he was charmingly ready with his offers of service. Any hour of the day the car, driven by himself or his chauffeur, was at the disposal of any member of the Rectory family, a courtesy of which Mrs. Templeton was not unwilling to avail herself though never with any loss of dignity but always with appearance of bestowing rather than of receiving a favour. As to the young ladies, Adrien rarely allowed herself the delight of a motor ride in Rupert Stillwell's luxurious car. On the other hand, had her mother not intervened, Patricia would have indulged without scruple her passion for joy-riding. The car she adored, Rupert Stillwell she regarded simply as a means to the indulgence of her adoration. He was a jolly companion, a cleverly humourous talker, and an unfailing purveyor of bon-bons. Hence he was to Patricia an ever welcome guest at the Rectory, and the warmth of Patricia's welcome went a long way to establish his position of intimacy in the family.

It was not to be supposed, however, that that young lady's gracious and indeed eager acceptance of the manifold courtesies of the young gentleman in question burdened her in the very slightest with any sense of obligation to anything but the most cavalier treatment of him, should occasion demand. She was unhesitatingly frank and ready with criticism and challenge of his opinions, indeed he appeared to possess a fatal facility for championing her special aversions and antagonising her enthusiasms. Of the latter her most avowed example was Captain Jack, as she loved to call him. A word of criticism of Captain Jack, her hero, her knight, sans peur et sans reproche and her loyal soul was aflame with passionate resentment.

It so fell on an occasion when young Stillwell was a dinner guest at the Rectory.

"Do you know, Patricia," and Rupert Stillwell looked across the dinner table teasingly into Patricia's face, "your Captain Jack was rather mixed up in a nice little row to-day?"

"I heard all about it, Rupert, and Captain Jack did just what I would have expected him to do." Patricia's unsmiling eyes looked steadily into the young man's smiling face.

"Rescued a charming young damsel, eh? By the way, that Perrotte girl has turned out uncommonly good looking," continued Rupert, addressing the elder sister.

"Rescuing a poor little ill-treated boy from the hands of a brutal bully and the bully's brutal father—" Patricia's voice was coolly belligerent.

"My dear Patricia!" The mother's voice was deprecatingly pacific.

"It is simply true, Mother, and Rupert knows it quite well too, or—"

"Patricia!" Her father's quiet voice arrested his daughter's flow of speech.

"But, Father, everyone—"

"Patricia!" The voice was just as quiet but with a slightly increased distinctness in enunciation, and glancing swiftly at her father's face Patricia recognised that the limits of her speech had been reached, unless she preferred to change the subject.

"Yes, Annette has grown very pretty, indeed," said Adrien, taking up the conversation, "and is really a very nice girl, indeed. She sings beautifully. She is the leading soprano in her church choir, I believe."

"Captain Jack Maitland appeared to think her quite charming," said Rupert, making eyes at Patricia. Patricia's lips tightened and her eyes gleamed a bit.

"They were in school together, I think, were they not, Mamma?" said Adrien, flushing slightly.

"Of course they were, and so was Rupert, too—" said Patricia with impatient scorn, "and so would you if you hadn't been sent to England," she added to her sister.

"No doubt of it," said Rupert with a smile, "but you see she was fortunate enough to be sent to England."

"Blackwater is good enough for me," said Patricia, a certain stubborn hostility in her tone.

"I have always thought the Blackwater High School an excellent institution," said her mother quickly, "especially for boys."

"Yes, indeed, for boys," replied Stillwell, "but for young ladies—well, there is something in an English school, you know, that you can't get in any High School here in Canada."

"Rot!" ejaculated Patricia.

"My dear Patricia!" The mother was quite shocked.

"Pardon me, Mother, but you know we have a perfectly splendid High School here. Father has often said so."

Her mother sighed. "Yes, for boys. But for girls, I feel with Rupert that you get something in English schools that—" She hesitated, looking uncertainly at her elder daughter.

"Yes, and perhaps lose something, Mamma," said Adrien quietly. "I mean," she added hastily, "you lose touch with a lot of things and people, friends. Now, for instance, you remember when we were all children, boys and girls together, at the Public School, Annette was one of the cleverest and best of the lot of us, I used to be fond of her—and the others. Now—"

"But you can't help growing up," said Rupert, "and—well, democracy is all right and that sort of thing, but you must drift into your class you know. There's Annette, for instance. She is a factory hand, a fine girl of course, and all that, but—"

"Oh, I suppose we must recognise facts. Rupert, you are quite right," said Mrs. Templeton, "there must be social distinctions and there are classes. I mean," she added, as if to forestall the outburst she saw gathering behind her younger daughter's closed lips, "we must inevitably draw to our own set by our natural or acquired tastes and by our traditions and breeding."

"All very well in England, Mamma. I suppose dear Uncle Arthur and our dear cousins would hardly feel called upon to recognise Annette as a friend."

"Why should they?" challenged Rupert.

"My dear Patricia," said her father, mildly patient, "you are quite wrong. Our people at home, your uncle Arthur, I mean, and your cousins, and all well-bred folk, do not allow class distinctions to limit friendship. Friends are chosen on purely personal grounds of real worth and—well, congeniality."

"Would Uncle Arthur, or rather, Aunt Alicia have Annette to dinner, for instance?" demanded Patricia.

"Certainly not," said her mother promptly.

"She would not do anything to embarrass Annette," said her father.

"Oh, Dad, what a funk. That is quite unworthy of you."

"Would she be asked here now to dinner?" said Rupert. "I mean," he added in some confusion, "would it be, ah, suitable? You know what I mean."

"She has been here. Don't you remember, Mamma? She was often here. And every time she came she was the cleverest thing, she was the brightest, the most attractive girl in the bunch." Her mother's eyebrows went up. "In the party, I mean. And the most popular. Why, I remember quite well that Rupert was quite devoted to her."

"A mere child, she was then, you know," said Rupert.

"She is just as bright, just as attractive, as clever now, more so indeed, as fine a girl in every way. But of course she was not a factory girl then. That's what you mean," replied Patricia scornfully.

"She has found her class," persisted Rupert. "She is all you say, but surely—"

"Yes, she is working in the new box factory. Her mother, lazy, selfish thing, took her from the High School."

"My dear Patricia, you are quite violent," protested her mother.

"It's true, Mamma," continued the girl, her eyes agleam, "and now she works in the box factory while Captain Jack works in the planing mill. She is in the same class."

"And good friends apparently," said Rupert with a malicious little grin.

"Why not? We would have Captain Jack to dinner, but not Annette."

Her father smiled at her. "Well done, little girl. Annette is a fine girl and is fortunate in her champion. You can have her to dinner any evening, I am quite sure."

"Can we, Mamma?"

"My dear, we will not discuss the matter any further," said her mother. "It is a very old question and very perplexing, I confess, but—"

"We don't see Captain Jack very much since his return," said her father, turning the conversation. "You might begin with him, eh, Patsy?"

"No," said the girl, a shade falling on her face. "He is always busy. He has such long hours. He works his day's work with the men and then he always goes up to the office to his father—and—and—Oh, I don't know, I wish he would come. He's not—" Patricia fell suddenly silent.

"Jack is very much engaged," said her mother quietly.

"Naturally he is tied up, learning the business, I mean," said the elder sister quietly. "He has little time for mere social frivolities and that sort of thing."

"It's not that, Adrien," said Patricia. "He is different since he came back. I wish—" She paused abruptly.

"He is changed," said her mother with a sigh. "They—the boys are all changed."

"The war has left its mark upon them, and what else can we expect?" said Dr. Templeton. "One wonders how they can settle down at all to work."

"Oh, Jack has settled down all right," said Patricia, as if analysing a subject interesting to herself alone. "Jack's not like a lot of them. He's too much settled down. What is it, I wonder? He seems to have quit everything, dancing, tennis, golf. He doesn't care—"

"Doesn't care? What for? That sounds either as if he were an egotist or a slacker." Her sister's words rasped Patricia's most sensitive heart string. She visibly squirmed, eagerly waiting a chance to reply. "Jack is neither," continued Adrien slowly. "I understand the thing perfectly. He has been up against big things, so big that everything else seems trivial. Fancy a tennis tournament for a man that has stared into hell's mouth."

"My dear, you are right," said her father. "Patricia is really talking too much. Young people should—"

"I know, Daddy—'be seen,'" said the younger daughter, and grinning affectionately at him she blew him a kiss. "But, all the same, I wish Captain Jack were not so awfully busy or were a little more keen about things. He wants something to stir him up."

"He may get that sooner than he thinks," said Stillwell, "or wishes. I hear there's likely to be trouble in the mills."

"Trouble? Financial? I should be very sorry," said Dr. Templeton.

"No. Labour. The whole labour world is in a ferment. The Maitlands can hardly expect to escape. As a matter of fact, the row has made a little start, I happen to know."

"These labour troubles are really very distressing. There is no end to them," said Mrs. Templeton, with the resignation one shows in discussing the inscrutable ways of Providence. "It does seem as if the working classes to-day have got quite beyond all bounds. One wonders what they will demand next. What is the trouble now, Rupert? Of course—wages."

