"Why?"

Carroll sat down and filled his pipe.

"It's the natural result of possessing a temperament like yours. Somehow, you've got it firmly fixed into your mind that everything worth doing must be hard."

"I've generally found it so."

"I think," grinned Carroll, "you've generally made it so. There's a marked difference between the two. If any means of doing a thing looks easy, you at once conclude that it can't be the right one. That mode of reasoning has never appealed to me. In my opinion, it's more sensible to try the easiest method first."

"As a rule, that leads to your having to fall back upon the other one; and a frontal attack on a difficulty's often quicker than considering how you can work round its flank. In this case, I'll own we have wasted a lot of time and taken a good deal of trouble that might have been avoided. But are you going to sit here and smoke?"

"Until I've finished my pipe," Carroll answered firmly. "I expect we'll find tobacco, among other things, getting pretty scarce before this expedition ends."

He carried out his intention, and they afterward pushed on up the valley during the remainder of the day. It grew more level as they proceeded, and in spite of the frost, which bound the feeding snows, there was a steady flow of water down the river, which was free from rocky barriers. Vane now and then glanced at the river attentively, and when dusk was drawing near he stopped and fixed his gaze on the long ranks of trees that stretched away in front of him; fretted spires of somber greenery lifted high above a colonnade of mighty trunks.

"Does anything in connection with this bush strike you?" he asked.

"Its stiffness, if that's what you mean," Carroll answered with a smile. "These big conifers look as if they'd been carved, like the wooden trees in the Swiss or German toys. They're impressive in a way, but they're too formally artificial."

"That's not what I mean," Vane said impatiently.

"To tell the truth, I didn't suppose it was. Anyway, these trees aren't spruce. They're red cedar; the stuff they make roofing shingles of."

"Precisely. Just now, shingles are in good demand in the Province, and with the wooden towns springing up on the prairie, western millers can hardly send roofing material across the Rockies fast enough. Besides this, I haven't struck a creek more adapted for running down logs, and the last sharp drop to tide-water would give power for a mill. I'm only puzzled that none of the timber-lease prospectors have recorded the place."

"That's easy to understand," laughed Carroll. "Like you, they'd no doubt first search the most difficult spots to get at."

They went on, and when darkness fell they pitched their light tent beside the creek. It was now freezing hard, and after supper the men lay smoking, wrapped in blankets, with the tent between them and the stinging wind, while a great fire of cedar branches snapped and roared in front of them. Sometimes the red blaze shot up, flinging a lurid light on the stately trunks and tinging the men's faces with the hue of burnished copper; sometimes it fanned out away from them while the sparks drove along the frozen ground and the great forest aisle, growing dim, was filled with drifting vapor. The latter was aromatic; pungently fragrant.

"It struck me that you were disappointed when you got no mail at Comox," Carroll remarked at length, feeling that he was making something of a venture.

"I was," admitted Vane.

"That's strange," Carroll persisted, "because your hearing nothing from Nairn left you free to go ahead, which, one would suppose, was what you wanted."

Vane happened to be in a confidential mood; though usually averse to sharing his troubles, he felt that he needed sympathy.

"I'd better confess that I wrote Miss Chisholm a few lines from Nanaimo."

"And she didn't answer you? Now, I couldn't well help noticing that you were rather in her bad graces that night at Nairn's—the thing was pretty obvious. No doubt you're acquainted with the reason?"

"I'm not. That's just the trouble."

Carroll reflected. He had an idea that Miss Horsfield was somehow connected with the matter, but this was a suspicion he could not mention.

"Well," he said, "as I pointed out, you're addicted to taking the hardest way. When we came up here before, you marched past this valley, chiefly because it was close at hand; but I don't want to dwell on that. Has it occurred to you that you did something of the same kind when you were at the Dene? The way that was then offered you was easy."

Vane frowned.

"That is not the kind of subject one cares to talk about; but you ought to know that I couldn't allow them to force Miss Chisholm upon me against her will. It was unthinkable! Besides, looking at it in the most cold-blooded manner, it would have been foolishness, for which we'd both have had to pay afterward."

"I'm not so sure of that," Carroll smiled. "There were the Sabine women, among other instances. Didn't they cut off their hair to make bowstring for their abductors?"

His companion made no comment, and Carroll, deciding that he had ventured as far as was prudent, talked of something else until they crept into the little tent and soon fell asleep.

They started with the first of the daylight, but the timber grew denser and more choked with underbrush as they proceeded and for a day or two they wearily struggled through it and the clogging masses of tangled, withered fern. Besides this, they were forced to clamber over mazes of fallen trunks, when the ragged ends of the snapped-off branches caught their loads. Their shoulders ached, their boots were ripped, their feet were badly galled; but they held on stubbornly, plunging deeper into the mountains all the while. It would probably overcome the average man if he were compelled to carry all the provisions he needed for a week along a well-kept road, but the task of the prospector and the survey packer, who must transport also an ax, cooking utensils and whatever protection he requires from the weather, through almost impenetrable thickets, is infinitely more difficult.

Vane and Carroll were more or less used to it, but both of them were badly jaded when soon after setting out one morning they climbed a clearer hillside to look about them. High up ahead, the crest of the white range gleamed dazzlingly against leaden clouds in a burst of sunshine; below, dark forest, still wrapped in gloom, filled all the valley; and in between, a belt of timber touched by the light shone with a curious silvery luster. Though it was some distance off, probably a day's journey allowing for the difficulty of the march, Vane gazed at it earnestly. The trees were bare—there was no doubt of that, for the dwindling ranks, diminished by the distance, stood out against the snow-streaked rock like rows of thick needles set upright; their straightness and the way they glistened suggested the resemblance.

"Ominous, isn't it?" Carroll suggested at length. "If this is the valley Hartley came down—and everything points to that—we should be getting near the spruce."

Vane's face grew set.

"Yes," he agreed. "There has been a big fire up yonder; but whether it has swept the lower ground or not is more than I can tell. We'll find out to-night or early to-morrow."

He swung round without another word, and scrambling down the hillside they resumed the march. They pushed on all that day rather faster than before, with the same uncertainty troubling both of them. Forest fires are common in that region when there is a hot dry fall; and where, as often happens, a deep valley forms a natural channel for the winds that fan them, they travel far, stripping and charring the surface of every tree in their way. Neither of the men thought of stopping for a noonday meal, and during the gloomy afternoon, when dingy clouds rolled down from the peaks, they plodded forward with growing impatience. They could see scarcely a hundred yards in front of them; dense withering thickets choked up the spaces between the towering trunks; and there was nothing to indicate that they were nearing the burned area when at last they pitched their camp as darkness fell.



CHAPTER XXVII

THE END OF THE SEARCH

The two men made a hurried breakfast in the cold dawn, and soon afterward they were struggling through thick timber when the light suddenly grew clearer. Carroll remarked upon the fact and Vane's face hardened.

"We're either coming to a swamp, or the track the fire has swept is close in front," he explained.

A thicket lay before them, but they smashed savagely through the midst of it, the undergrowth snapping and crackling about their limbs. Then there was a network of tangled branches to be crossed, and afterward, reaching slightly clearer ground, they broke into a run. Three or four minutes later they stopped, breathless and ragged, with their rent boots scarcely clinging to their feet, and gazed eagerly about.

The living forest rose behind them, an almost unbroken wall, but ahead the trees ran up in detached and blackened spires. Their branches had vanished; every cluster of somber-green needles and delicate spray had gone; the great rampicks looked like shafts of charcoal. About their feet lay crumbling masses of calcined wood, which grew more numerous where there were open spaces farther on, and then the bare, black columns ran on again, up the valley and the steep hill benches on either hand. It was a weird scene of desolation; impressive to the point of being appalling in its suggestiveness of wide-spread ruin.

For the space of a minute the men gazed at it; and then Vane, stretching out his hand, pointed to a snow-sheeted hill.

"That's the peak Hartley mentioned," he said in a voice which was strangely incisive. "Give me the ax!"

He took it from his comrade and striding forward attacked the nearest rampick. Twice the keen blade sank noiselessly overhead, scattering a black dust in the frosty air, and then there was a clear, ringing thud. After that, Vane smote on with a determined methodical swiftness, until Carroll grabbed his shoulder.