"Oh, the eternal old trouble is there, with some new ones added that make even wages seem small."

"And what are these?" enquired Dr. Templeton.

"Oh, division of profits, share in administration and control."

"Division of profits in addition to wages?" enquired Mrs. Templeton, aghast. "But, how dreadful. One would think they actually owned the factory."

"That is the modern doctrine, I believe," said Rupert.

"Surely that is an extreme statement," said Dr. Templeton, in a shocked voice, "or you are talking of the very radical element only."

"The Rads lead, of course, but you would be surprised at the demands made to-day. Why, I heard a young chap last week, a soap-box artist, denouncing all capitalists as parasites. 'Why should we work for anyone but ourselves?' he was saying. 'Why don't we take charge of the factories and run them for the general good?' I assure you, sir, those were his very words."

"Really, Rupert, you amaze me. In Blackwater here?" exclaimed Dr. Templeton.

"But, my dear papa, that sort of thing is the commonplace of Hyde Park, you know," said Adrien, "and—"

"Ah, Hyde Park, yes. I should expect that sort of thing from the Hyde Park orators. You get every sort of mad doctrine in Hyde Park, as I remember it, but—"

"And I was going to say that that sort of thing has got away beyond Hyde Park. Why, papa dear, you have been so engrossed in your Higher Mathematics that you have failed to keep up with the times." His eldest daughter smiled at him and, reaching across the corner of the table, patted his hand affectionately. "We are away beyond being shocked at profit sharing, and even sharing in control of administration and that sort of thing."

"But there remains justice, I hope," said her father, "and the right of ownership."

"Ah, that's just it—what is ownership?"

"Oh, come, Adrien," said Rupert, "you are not saying that Mr. Maitland doesn't own his factory and mill."

"It depends on what you mean by own," said the girl coolly. "You must not take too much for granted."

"Well, what my money pays for I own, I suppose," said Rupert.

"Well," said Adrien, "that depends."

"My dear Adrien," said her mother, "you have such strange notions. I suppose you got them in those Clubs in London and from those queer people you used to meet."

"Very dear people," said Adrien, with a far away look in her eyes, "and people that loved justice and right."

"All right, Ade," said her younger sister, with a saucy grin, "I agree entirely with your sentiments. I just adore that pale blue tie of yours. I suppose, now that what's yours is mine, I can preempt that when I like."

"Let me catch you at it!"

"Well done, Patricia. You see the theories are all right till we come to have them applied all round," said Rupert.

"We were talking of joint ownership, Pat," said her sister, "the joint ownership of things to the making of which we have each contributed a part."

"Exactly," said Rupert. "I guess Grant Maitland paid his own good money for his plant."

"Yes," said Adrien.

"Yes, and all he paid for he owns."

"Yes."

"Well, that's all there is to it."

"Oh, pardon me—there is a good deal more—"

"Well, well, children, we shall not discuss the subject any further. Shall we all go up for coffee?"

"These are very radical views you are advancing, Adrien," said her father, rising from his chair. "You must be careful not to say things like that in circles where you might be taken seriously."

"Seriously, Daddy? I was never more serious in my life." She put her arm through her father's. "I must give you some books, some reports to read, I see," she said, laughing up into his face.

"Evidently," said her father, "if I am to live with you."

"I wonder what Captain Jack would think of these views," said Rupert, dropping into step with Patricia as they left the dining room together.

"He will think as Adrien does," said Patricia stoutly.

"Ah, I wouldn't be too sure about that," said Rupert. "You see, it makes a difference whose ox is being gored."

"What do you mean?" cried Patricia hotly.

"Never mind, Pat," said her sister over her shoulder. "I don't think he knows Captain Jack as we do."

"Perhaps better," said Rupert in a significant tone.

Patricia drew away from him.

"I think you are just horrid," she said. "Captain Jack is—"

"Never mind, dear. Don't let him pull your leg like that," said her sister, with a little colour in her cheek. "We know Captain Jack, don't we?"

"We do!" said Patricia with enthusiasm.

"We do!" echoed Rupert, with a smile that drove Pat into a fury.



CHAPTER VI

THE GRIEVANCE COMMITTEE

There was trouble at the Maitland Mills. For the first time in his history Grant Maitland found his men look askance at him. For the first time in his life he found himself viewing with suspicion the workers whom he had always taken a pride in designating "my men." The situation was at once galling to his pride and shocking to his sense of fair play. His men were his comrades in work. He knew them—at least, until these war days he had known them—personally, as friends. They trusted him and were loyal to him, and he had taken the greatest care to deal justly and more than justly by them. No labour troubles had ever disturbed the relations which existed between him and his men. It was thus no small shock when Wickes announced one day that a Grievance Committee wished to interview him. That he should have to meet a Grievance Committee, whose boast it had been that the first man in the works to know of a grievance was himself, and that the men with whom he had toiled and shared both good fortune and ill, but more especially the good, that had befallen through the last quarter century should have a grievance against him—this was indeed an experience that cut him to the heart and roused in him a fury of perplexed indignation.

"A what? A Grievance Committee!" he exclaimed to Wickes, when the old bookkeeper came announcing such a deputation.

"That's what they call themselves, sir," said Wickes, his tone of disgust disclaiming all association with any such organization.

"A Grievance Committee?" said Mr. Maitland again. "Well, I'll be! What do they want? Who are they? Bring them in," he roared in a voice whose ascending tone indicated his growing amazement and wrath.

"Come in you," growled Wickes in the voice he generally used for his collie dog, which bore a thoroughly unenviable reputation, "come on in, can't ye?"

There was some shuffling for place in the group at the door, but finally Mr. Wigglesworth found himself pushed to the front of a committee of five. With a swift glance which touched "the boss" in its passage and then rested upon the wall, the ceiling, the landscape visible through the window, anywhere indeed rather than upon the face of the man against whom they had a grievance, they filed in and stood ill at ease.

"Well, Wigglesworth, what is it?" said Grant Maitland curtly.

Mr. Wigglesworth cleared his throat. He was new at the business and was obviously torn between conflicting emotions of pride in his present important position and a wholesome fear of his "boss." However, having cleared his throat, Mr. Wigglesworth pulled himself together and with a wave of the hand began.

"These 'ere—er—gentlemen an' myself 'ave been (h)appinted a Committee to lay before you certain grievances w'ich we feel to be very (h)oppressive, sir, so to speak, w'ich, an' meanin' no offence, sir, as men, fellow-men, as we might say—"

"What do you want, Wigglesworth? What's your trouble? You have some trouble, what is it? Spit it out, man," said the boss sharply.

"Well, sir, as I was a-sayin', this 'ere's a Committee (h)appinted to wait on you, sir, to lay before you certain facts w'ich we wish you to consider an' w'ich, as British subjecks, we feel—"

"Come, come, Wigglesworth, cut out the speech, and get at the things. What do you want? Do you know? If so, tell me plainly and get done with it."

"We want our rights as men," said Mr. Wigglesworth in a loud voice, "our rights as free men, and we demand to be treated as British—"

"Is there anyone of this Committee that can tell me what you want of me?" said Maitland. "You, Gilby, you have some sense—what is the trouble? You want more wages, I suppose?"

"I guess so," said Gilby, a long, lean man, Canadian born, of about thirty, "but it ain't the wages that's eatin' me so much."

"What then?"

"It's that blank foreman."

"Foreman?"

"That's right, sir." "Too blanked smart!" "Buttin' in like a blank billy goat!" The growls came in various undertones from the Committee.

"What foreman? Hoddle?" The boss was ready to fight for his subalterns.

"No! Old Hoddle's all right," said Gilby. "It's that young smart aleck, Tony Perrotte."

"Tony Perrotte!" Mr. Maitland's voice was troubled and uncertain. "Tony Perrotte! Why, you don't mean to tell me that Perrotte is not a good man. He knows his job from the ground up."

"Knows too much," said Gilby. "Wants to run everything and everybody. You can't tell him anything. And you'd think he was a Brigadier-General to hear him giving us orders."

"You were at the front, Gilby?"

"I was, for three years."

"You know what discipline is?"

"I do that, and I know too the difference between a Corporal and a Company Commander. I know an officer when I see him. But a brass hat don't make a General."

"I won't stand for insubordination in my mills, Gilby. You must take orders from my foreman. You know me, Gilby. You've been long enough with me for that."

"You treat a man fair, Mr. Maitland, and I never kicked at your orders. Ain't that so?"

Maitland nodded.

"But this young dude—"

"'Dude'? What do you mean, 'dude'? He's no dude!"

"Oh, he's so stuck on himself that he gives me the wearisome willies. Look here, other folks has been to the war. He needn't carry his chest like a blanked bay window."

"Look here, Gilby, just quit swearing in this room." The cold blue eyes bored into Gilby's hot face.

"I beg pardon, sir. It's a bad habit I've got, but that—that Tony Perrotte has got my goat and I'm through with him."

"All right, Gilby. If you don't like your job you know what you can do," said Maitland coldly.

"You mean I can quit?" enquired Gilby hotly.

"I mean there's only one boss in these works, and that's me. And my foreman takes my orders and passes them along. Those that don't like them needn't take them."

"We demand our rights as—" began Mr. Wigglesworth heatedly.

"Excuse me, sir. 'A should like to enquir-r-e if it is your-r or-rder-rs that your-r for-r-man should use blasphemious language to your-r men?"

The cool, firm, rasping voice cut through Mr. Wigglesworth's sputtering noise like a circular saw through a pine log.

Mr. Maitland turned sharply upon the speaker.

"What is your name, my man?" he enquired.

"Ma name is Malcolm McNish. 'A doot ye have na har-r-d it. But the name maitters little. It's the question 'A'm speerin'—asking at ye."

Here was no amateur in the business of Grievance Committees. His manner was that of a self-respecting man dealing with a fellow-man on terms of perfect equality. There was a complete absence of Wigglesworth's noisy bluster, as also of Gilby's violent profanity. He obviously knew his ground and was ready to hold it. He had a case and was prepared to discuss it. There was no occasion for heat or bluster or profanity. He was prepared to discuss the matter, man to man.

Mr. Maitland regarded him for a moment or two with keen steady gaze.

"Where do you work, McNish?" he enquired of the Scot.

"A'm workin' the noo in the sawmill. A'm a joiner to trade."

"Then Perrotte is not your foreman?"

"That is true," said McNish quietly.

"Then personally you have no grievance against him?" Mr. Maitland had the air of a man who has scored a bull at the first shot.

"Ay, A have an' the men tae—the men I represent have—"

"And you assume to speak for them?"

"They appoint me to speak for them."

"And their complaint is—?"

"Their complaint is that he is no fit to be a foreman."

"Ah, indeed! And you are here solely on their word—"

"No, not solely, but pairtly. A know by experience and A hae har-r-d the man, and he's no fit for his job, A'm tellin' you."

"I suppose you know the qualifications of a foreman, McNish?" enquired Mr. Maitland with the suspicion of sarcasm in his voice.

"Ay, A do that."

"And how, may I ask, have you come to the knowledge?"

"A dinna see—I do not see the bearing of the question."

"Only this, that you and those you represent place your judgment as superior to mine in the choice of a foreman. It would be interesting to know upon what grounds."

"I have been a foreman myself. But there are two points of view in this question—the point of view of the management and that of the worker. We have the one point of view, you have the other. And each has its value. Ours is the more important."

"Indeed! And why, pray?"

"Yours has chiefly to do with profits, ours with human life."

"Very interesting indeed," said Mr. Maitland, "but it happens that profits and human life are somewhat closely allied—"

"Aye, but wi' you profits are the primary consideration and humanity the secondary. Wi' us humanity is the primary."

"Very interesting, indeed. But I must decline your premise. You are a new man here and so I will excuse you the impudence of charging me with indifference to the well-being of my men."

"You put wur-r-ds in my mouth, Mr. Maitland. A said nae sic thing," said McNish. "But your foreman disna' know his place, and he must be changed."

"'Must,' eh?" The word had never been used to Mr. Maitland since his own father fifty years before had used it. It was an unfortunate word for the success of the interview. "'Must,' eh?" repeated Mr. Maitland with rising wrath. "I'd have you know, McNish, that the man doesn't live that says 'must' to me in regard to the men I choose to manage my business."

"Then you refuse to remove yere foreman?"

"Most emphatically, I do," said Mr. Maitland with glints of fire in his blue eyes.

"Verra weel, so as we know yere answer. There is anither matter."

"Yes? Well, be quick about it."

"A wull that. Ye dinna pay yere men enough wages."

"How do you know I don't?" said Mr. Maitland rising from his chair.

"A have examined certain feegures which I shall be glad to submit tae ye, in regard tae the cost o' leevin' since last ye fixed the wage. If yere wage was right then, it's wrang the noo." Under the strain Mr. Maitland's boring eyes and increasing impatience the Doric flavour of McNish's speech grew richer and more guttural, varying with the intensity of his emotion.

"And what may these figures be?" enquired Mr. Maitland with a voice of contempt.

"These are the figures prepared by the Labour Department of your Federal Government. I suppose they may be relied upon. They show the increased cost of living during the last five years. You know yeresel' the increase in wages. Mr. Maitland, I am told ye are a just man, an' we ask ye tae dae the r-r-right. That's all, sir."

"Thank you for your good opinion, my man. Whether I am a just man or not is for my own conscience alone. As to the wage question, Mr. Wickes will tell you, the matter had already been taken up. The result will be announced in a week or so."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you, sir," said Mr. Wigglesworth. "We felt sure it would only be necessary to point (h)out the right course to you. I may say I took the same (h)identical (h)attitude with my fellow workmen. I sez to them, sez I, 'Mr. Maitland—'

"That will do, Wigglesworth," said Mr. Maitland, cutting him short. "Have you anything more to say?" he continued, turning to McNish.

"Nothing, sir, except to express the hope that you will reconsider yere attitude as regards the foreman."

"You may take my word for it, I will not," said Mr. Maitland, snapping his words off with his teeth.

"At least, as a fair-minded man, you will look into the matter," said McNish temperately.

"I shall do as I think best," said Mr. Maitland.

"It would be wiser."

"Do you threaten me, sir?" Mr. Maitland leaned over his desk toward the calm and rugged Scot, his eyes flashing indignation.

"Threaten ye? Na, na, threats are for bairns. Yere no a bairn, but a man an' a wise man an' a just, A doot. A'm gie'in' ye advice. That's all. Guid day."

He turned away from the indignant Mr. Maitland, put his hat on his head and walked from the room, followed by the other members of the Committee, with the exception of Mr. Wigglesworth who lingered with evidently pacific intentions.

"This, sir, is a most (h)auspicious (h)era, sir. The (h)age of reason and justice 'as dawned, an'—"

"Oh, get out, Wigglesworth. Haven't you made all your speeches yet? The time for the speeches is past. Good day."

He turned to his bookkeeper.

"Wickes, bring me the reports turned in by Perrotte, at once."

Mr. Maitland's manner was frankly, almost brutally, imperious. It was not his usual manner with his subordinates, from which it may be gathered that Mr. Maitland was seriously disturbed. And with good reason. In the first place, never in his career had one of his men addressed him in the cool terms of equality which McNish had used with him in the recent interview. Then, never had he been approached by a Grievance Committee. The whole situation was new, irritating, humiliating.

As to the wages question, he would settle that without difficulty. He had never skimped the pay envelope. It annoyed him, however, that he had been forstalled in the matter by this Committee. But very especially he was annoyed by the recollection of the deliberative, rasping tones of that cool-headed Scot, who had so calmly set before him his duty. But the sting of the interview lay in the consciousness that the criticism of his foreman was probably just. And then, he was tied to Tony Perrotte by bonds that reached his heart. Had it not been so, he would have made short work of the business. As it was, Tony would have to stay at all costs. Mr. Maitland sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the Big Bluff visible through the window, but his mind lingering over a picture that had often gripped hard at his heart during the last two years, a picture drawn for him in a letter from his remaining son, Jack. The letter lay in the desk at his hand. He saw in the black night that shell-torn strip of land between the lines, black as a ploughed field, lurid for a swift moment under the red glare of a bursting shell or ghastly in the sickly illumination of a Verry light, and over this black pitted earth a man painfully staggering with a wounded man on his back. The words leaped to his eyes. "He brought me out of that hell, Dad." He closed his eyes to shut out that picture, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

"No," he said, raising his hand in solemn affirmation, "as the Lord God liveth, while I stay he stays."

"Come in," he said, in answer to a timid tap at the office door. Mr. Wickes laid a file before him. It needed only a rapid survey of the sheets to give him the whole story. Incompetence and worse, sheer carelessness looked up at him from every sheet. The planing mill was in a state of chaotic disorganization.

"What does this mean, Mr. Wickes?" he burst forth, putting his finger upon an item that cried out mismanagement and blundering. "Here is an order that takes a month to clear which should be done within ten days at the longest."

Wickes stood silent, overwhelmed in dismayed self-condemnation.

"It seems difficult somehow to get orders through, sir, these days," he said after a pause.

"Difficult? What is the difficulty? The men are there, the machines are there, the material is in the yard. Why the delay? And look at this. Here is a lot of material gone to the scrap heap, the finest spruce ever grown in Canada too. What does this mean, Wickes?" he seemed to welcome the opportunity of finding a scapegoat for economic crimes, for which he could find no pardon.

Sheet after sheet passed in swift review under his eye. Suddenly he flung himself back in his chair.

"Wickes, this is simply damnable!"

"Yes, sir," said Wickes, his face pale and his fingers trembling. "I don't—I don't seem to be able to—to—get things through."

"Get things through? I should say not," shouted Maitland, glaring at him.

"I have tried, I mean I'm afraid I'm—that I am not quite up to it, as I used to be. I get confused—and—" The old bookkeeper's lips were white and quivering. He could not get on with his story.

"Here, take these away," roared Maitland.