"Look out!" he cried. "It's going!"

Vane stepped back a few paces; the trunk reeled and rushed downward; there was a deafening crash, and they were enveloped in a cloud of gritty dust. Through the midst of it they dimly saw two more great trunks collapse; and then somewhere up the valley a series of thundering shocks, which both knew were not echoes, broke out. The sound jarred on Carroll's nerves, as the thud of the felled rampick had not done. Vane picked up one of the chips.

"We have found Hartley's spruce."

Carroll did not answer for a minute. After all, when defeat must be faced, there was very little to be said, though his companion's expression troubled him. Its grim stolidity was portentous.

"I suppose," he suggested hopefully, "nothing could be done with it?"

Vane pointed to the butt of the tree, which showed a space of clear wood surrounded by a blackened rim.

"You can't make marketable pulp of charcoal, and the price would have to run pretty high before it would pay for ripping most of the log away to get at the residue.

"But there may be some unburned spruce farther on."

"It's possible. I'm going to find out."

This was a logical determination; but, in spite of his recent suggestion, Carroll realized that he would have abandoned the search there and then, had the choice been left to him, in which he did not think he was singular. After all they had undergone and the risk they had run in leaving Vancouver, the shock of the disappointment was severe. He could have faced a failure to locate the spruce, with some degree of philosophical calm; but to find it at last, useless, was very much worse. He did not, however, expect his companion to turn back yet; before he desisted, Vane would search for and examine every unburned tree. What was more, Carroll would have to accompany him. He noticed that Vane was waiting for him to speak, and he decided that this was a situation which he would better endeavor to treat lightly.

"I think I'll have a smoke," he said. "I'm afraid any remarks I could make wouldn't do justice to the occasion. Language has its limits."

He sat down on the charred log and took out his pipe.

"A brulee's not a nice place to wander about in when there's any wind," he proceeded; "and I've an idea there's some coming, though it's still enough now."

Shut in, as they were, in the deep hollow with the towering snows above them, it was impressively still; and, in conjunction with the sight of the black desolation, the deep silence reacted on Carroll's nerves. He longed to escape from it, to make a noise; though this, if done unguardedly, might bring more of the rampicks thundering down. He could hear tiny flakes of charcoal falling from them and, though the fire had long gone out, a faint and curious crackling, as if the dead embers were stirring. He wondered if it were some effect of the frost; it struck him as disturbing and weird.

"We'll work right round the brulee," Vane decided. "Then I suppose we'd better head back for Vancouver, though we'll look at that cedar as we go down. Something might be made of it—I'm not sure we've thrown our time away."

"You'd never be sure of that. It isn't in you."

Vane disregarded this. A new, constructive policy was already springing up out of the wreck of his previous plans.

"There's a good mill site on the inlet, but as it's a long way from the railroad we'll have to determine whether it would be cheaper to tow the logs down or split them up on the spot. I'll talk it over with Drayton; he'll no doubt be useful, and there's no reason why he shouldn't earn his share."

"Do you consider that the arrangement you made with Hartley applies to the cedar?" Carroll asked.

"Of course. I don't know that the other parties could insist on the original terms—we can discuss that later; but, though it may be modified, the arrangement stands."

His companion considered the matter dispassionately, as an abstract proposition. Here was a man, who in return for certain information respecting the whereabouts of a marketable commodity had undertaken to find and share it with his informant. The commodity had proved to be valueless, but during the search for it he had incidentally discovered something else. Was he under any obligation to share the latter with his informant's heirs?

Carroll decided that the question could be answered only in the negative; but he had no intention of disputing his comrade's point of view. In the first place, this would probably make Vane only more determined or would ruffle his temper; and, in the second place, Carroll was neither a covetous man nor an ambitious one, which, perhaps, was fortunate for him. Ambition, the mother of steadfast industry and heroic effort, has also a less reputable progeny.

Vane, as his partner realized, was ambitious; but in place of aspiring after wealth or social prominence, his was a different aim: to rend the hidden minerals from the hills, to turn forests into dressed lumber, to make something grow. Money is often, though not always, made that way; but, while Vane affected no contempt for it, in his case its acquisition was undoubtedly not the end. Fortunately, he was not altogether singular in this respect.