Gathering up the sheets with fingers that trembled helplessly, Wickes crept hurriedly out through the door, leaving a man behind him furiously, helplessly struggling in the relentless grip of his conscience, lashed with a sense of his own injustice. His anger which had found vent upon his old bookkeeper he knew was due another man, a man with whom at any cost he could never allow himself to be angry. The next two hours were bad hours for Grant Maitland.

As the quitting whistle blew a tap came again to the office door. It was Wickes, with a paper in his hand. Without a word he laid the paper upon his chief's desk and turned away. Maitland glanced over it rapidly.

"Wickes, what does this nonsense mean?" His chief's voice arrested him. He turned again to the desk.

"I don't think—I have come to feel, sir, that I am not able for my job. I do not see as how I can go on." Maitland's brows frowned upon the sheet. Slowly he picked up the paper, tore it across and tossed it into the waste basket.

"Wickes, you are an old fool—and," he added in a voice that grew husky, "I am another and worse."

"But, sir—" began Wickes, in hurried tones.

"Oh, cut it all out, Wickes," said Maitland impatiently. "You know I won't stand for that. But what can we do? He saved my boy's life—"

"Yes, sir, and he was with my Stephen at the last, and—" The old man's voice suddenly broke.

"I remember, Wickes, I remember. And that's another reason—We must find another way out."

"I have been thinking, sir," said the bookkeeper timidly, "if you had a younger man in my place—"

"You would go out, eh? I believe on my soul you would. You—you—old fool. But," said Maitland, reaching his hand across the desk, "I don't go back on old friends that way."

The two men stood facing each other for a few minutes, with hands clasped, Maitland's face stern and set, Wickes' working in a pitiful effort to stay the tears that ran down his cheeks, to choke back the sobs that shook his old body as if in the grip of some unseen powerful hand.

"We must find a way," said Maitland, when he felt sure of his voice. "Some way, but not that way. Sit down. We must go through this together."



CHAPTER VII

THE FOREMAN

Grant Maitland's business instincts and training were such as to forbid any trifling with loose management in any department of his plant. He was, moreover, too just a man to allow any of his workmen to suffer for failures not their own. His first step was to get at the facts. His preliminary move was characteristic of him. He sent for McNish.

"McNish," he said, "your figures I have examined. They tell me nothing I did not know, but they are cleverly set down. The matter of wages I shall deal with as I have always dealt with it in my business. The other matter—" Mr. Maitland paused, then proceeded with grave deliberation, "I must deal with in my own way. It will take a little time. I shall not delay unnecessarily, but I shall accept dictation from no man as to my methods."

McNish stood silently searching his face with steady eyes.

"You are a new man here, and I find you are a good workman," continued Mr. Maitland. "I don't know you nor your aims and purposes in this Grievance Committee business of yours. If you want a steady job with a chance to get on, you will get both; if you want trouble, you can get that too, but not for long, here."

Still the Scot held him with grave steady gaze, but speaking no word.

"You understand me, McNish?" said Maitland, nettled at the man's silence.

"Aye, A've got a heid," he said in an impassive voice.

"Well, then, I hope you will govern yourself accordingly. Good-day," said Maitland, closing the interview.

McNish still stood immovable.

"That's all I have to say," said Maitland, glancing impatiently at the man.

"But it's no all A have to say, if ye will pairmit me," answered McNish in a voice quiet and respectful and apparently, except for its Doric flavour, quite untouched by emotion of any kind soever.

"Go on," said Maitland shortly, as the Scot stood waiting.

"Maister Maitland," said McNish, rolling out a deeper Doric, "ye have made a promise and a threat. Yere threat is naething tae me. As tae yere job, A want it and A want tae get on, but A'm a free man the noo an' a free man A shall ever be. Good-day tae ye." He bowed respectfully to his employer and strode from the room.

Mr. Maitland sat looking at the closed door.

"He is a man, that chap, at any rate," he said to himself, "but what's his game, I wonder. He will bear watching."

The very next day Maitland made a close inspection of his plant, beginning with the sawmill. He found McNish running one of the larger circular saws, and none too deftly. He stood observing the man for some moments in silence. Then stepping to the workman's side he said,

"You will save time, I think, if you do it this way." He seized the levers and, eliminating an unnecessary movement, ran the log. McNish stood calmly observing.

"Aye, yere r-right," he said. "Ye'll have done yon before."

"You just bet I have," said Maitland, not a little pleased with himself.

"A'm no saw man," said McNish, a little sullenly. "A dinna ken—I don't know saws of this sort. I'm a joiner. He put me off the bench."

"Who?" said Maitland quickly.

"Yon manny," replied McNish with unmistakable disgust.

"You were on the bench, eh? What sort of work were you on?"

"A was daein' a bit counter work. A wasna fast enough for him."

Mr. Maitland called the head sawyer.

"Put a man on here for a while, Powell, will you? You come with me, McNish."

Together they went into the planing mill. Asking for the foreman he found that he was nowhere to be seen, that indeed he had not been in the mill that morning.

"Show me your work, McNish," he said.

McNish led him to a corner of the mill where some fine counter work was in process.

"That's my work," he said, pointing to a piece of oak railing.

Maitland, turning the work over in his hands, ran his finger along a joint somewhat clumsily fitted.

"Not that," said McNish hastily. "Ma work stops here."

Again Maitland examined the rail. His experienced eye detected easily the difference in the workmanship.

"Is there anything else of yours about here?" he asked. McNish went to a pile of finished work and from it selected a small swing door beautifully panelled. Maitland's eye gleamed.

"Ah, that's better," he said. "Yes, that's better."

He turned to one of the workmen at the bench near by.

"What job is this, Gibbon?" he asked.

"It's the Bank job, I think," said Gibbon.

"What? The Merchants' Bank job? Surely that can't be. That job was due two weeks ago." Maitland turned impatiently toward an older man. "Ellis," he said sharply, "do you know what job this is?"

Ellis came and turned over the different parts of the work.

"That's the Merchants' Bank job, sir," he said.

"Then what is holding this up?" enquired Maitland wrathfully.

"It's the turned work, I think, sir. I am not sure, but I think I heard Mr. Perrotte asking about that two or three days ago." Mr. Maitland's lips met in a thin straight line.

"You can go back to your saw, McNish," he said shortly.

"Ay, sir," said McNish, his tone indicating quiet satisfaction. At Gibbon's bench he paused. "Ye'll no pit onything past him, a doot," he said, with a grim smile, and passed out.

In every part of the shop Mr. Maitland found similar examples of mismanagement and lack of co-ordination in the various departments of the work. It needed no more than a cursory inspection to convince him that a change of foreman was a simple necessity. Everywhere he found not only evidence of waste of time but also of waste of material. It cut him to the heart to see beautiful wood mangled and ruined. All his life he had worked with woods of different kinds. He knew them standing in all their matchless grandeur, in the primeval forest and had followed them step by step all the way to the finished product. Never without a heart pang did he witness a noble white pine, God's handiwork of centuries, come crashing to earth through the meaner growth beneath the chopper's axe. The only thing that redeemed such a deed from sacrilege, in his mind, was to see the tree fittingly transformed into articles of beauty and worth suitable for man's use. Hence, when he saw lying here and there deformed and disfigured fragments of the exquisitely grained white spruce, which during the war, he had with such care selected for his aeroplane parts, his very heart rose in indignant wrath. And filled with this wrath he made his way to the office and straightway summoned Wickes and his son Jack to conference.

"Tony will never make a worker in wood. He cares nothing for it," he said bitterly.

"Nor in anything else, Dad," said Jack, with a little laugh.

"You laugh, but it is no laughing matter," said his father reproachfully.

"I am sorry, Father, but you know I always thought it was a mistake to put Tony in charge of anything. Why, he might have had his commission if he were not such an irresponsible, downwright lazy beggar. What he needs, as my Colonel used to profanely say, is 'a good old-fashioned Sergeant-Major to knock hell out of him'. And, believe me, Tony was a rattling fine soldier if his officer would regularly, systematically and effectively expel his own special devil from his system. He needs that still."

"What can we do with him? I simply can't and won't dismiss him, as that infernally efficient and coolheaded Scot demands. You heard about the Grievance Committee?"

"Oh, the town has the story with embellishments. Rupert Stillwell took care to give me a picturesque account. But I would not hesitate, Dad. Kick Tony a good swift kick once a week or so, or, if that is beneath your dignity, fire him."

"But, Jack, lad, we can't do that," said his father, greatly distressed, "after what—"

"Why not? He carried me out of that hell all right, and while I live I shall remember that. But he is a selfish beggar. He hasn't the instinct for team play. He hasn't the idea of responsibility for the team. He gets so that he can not make himself do what he just doesn't feel like doing. He doesn't care a tinker's curse for the other fellows in the game with him."

"The man that doesn't care for other fellows will never make a foreman," said Mr. Maitland decisively. "But can't something be done with him?"

"There's only one way to handle Tony," said Jack. "I learned that long ago in school. He was a prince of half-backs, you know, but I had regularly to kick him about before every big match. Oh, Tony is a fine sort but he nearly broke my heart till I nearly broke his back."

"That does not help much, Jack." For the first time in his life Grant Maitland was at a loss as to how he should handle one of his men. Were it not for the letter in the desk at his hand he would have made short work of Tony Perrotte. But there the letter lay and in his heart the inerasible picture it set forth.

"What is the special form that Tony's devilment has taken, may I ask?" enquired Jack.

"Well, I may say to you, what Wickes knows and has known and has tried for three months to hide from me and from himself, Tony has made about as complete a mess of the organization under his care in the planing mill as can be imagined. The mill is strewn with the wreckage of unfulfilled orders. He has no sense of time value. To-morrow is as good as to-day, next week as this week. A foreman without a sense of time value is no good. And he does not value material. Waste to him is nothing. Another fatal defect. The man to whom minutes are not potential gold and material potential product can never hope to be a manufacturer. If only I had not been away from home! But the thing is, what is to be done?"

"In the words of a famous statesman much abused indeed, I suggest, 'Wait and see.' Meantime, find some way of kicking him into his job."

This proved to be in the present situation a policy of wisdom. It was Tony himself who furnished the solution. From the men supposed to be working under his orders he learned the day following Maitland's visit of inspection something of the details of that visit. He quickly made up his mind that the day of reckoning could not long be postponed. None knew better than Tony himself that he was no foreman; none so well that he loathed the job which had been thrust upon him by the father of the man whom he had carried out from the very mouth of hell. It was something to his credit that he loathed himself for accepting the position. Yet, with irresponsible procrastination, he put off the day of reckoning. But, some ten days later, and after a night with some kindred spirits of his own Battalion, a night prolonged into the early hours of the working day, Tony presented himself at the office, gay, reckless, desperate, but quite compos mentis and quite master of his means of locomotion.

He appeared in the outer office, still in his evening garb.

"Mr. Wickes," he said in solemn gravity, "please have your stenographer take this letter."

Mr. Wickes, aghast, strove to hush his vibrant tones, indicating in excited pantomime the presence of the chief in the inner office. He might as effectively have striven to stay the East wind at that time sweeping up the valley.

"Are you ready, my dear?" said Tony, smiling pleasantly at the girl. "All right, proceed. 'Dear Mr. Maitland:' Got that? 'Conscious of my unfitness for the position of foreman in—'"

"Hush, hush, Tony," implored Mr. Wickes.

Tony waved him aside.

"What have you got, eh?"

At that point the door opened and Grant Maitland stepped into the office. Tony rose to his feet and, bowing with elaborate grace and dignity, he addressed his chief.

"Good morning, sir. I am glad to see you, in fact, I wanted to see you but wishing to save your time I was in the very act of dictating a communication to you."

"Indeed, Tony?" said Mr. Maitland gravely.

"Yes, sir, I was on the point of dictating my resignation of my position of foreman."

"Step in to the office, Tony," said Mr. Maitland kindly and sadly.

"I don't wish to take your time, sir," said Tony, sobered and quieted by Mr. Maitland's manner, "but my mind is quite made up. I—"

"Come in," said Mr. Maitland, in a voice of quiet command, throwing open his office door. "I wish to speak to you."

"Oh, certainly, sir," answered Tony, pulling himself together with an all too obvious effort.

In half an hour Tony came forth, a sober and subdued man.

"Good-bye, Wickes," he said, "I'm off."

"Where are you going, Tony?" enquired Wickes, startled at the look on Tony's face.

"To hell," he snapped, "where such fools as me belong," and, jamming his hat hard down on his head, he went forth.

In another minute Mr. Maitland appeared at the office door.

"Wickes," he said sharply, "put on your hat and get Jack for me. Bring him, no matter what he's at. That young fool who has just gone out must be looked after. The boot-leggers have been taking him in tow. If I had only known sooner. Did you know, Wickes, how he has been going on? Why didn't you report to me?"

"I hesitated to do that, sir," putting his desk in order. "I always expected as how he would pull up. It's his company, sir. He is not so much to blame."

"Well, he would not take anything I had to offer. He is wild to get away. And unfortunately he has some money with him, too. But get Jack for me. He can handle him if anybody can."

Sorely perplexed Mr. Maitland returned to his office. His business sense pointed the line of action with sunlight clearness. His sense of justice to the business for which he was responsible as well as to the men in his employ no less clearly indicated the action demanded. His sane judgment concurred in the demand of his men for the dismissal of his foreman. Dismissal had been rendered unnecessary by Tony's unshakable resolve to resign his position which he declared he loathed and which he should never have accepted. His perplexity arose from the confusion within himself. What should he do with Tony? He had no position in his works or in the office for which he was fit. None knew this better than Tony himself.

"It's a joke, Mr. Maitland," he had declared, "a ghastly joke. Everybody knows it's a joke, that I should be in command of any man when I can't command myself. Besides, I can't stick it." In this resolve he had persisted in spite of Mr. Maitland's entreaties that he should give the thing another try, promising him all possible guidance and backing. But entreaties and offers of assistance had been in vain. Tony was wild to get away from the mill. He hated the grind. He wanted his freedom. Vainly Mr. Maitland had offered to find another position for him somewhere, somehow.

"We'll find a place in the office for you," he had pleaded. "I want to see you get on, Tony. I want to see you make good."

But Tony was beyond all persuasion.

"It isn't in me," he had declared. "Not if you gave me the whole works could I stick it."

"Take a few days to think it over," Mr. Maitland had pleaded.

"I know myself—only too well. Ask Jack, he knows," was Tony's bitter answer. "And that's final."

"No, Tony, it is not final," had been Mr. Maitland's last word, as Tony had left him.

But after the young man had left him there still remained the unsolved question, What was he to do with Tony? In Mr. Maitland's heart was the firm resolve that he would not allow Tony to go his own way. The letter in the desk at his hand forbade that.

At his wits' end he had sent for Jack. Jack had made a football half-back and a hockey forward out of Tony when everyone else had failed. If anyone could divert him from that desperate downward course to which he seemed headlong bent, it was Jack.

In a few minutes Wickes returned with the report that on receiving an account of what had happened Jack had gone to look up Tony.

Mr. Maitland drew a breath of relief.

"Tony is all right for to-day," he said, turning to his work and leaving the problem for the meantime to Jack.

In an hour Jack reported that he had been to the Perrotte home and had interviewed Tony's mother. From her he had learned that Tony had left the town, barely catching the train to Toronto. He might not return for a week or ten days. He could set no time for it. He was his own master as to time. He had got to the stage where he could go and come pretty much as he pleased. The mother was not at all concerned as to these goings and comings of her son. He had an assured position, all cause for anxiety in regard to him was at an end. Tony's mother was obviously not a little uplifted that her son should be of sufficient importance to be entrusted with business in Toronto in connection with the mill.

All of which tended little toward relieving the anxiety of Mr. Maitland.

"Let him take his swing, Dad, for a bit," was Jack's advice. "He will come back when he is ready, and until then wild horses won't bring him nor hold him. He is no good for his old job, and you have no other ready that he will stick at. He has no Sergeant-Major now to knock him about and make him keep step, more's the pity."

"Life will be his Sergeant-Major, I fear," said his father, "and a Sergeant-Major that will exact the utmost limit of obedience or make him pay the price. All the same, we won't let him go. I can't Jack, anyway."

"Oh, Tony will turn up, never fear, Dad," said Jack easily.

With this assurance his father had to content himself. In a fortnight's time a letter came from Tony to his sister, rosy with the brilliance of the prospects opening up before him. There was the usual irresponsible indefiniteness in detail. What he was doing and how he was living Tony did not deign to indicate. Ten days later Annette had another letter. The former prospects had not been realised, but he had a much better thing in view, something more suitable to him, and offering larger possibilities of position and standing in the community. So much Annette confided to her mother who passed on the great news with elaborations and annotations to Captain Jack. To Captain Jack himself Annette gave little actual information. Indeed, shorn of its element of prophecy, there was little in Tony's letter that could be passed on. Nor did Annette drop any hint but that all was quite well with her brother, much less that he had suggested a temporary loan of fifty dollars but only of course if she could spare the amount with perfect convenience. After this letter there was silence as far as Tony was concerned and for Annette anxiety that deepened into agony as the silence remained unbroken with the passing weeks.

With the anxiety there mingled in Annette's heart anger at the Maitlands, for she blamed them for Tony's dismissal from his position. This, it is fair to say, was a reflection from her mother's wrath, whose mind had been filled up with rumours from the mills to the effect that her son had been "fired." Annette was wise enough and knew her brother well enough to discredit much that rumour brought to her ears, but she could not rid herself of the thought that a way might have been found to hold Tony about the mills.

"He fired the boy, did the ould carmudgeon," said Madame Perrotte in one of her rages, "and druv him off from the town."

"Nonsense, Mother," Annette had replied, "you know well enough Tony left of his own accord. Why should you shame him so? He went because he wanted to go."

This was a new light upon the subject for her mother.

"Thrue for you, Annette, gurl," she said, "an' ye said it that time. But why for did he not induce the bye to remain? It would be little enough if he had made him the Manager of the hull works. That same would never pay back what he did for his son."