When he next spoke, however, there was no hint of altruistic sentiment in his curt inquiry:

"Are you going to sit there until you freeze?"

Carroll got up and they spent the remainder of the day plodding through the brulee, with the result that when darkness fell Vane had abandoned all idea of working the spruce. The next morning they set out for the inlet, and one afternoon during the journey they came upon several fallen logs lying athwart each other with their branches spread in an almost impenetrable tangle. Vane proceeded to walk along one log, which was tilted up several yards above the ground, balancing himself carefully upon the rounded surface, and Carroll followed cautiously. Suddenly there was a sharp snapping, and Vane plunged headlong into the tangle beneath, while Carroll stood still and laughed. It was not an uncommon accident.

Vane, however, did not reappear; nor was there any movement among the half-rotten boughs and withered sprays, and Carroll, moving forward hastily, looked down into the hole. He was disagreeably surprised to see his comrade lying, rather white in face, upon his side.

"I'm afraid you'll have to chop me out," came up hoarsely. "Get to work. I can't move my leg."

Moving farther along the log, Carroll dropped to the ground, which was less encumbered there, and spent the next quarter of an hour hewing a passage to his comrade. Then as he stood beside him, hot and panting, Vane looked up.

"It's my lower leg; the left," he explained. "Bone's broken; I felt it snap."

Carroll turned from him for a moment in consternation. Looking out between the branches, he could see the lonely hills tower, pitilessly white, against the blue of the frosty sky, and the rigid firs running back as far as his vision reached upon their lower slopes. There was no touch of life in all the picture; everything was silent and absolutely motionless, and its desolation came near to appalling him. When he looked around again, Vane smiled wryly.

"If this had happened farther north, it would have been the end of me," he said. "As it is, it's awkward."

The word struck Carroll as singularly inexpressive, but he made an effort to gather his courage when his companion broke off with a groan of pain.

"It's lucky we helped that doctor when he set Pete's leg at Bryant's mill," he declared cheerily. "Can you wait a few minutes?"

Vane's face was beaded with damp now, but he tried to smile.

"It strikes me," he answered, "I'll have to wait a mighty long time."

Carroll turned and left him. He was afraid to stand still and think, and action was a relief. It was some time before he returned with several strips of fabric cut from the tent curtain, and the neatest splints he could extemporize from slabs of stripped-off bark; and the next half-hour was a trying one to both of them. Sometimes Vane assisted him with suggestions—once he reviled his clumsiness—and sometimes he lay silent with his face awry and his lips tight silent; but at length it was done and Carroll stood up, breathing hard.

"I'll fasten you on to a couple of skids and pull you out. Then I'll make camp here."

He managed it with difficulty, pitched the tent above Vane, whom he covered with their blankets, and made a fire outside.

"Are you comfortable now?" he inquired.

Vane looked up at him with a somewhat ghastly smile.

"I suppose I'm about as comfortable as could be expected. Anyhow, I've got to get used to the thing. Six weeks is the shortest limit, isn't it?"

Carroll confessed that he did not know, and presently Vane spoke again.

"It's lucky that the winters aren't often very cold near the coast."

The temperature struck Carroll as low enough, but he made no comment. To his disgust, he could think of no cheering observation, for there was no doubt that the situation was serious. They were cut off from the sloop by leagues of tangled forest which a vigorous man would find it difficult to traverse, and it would be weeks before Vane could use his leg; no human assistance could be looked for; and they had only a small quantity of provisions left. Besides this, it would not be easy to keep the sufferer warm in rigorous weather.

"I'll get supper. You'll feel better afterward," he said at length.

"Don't be too liberal," Vane warned him.

After the meal, Vane fell into a restless doze, and it was dark when he opened his eyes again.

"I can't sleep any more, and we may as well talk—there are things to be arranged. In the first place, as soon as I feel a little easier you'll have to sail across to Comox and hire some men to pack me out. When you've sent them off, you can make for Vancouver and get a timber license and find out how matters are going on."

"That is quite out of the question," Carroll replied firmly. "Nairn can look after our mining interests—he's a capable man—and if the thing's too much for him, they can go to smash. Besides, they won't give you a timber license without full particulars of area and limits, and we've blazed no boundaries. Anyhow, I'm staying right here."