"Hush, Mother," said Annette, in a shocked and angry voice, "let no one hear you speak like that. Pay back! You know, Mother, nothing could ever pay back a thing like that." The anger in her daughter's voice startled the mother.

"Oui! by gar!" said Perrotte, who had overheard, with quick wrath. "Dat's foolish talk for sure! Dere's no man can spik lak dat to me, or I choke him on his fool t'roat, me."

"Right you are, mon pere!" said Annette appeasing her father. "Mother did not think what she was saying."

"Dat's no bon," replied Perrotte, refusing to be appeased. "Sacre tonnerre! Dat's one—what you call?—damfool speech. Dat boy Tony he's carry (h)on hees back his friend, le Capitaine Jack, an' le Capitaine, he's go five mile for fin' Tony on' de shell hole an' fetch heem to le docteur and stay wit' him till he's fix (h)up. Nom de Dieu! You pay for dat! Mama! You mak' shame for me on my heart!" cried the old Frenchman, beating his breast, while sobs shook his voice.



CHAPTER VIII

FREE SPEECH

Fifty years ago Blackwater town was a sawmill village on the Blackwater River which furnished the power for the first little sawmill set up by Grant Maitland's father.

Down the river came the sawlogs in the early spring when the water was high, to be caught and held by a "boom" in a pond from which they were hauled up a tramway to the saw. A quarter of a mile up stream a mill race, tapping the river, led the water to an "overshot wheel" in the early days, later to a turbine, thus creating the power necessary to drive the mill machinery. When the saw was still the water overflowed the "stop-logs" by the "spillway" into the pond below.

But that mill race furnished more than power to the mill. It furnished besides much colourful romance to the life of the village youth of those early days. For down the mill race they ran their racing craft, jostling and screaming, urging with long poles their laggard flotillas to victory. The pond by the mill was to the boys "swimming hole" and fishing pool, where, during the long summer evenings and through the sunny summer days, they spent amphibious hours in high and serene content. But in springtime when the pond was black with floating logs it became the scene of thrilling deeds of daring. For thither came the lumber-jacks, fresh from "the shanties," in their dashing, multi-colored garb, to "show off" before admiring friends and sweethearts their skill in "log-running" and "log-rolling" contests which as the spirit of venture grew would end like as not in the icy waters of the pond.

Here, too, on brilliant winter days the life of the village found its centre of vivid interest and activity. For then the pond would be a black and glittering surface whereon wheeled and curved the ringing, gleaming blades of "fancy" skaters or whereon in sterner hours opposing "shinny" teams sought glory in Homeric and often gory contest.

But those days and those scenes were now long since gone. The old mill stood a picturesque ruin, the water wheel had given place to the steam engine, the pond had shrunk to an insignificant pool where only pollywogs and minnows passed unadventurous lives, the mill race had dwindled to a trickling stream grown thick with watercress and yellow lilies, and what had once been the centre of vigorous and romantic life was now a back water eddy devoid alike of movement and of colour.

A single bit of life remained—the little log cottage, once the Manager's house a quarter of a century ago, still stood away up among the pines behind the old mill ruin and remote from the streets and homes of the present town. At the end of a little grassy lane it stood, solid and square, resisting with its well hewn pinelogs the gnawing tooth of time. Abandoned by the growing town, forgotten by the mill owner, it was re-discovered by Malcolm McNish, or rather by his keen eyed old mother on their arrival from the old land six months ago. For a song McNish bought the solid little cottage, he might have had it as a gift but that he would not, restored its roof, cleared out its stone chimney which, more than anything else, had caught the mother's eye, re-set the window panes, added a wee cunning porch, gave its facings a coat of paint, enclosed its bit of flower garden in front and its "kale yaird" in the rear with a rustic paling, and made it, when the Summer had done its work, a bonnie homelike spot which caught the eye and held the heart of the passer-by.

The interior more than fulfilled the promise of the exterior. The big living room with its great stone fireplace welcomed you on opening the porch door. From the living room on the right led two doors, each giving entrance to a tiny bedroom and flanking a larger room known as "the Room."

Within the living room were gathered the household treasures, the Lares and Penates of the little stone rose-covered cottage "at hame awa' ayont the sea." On the mantel a solid hewn log of oak, a miracle of broad-axe work, were "bits o' chiny" rarely valuable as antiques to the knowing connoisseur but beyond price to the old white-haired lady who daily dusted them with reverent care as having been borne by her mother from the Highland home in the far north country when as a bride she came by the "cadger's cairt" to her new home in the lonely city of Glasgow. Of that Glasgow home and of her own home later the walls of the log cottage were eloquent.

The character giving bit of furniture, however, in the living room was a book-case that stood in a corner. Its beautiful inlaid cabinet work would in itself have attracted attention, but not the case but the books were its distinction. The great English poets were represented there in serviceable bindings showing signs of use, Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Browning, Keats, and with them in various editions, Burns. Beside the poets Robert Louis had a place, and Sir Walter, as well as Kipling and Meredith and other moderns. But on the shelf that showed most wear were to be found the standard works of economists of different schools from the great Adam Smith to Marx and the lot of his imitators and disciples. This was Malcolm's book-case. There was in another corner near the fire-place a little table and above it hung a couple of shelves for books of another sort, the Bible and The Westminster Confession, Bunyan and Baxter and Fox's Book of Martyrs, Rutherford and McCheyne and Law, The Ten Years' Conflict, Spurgeon's Sermons and Smith's Isaiah, and a well worn copy of the immortal Robbie. This was the mother's corner, a cosy spot where she nourished her soul by converse with the great masters of thought and of conscience.

In this "cosy wee hoosie" Malcolm McNish and his mother passed their quiet evenings, for the days were given to toil, in talk, not to say discussion of the problems, the rights and wrongs of the working man. They agreed in much; they differed, and strongly, in point of view. The mother was all for reform of wrongs with the existing economic system, reverencing the great Adam Smith. The son was for a new deal, a new system, the Socialistic, with modifications all his own. All, or almost all, that Malcolm had read the mother had read with the exception of Marx. She "cudna thole yon godless loon" or his theories or his works. Malcolm had grown somewhat sick of Marx since the war. Indeed, the war had seriously disturbed the foundations of Malcolm's economic faith, and he was seeking a readjustment of his opinion and convictions, which were rather at loose ends. In this state of mind he found little comfort from his shrewd old mother.

"Y'e have nae anchor, laddie, and ilka woof of air and ilka turn o' the tide and awa' ye go."

As for her anchor, she made no bones of announcing that she had been brought up on the Shorter Catechism and the Confession and in consequence found a place for every theory of hers, Social and Economic as well as Ethical and Religious, within the four corners of the mighty fabric of the Calvinistic system of Philosophy and Faith.

One of the keen joys of her life since coming to the new country she found in her discussions with the Rev. Murdo Matheson, whom, after some considerable hesitation, she had finally chosen to "sit under." The Rev. Murdo's theology was a little narrow for her. She had been trained in the schools of the Higher Critics of the Free Kirk leaders at home. She talked familiarly of George Adam Smith, whom she affectionately designated as "George Adam." She would wax wrathful over the memory of the treatment meted out to Robertson Smith by a former generation of Free Kirk heresy hunters. Hence she regarded with pity the hesitation with which her Minister accepted some of the positions of the Higher Critics. Although it is to be confessed that the war had somewhat rudely shattered her devotion to German theology.

"What d'ye think o' yere friend Harnack the noo?" her son had jibed at her soon after the appearance of the great manifesto from the German professors.

"What do A think o' him?" she answered, sparring for time. "What do A think o' him?" Then, as her eye ran over her son's uniform, for he was on leave at the time, she blazed forth, "A'll tell ye what A think o' him. A think that Auld Hornie has his hook intil him and the hale kaboodle o' them. They hae forsaken God and made tae themselves ither gods and the Almichty hae gi'en them ower tae a reprobate mind."

But her Canadian Minister's economic positions satisfied her. He had specialised in Social and Economic Science in his University Course and she considered him sound "in the main."

She had little patience with half baked theorists and none at all with mere agitators. It was therefore with no small indignation that she saw on a Sunday morning Mr. Wigglesworth making his way up the lane toward her house door.

"The Lord be guid tae us!" she exclaimed. "What brings yon cratur here—and on a Sabbath mornin'? Mind you, Malcolm," she continued in a voice of sharp decision, "A'll hae nane o' his 'rights o' British citizens' clack the morn."

"Who is it, Mother?" enquired her son, coming from his room to look out through the window. "Oh, dinna fash ye're heid ower yon windbag," he added, dropping into his broadest Doric and patting his mother on the shoulder.

"He disna fash me," said his mother. "Nae fears. But A'll no pairmit him to brak the Sabbath in this hoose, A can tell ye." None the less she opened the door to Mr. Wigglesworth with dignified courtesy.

"Guid mornin', Mr. Wigglesworth," she said cordially. "Ye're airly on yere way tae the Kirk."

"Yes—that is—yes," replied Mr. Wigglesworth in some confusion, "I am a bit (h)early. Fact is, I was (h)anxious to catch Malcolm before 'e went aht. I 'ave a rather (h)important business on 'and with 'im, very (h)important business, I might say."

"'Business,' did ye say, Mr. Wigglesworth?" Mrs. McNish stood facing him at the door. "Business! On the Lord's Day?"

Mr. Wigglesworth gaped at her, hat in hand.

"Well, Mrs. McNish, not (h)exactly business. That is," he said with an apologetic smile, "(h)it depends, you see, just w'at yeh puts (h)into a word, Mrs. McNish."

Mr. Wigglesworth's head went over to one side as if in contemplation of a new and striking idea.

"A pit nae meaning into a word that's no in it on its ain accoont," she replied with uncompromising grimness. "Business is just business, an' my son diz nae business on the Lord's Day."

There was no place for casuistry in the old Scotch lady's mind. A thing was or was not, and there was an end to that.

"Certainly, Mrs. McNish, certainly! And so sez I. But there might be a slight difference of (h)opinion between you and I, so to speak, as to just w'at may constitute 'business.' Now, for (h)instance—" Mr. Wigglesworth was warming to his subject, but the old lady standing on her doorstep fixed her keen blue eyes upon him and ruthlessly swept away all argumentation on the matter.

"If it is a matter consistent with the Lord's Day, come in; if not, stay oot."

"Oh! Yes, thank you. By the way, is your son in, by (h)any chance? Per'raps 'e's shavin' 'isself, eh?" Mr. Wigglesworth indulged in a nervous giggle.

"Shavin' himsel!" exclaimed Mrs. McNish. "On the Sawbath! Man, d'ye think he's a heathen, then?" Mrs. McNish regarded the man before her with severity.

"An 'eathen? Not me! I should consider it an 'eathenish practice to go dirty of a Sunday," said Mr. Wigglesworth triumphantly.

"Hoots, man, wha's talkin' about gaein' dirty? Can ye no mak due preparation on the Saturday? What is yere Saturday for?"

This was a new view to Mr. Wigglesworth and rather abashed him.

"What is it, Mother?" Malcolm's voice indicated a desire to appease the wrath that gleamed in his mother's eye. "Oh, it is Mr. Wigglesworth. Yes, yes! I want to see Mr. Wigglesworth. Will you come in, Mr. Wigglesworth?"

"Malcolm, A was jist tellin' Mr. Wigglesworth—"

"Yes, yes, I know, Mother, but I want—"

"Malcolm, ye ken what day it is. And A wull not—"

"Yes, Mother, A ken weel, but—"

"And ye ken ye'll be settin' oot for the Kirk in half an oor—"

"Half an hour, Mother? Why, it is only half past nine—"

"A ken weel what it is. But A dinna like tae be fashed and flustered in ma mind on ma way till the Hoose o' God."

"I shall only require a very few moments, Madam," said Mr. Wigglesworth. "The matter with w'ich I am (h)entrusted need not take more than a minute or two. In fact, I simply want to (h)announce a special, a very special meetin' of the Union this (h)afternoon."

"A releegious meetin', Mr. Wigglesworth?" enquired Mrs. McNish.

"Well—not exactly—that is—I don't know but you might call it a religious meetin'. To my mind, Mrs. McNish, you know—"

But Mrs. McNish would have no sophistry.

"Mr. Wigglesworth," she began sternly.

But Malcolm cut in.

"Now, Mother, I suppose it's a regular enough meeting. Just wait till I get my hat, Mr. Wigglesworth. I'll be with you."

His mother followed him into the house, leaving Mr. Wigglesworth at the door.

"Malcolm," she began with solemn emphasis.

"Now, now, Mother, surely you know me well enough by this time to trust my judgment in a matter of this kind," said her son, hurriedly searching for his hat.

"Ay, but A'm no sae sure o' yon buddie—"

"Hoot, toot," said her son, passing out. "A'll be back in abundant time for the Kirk, Mither. Never you fear."

"Weel, weel, laddie, remember what day it is. Ye ken weel it's no day for warldly amusement."

"Ay, Mither," replied her son, smiling a little at the associating of Mr. Wigglesworth with amusement of any sort on any day.

In abundance of time Malcolm was ready to allow a quiet, unhurried walk with his mother which would bring them to the church a full quarter of an hour before the hour of service.

It happened that the Rev. Murdo was on a congenial theme and in specially good form that morning.

"How much better is a man than a sheep," was his text, from which with great ingenuity and eloquence he proceeded to develop the theme of the supreme value of the human factor in modern life, social and industrial. With great cogency he pressed the argument against the inhuman and degrading view that would make man a mere factor in the complex problem of Industrial Finance, a mere inanimate cog in the Industrial Machine.

"What did you think of the sermon, Mother?" asked Malcolm as they entered the quiet lane leading home.

"No sae bad, laddie, no sae bad. Yon's an able laddie, especially on practical themes. Ay, it was no that bad," replied his mother with cautious approval.

"What about his view of the Sabbath?"

"What about it? Wad ye no lift a sheep oot o' the muck on the Sawbath?"

"A would, of course," replied Malcolm.

"Weel, what?"

"A was jist thinkin' o' Mr. Wigglesworth this morning."

"Yon man!"

"You were rather hard on him this morning', eh, Mither?"

"Hard on him? He's no a sheep, nor in some ways as guid's a sheep, A grant ye that, but such as he is was it no ma duty to pull him oot o' the mire o' Sawbath desecration and general ungodliness?"

"Aw, Mither, Mither! Ye're incorrigible! Ye ought to come to the meeting this afternoon and give them all a lug out."

"A wull that then," said his mother heartily. "They need it, A doot."

"Hoots! Nonsense, Mither!" said her son hastily, knowing well how thoroughly capable she was of not only going to a meeting of Union workers but also of speaking her mind if in her judgment they were guilty of transgressing the Sabbath law. "The meeting will be just as religious as Mr. Matheson's anyway."

"A'm no sae sure," said his mother grimly.

Whether religious in the sense understood by Mrs. McNish, the meeting was not wanting in ethical interest or human passion. It was a gathering of the workers in the various industries in the town, Trade Unionists most of them, but with a considerable number who had never owed allegiance to any Union and a number of disgruntled ex-Unionists. These latter were very vociferous and for the most part glib talkers, with passions that under the slightest pressure spurted foaming to the surface. Returned soldiers there were who had taken on their old jobs but who had not yet settled down into the colourless routine of mill and factory work under the discipline of those who often knew little of the essentials of discipline as these men knew them. A group of French-Canadian factory hands, taken on none too willingly in the stress of war work, constituted an element of friction, for the soldiers despised and hated them. With these there mingled new immigrants from the shipyards and factories of the Old Land, all members or ex-members of Trade Unions, Socialists in training and doctrine, familiar with the terminology and jargon of those Socialistic debating schools, the Local Unions of England and Scotland, alert, keen, ready of wit and ready of tongue, rejoicing in wordy, passionate debate, ready for anything, fearing nothing.

The occasion of the meeting was the presence of a great International Official of the American Federation of Labour, and its purpose to strengthen International Unionism against the undermining of guerilla bands of non-Unionists and very especially against the new organizations emanating from the far West, the One Big Union.

At the door of the hall stood Mr. Wigglesworth, important, fussy and unctuously impressive, welcoming, directing, introducing and, incidentally but quite ineffectively, seeking to inspire with respect for his august person a nondescript crowd of small boys vainly seeking entrance. With an effusiveness amounting to reverence he welcomed McNish and directed him in a mysterious whisper toward a seat on the platform, which, however, McNish declined, choosing a seat at the side about half way up the aisle.

A local Union official was addressing the meeting but saying nothing in particular, and simply filling in till the main speaker should arrive. McNish, quite uninterested in the platform, was quietly taking note of the audience, with many of whom he had made a slight acquaintance. As his eye travelled slowly from face to face it was suddenly arrested. There beside her father was Annette Perrotte, who greeted him with a bright nod and smile. They had long ago made up their tiff. Then McNish had another surprise. At the door of the hall appeared Captain Jack Maitland who, after coolly surveying the room, sauntered down the aisle and took a seat at his side. He nodded to McNish.

"Quite a crowd, McNish," he said. "I hear the American Johnnie is quite a spouter so I came along to hear."

McNish looked at him and silently nodded. He could not understand his presence at that kind of a meeting.

"You know I am a Union man now," said Captain Jack, accurately reading his silence. "Joined a couple of months ago."

But McNish kept his face gravely non-committal, wondering how it was that this important bit of news had not reached him. Then he remembered that he had not attended the last two monthly meetings of his Union, and also he knew that little gossip of the shops came his way. None the less, he was intensely interested in Maitland's appearance. He did Captain Jack the justice to acquit him of anything but the most honourable intentions, yet he could not make clear to his mind what end the son of his boss could serve by joining a Labour Union. He finally came to the conclusion that this was but another instance of an "Intellectual" studying the social and economic side of Industry from first-hand observation. It was a common enough thing in the Old Land. He was conscious of a little contempt for this dilettante sort of Labour Unionism, and he was further conscious of a feeling of impatience and embarrassment at Captain Jack's presence. He belonged to the enemy camp, and what right had he there? From looks cast in their direction it was plain that others were asking the same question. His thought received a sudden and unexpected exposition from the platform from no less a person than Mr. Wigglesworth himself to whom as one of the oldest officials in Unionised Labour in the town had been given the honour of introducing the distinguished visitor and delegate.

In flowing periods and with a reckless but wholly unauthorised employment of aspirates he "welcomed the (h)audience, (h)especially the ladies, and other citizens among 'oom 'e was delighted to (h)observe a representative of the (h)employing class 'oo was for the present 'e believed one of themselves." To his annoyed embarrassment Captain Jack found himself the observed of many eyes, friendly and otherwise. "But 'e would assure Captain Maitland that although 'e might feel as if 'e 'ad no right to be 'ere—"

"'Ere! 'Ere!" came a piercing voice in unmistakable approval, galvanising the audience out of its apathy into instant emotional intensity.

"(H)I want most (h)emphatically to (h)assure Captain Maitland," continued Mr. Wigglesworth, frowning heavily upon the interrupter, "that 'e is as welcome—"

"No! No!" cried the same Cockney voice, followed by a slight rumbling applause.

"I say 'e is," shouted Mr. Wigglesworth, supported by hesitating applause.

"No! No! We don't want no toffs 'ere." This was followed by more definite applause from the group immediately surrounding the speaker.

Mr. Wigglesworth was much affronted and proceeded to administer a rebuke to the interrupter.

"I (h)am surprised," he began, with grieved and solemn emphasis.

"Mr. Chairman," said the owner of the Cockney voice, rising to his feet and revealing himself a small man with large head and thin wizened features, "Mr. Chairman, I rise to protest right 'ere an' naow against the presence of (h)any representative of the (h)enemy class at—"

"Aw, shut up!" yelled a soldier, rising from his place. "Throw out the little rat!"

Immediately there was uproar. On every side returned soldiers, many of whom had been in Captain Jack's battalion, sprang up and began moving toward the little Cockney who, boldly standing his ground, was wildly appealing to the chair and was supported by the furious cheering of a group of his friends, Old Country men most of whom, as it turned out, were of the extreme Socialist type. By this time it had fully been borne in upon Captain Jack's mind, somewhat dazed by the unexpected attack, that he was the occasion of the uproar. Rising from his place he tried vainly to catch the Chairman's attention.

"Come up to the platform," said a voice in his ear. He turned and saw McNish shouldering his way through the excited crowd toward the front. After a moment's hesitation he shrugged his shoulders and followed. The move caught the eye and apparently the approval of the audience, for it broke into cheers which gathered in volume till by the time that McNish and Captain Jack stood on the platform the great majority were wildly yelling their enthusiastic approval of their action. McNish stood with his hand raised for a hearing. Almost instantly there fell a silence intense and expectant. The Scotchman stood looking in the direction of the excited Cockney with cold steady eye.

"A'm for freedom! The right of public assembly! A'm feart o' nae enemy, not the deevil himself. This gentleman is a member of my Union and he stays r-r-right he-e-r-re." With a rasping roll of his r's he seemed to be ripping the skin off the little Cockney's very flesh. The response was a yell of savage cheers which seemed to rock the building and which continued while Mr. Wigglesworth in overflowing effusiveness first shook Maitland's limp hand in a violent double-handed pump handle exercise and then proceeded to introduce him to the distinguished visitor, shouting his name in Maitland's ear, "Mr 'Oward (H)E. Bigelow," adding with a sudden inspiration, "(H)Introduce 'im to the (h)audience. Yes! Yes! Most (h)assuredly," and continued pushing both men toward the front of the platform, the demonstration increasing in violence.

"I say, old chap," shouted Captain Jack in the stranger's ear, "I feel like a fool."

"I feel like a dozen of 'em," shouted Mr. Bigelow in return. "But," he added with a slow wink, "this old fool is the daddy of 'em all. Go on, introduce me, or they'll bust something loose."

Captain Jack took one step to the front of the platform and held up his hand. The cheering assumed an even greater violence, then ceased in sudden breathless silence.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in a slightly bored voice, "this gentleman is Mr. Howard E. Bigelow, a representative of the American Federation of Labour, whom as a member of the Woodworkers' Union, Local 197, I am anxious to hear if you don't mind."

He bowed to the visitor, bowed to the audience once more swaying under a tempest of cheers, and, followed by McNish, made his way to his seat.

From the first moment of his speech Mr. Howard E. Bigelow had to fight for a hearing. The little Cockney was the centre of a well-organised and thoroughly competent body of obstructers who by clever "heckling," by points of order, by insistent questioning, by playing now upon the anti-American string, now upon the anti-Federation string, by ribald laughter, by cheering a happy criticism, completely checked every attempt of the speaker to take flight in his oratory. The International official was evidently an old hand in this sort of game, but in the hands of these past masters in the art of obstruction he met more than his match. Maitland was amazed at his patience, his self-control, his adroitness, but they were all in vain. At last he was forced to appeal to the Chairman for British fair play. But the Chairman was helplessly futile and his futility was only emphasised by Mr. Wigglesworth's attempts now at browbeating which were met with derision and again at entreaty which brought only demands for ruling on points of order, till the meeting was on the point of breaking up in confused disorder.

"McNish, I think I'll take a hand in this," said Captain Jack in the Scotchman's ear. "Are you game?"

"Wait a wee," said McNish, getting to his feet. Slowly he once more made his way to the platform. As the crowd caught on to his purpose they broke into cheering. When he reached the side of the speaker he spoke a word in his ear, then came to the front with his hand held up. There was instant quiet. He looked coolly over the excited, disintegrating audience for a moment or two.

"A belonged tae the Feefty-fir-rst Diveesion," he said in his richest Doric. "We had a rare time wi' bullies over there. A'm for free speech! Noo, listen tae me, you Cockney wheedle doodle. Let another cheep out o' yere trap an' the Captain there will fling ye oot o' this room as we did the Kayser oot o' France."

"You said it, McNish," said Maitland, leaping to the aisle. With a roar a dozen returned men were on their feet.

"Steady, squad!" rang out Captain Jack's order. "Fall into this aisle! Shun!" As if on parade the soldiers fell into line behind their captain.

"Macnamara!" he said, pointing to a huge Irishman.

"Sir!" said Macnamara.

"You see that little rat-faced chap?"

"Yes, sir."

"Take your place beside him."

With two steps Macnamara was beside his man.

"Mr. Chairman, I protest," began the little Cockney fiercely.

"Pass him up," said the Captain sharply.

With one single motion Macnamara's hand swept the little man out of his place into the aisle.

"Chuck him out!" said Captain Jack quietly.

From hand to hand, with never a pause, amid the jeers and laughter of the crowd the little man was passed along like a bundle of old rags till he disappeared through the open door.

"Who's next?" shouted Macnamara joyfully.

"As you were!" came the sharp command.

At once Macnamara stood at attention.

Captain Jack nodded to the platform.

"All right," he said quietly.

Mr. Howard E. Bigelow finished his speech in peace. He made appeal for the closing up of the ranks of Labour in preparation for the big fight which was rapidly coming. They had just finished with Kaiserism in Europe but they were faced with only another form of the same spirit in their own land. They wanted no more fighting, God knew they had had enough of that, but there were some things dearer than peace, and Labour was resolved to get and to hold those things which they had fought for, "which you British and especially you Canadians shed so much blood to win. We are making no threats, but we are not going to stand for tyranny at the hands of any man or any class of men in this country. Only one thing will defeat us, not the traditional enemies of our class but disunion in our own ranks due to the fool tactics of a lot of disgruntled and discredited traitors like the man who has just been fired from this meeting." He asked for a committee which would take the whole situation in hand. He closed with a promise that in any struggle which they undertook under the guidance of their International Officers the American Federation of Labour to their last dollar would be behind them.

Before the formal closing of the meeting Maitland slipped quietly out. As he reached the sidewalk a light hand touched his arm. Turning he saw at his elbow Annette, her face aglow and her black eyes ablaze with passionate admiration.

"Oh, Captain Jack," she panted, her hands outstretched, "you were just wonderful! Splendid! Oh! I don't know what to say! I—" She paused in sudden confusion. A hot colour flamed in her face. Maitland took her hands in his.

"Hello, Annette! I saw you there. Why! What's up, little girl?"

A sudden rush of tears had filled her eyes.

"Oh, nothing. I am just excited, I guess. I don't know what—" She pulled her hands away. "But you were great!" She laughed shrilly.

"Oh, it was your friend McNish did the trick," said Captain Jack. "Very neat bit of work that, eh? Very neat indeed. Awfully clever chap! Are you going home now?"

"No, I am waiting." She paused shyly.

"Oh, I see!" said Captain Jack with a smile. "Lucky chap, by Jove!"

"I am waiting for my father," said Annette, tossing her head.

"Oh, then, if that's all, come along with me. Your father knows his way about." The girl paused a moment, hesitating. Then with a sudden resolve she cried gaily,

"Well, I will. I want to talk to you about it. Oh, I am so excited!" She danced along at his side in gay abandon. As they turned at the first corner Maitland glanced over his shoulder.