Vane began to protest, but Carroll raised his hand.

"Argument's not conducive to recovery. You're on your back, unfortunately, and I'll give way to you as usual as soon as you're on your feet again, but not before."

"I'd better point out that we'll both be hungry by that time. The provisions won't last long."

"Then I'll look for a deer as soon as I think you can be left. And now we'll try to talk of something more amusing."

"Can you see anything humorous in the situation?"

"I can't," Carroll confessed. "Still, there may be something of that description which I haven't noticed yet. By the way, the last time we were at Nairn's I happened to cross the room near where you and Miss Horsfield were sitting, and I heard her ask you to wait for something at Nanaimo or Comox. It struck me as curious."

"She told me to wait so that she could send me word to come back, if it should be needful."

"Ah!" ejaculated Carroll. "I won't ask why she was willing to do so—it concerns you more than me—but I think that as regards your interests in the Clermont a warning from her would be worth as much as one from Nairn; that is, if she could be depended on."

"Have you any doubt upon the subject?"

Carroll made a soothing gesture.

"Don't get angry! Perhaps I've talked too much. We have to think of your leg."

"I'm not likely to forget it," Vane informed him. "But I dare say you're right in one respect—as an amusing companion you're a dead failure; and talking isn't as easy as I thought."

He lay silent afterward, and though he had disclaimed any desire for sleep, worn by the march and pain as he was, his eyes presently closed. Carroll, however, sat long awake that night, and he afterward confessed that he felt badly afraid. Deer are by no means numerous in some parts of the bush—they had not seen one during the journey; and it was a long way to the sloop.

Once or twice, for no obvious reason, he drew aside the tent flap and looked out. The sky was cloudless and darkly blue, and a sickle moon gleamed in it, keen and clear with frost. Below, the hills were washed in silver, majestic, but utterly cheerless; and lower still the serrated tops of the rigid firs cut against the dreary whiteness. After each glimpse of them, Carroll drew his blanket tighter round him with a shiver. Very shortly, when the little flour and pork was gone and their few cartridges had been expended, he would be reduced to the condition of primitive man. Cut off from all other resources, he must then wrest what means of subsistence he could from the snowy wilderness by brute strength and cunning and such instruments as he could make with his unassisted hands, except that an ax of Pennsylvania steel was better than a stone one. Civilization has its compensations, and Carroll longed for a few more of them that night.

On rising the next morning, he found the frost keener, and he spent that day and a number of those that followed in growing anxiety, which was only temporarily lessened when he once succeeded in killing a deer. There was almost a dearth of animal life in the lonely valley. Sometimes, at first, Vane was feverish; often he was irritable; and the recollection of the three or four weeks he spent with him afterward haunted Carroll like a nightmare. At last, when he had spent several days in vain search for a deer and the provisions were almost exhausted, he and his companion held a council of emergency.

"There's no use in arguing," Vane declared. "You'll rig me a shelter of green boughs outside the tent and close to the fire. I can move from the waist upward and, if it's necessary, drag myself with my hands. Then you can chop enough cord-wood to last a while, cook my share of the eatables, and leave me while you go down to the sloop. There's half a bag of flour on board her, and a few other things I'd be uncommonly glad to have."

Carroll expostulated; but it was evident that his companion was right, and the next morning he started for the inlet, taking with him the smallest possible portion of their provisions. So long as he had enough to keep him from fainting on the way, it was all he required, because he could renew his stores on board the sloop. The weather broke during the march; driving snow followed him down the valley, and by and by gave place to bitter rain. The withered underbrush was saturated, the soil was soddened with melting snow, and after the first scanty meal or two the man dare risk no delay. He felt himself flagging from insufficient food, and it was obvious that he must reach the sloop before he broke down. He had tobacco, but that failed to stay the gnawing pangs, and before the march was done he was on the verge of exhaustion, forcing himself onward, drenched and grim of face, scarcely able to keep upon his bleeding feet.

It was falling dusk and blowing fresh when he limped down the beach and with a last effort launched the light dingy and pulled off to the sloop. She rode rather deep in the water, but that did not trouble him. Most wooden craft leak more or less, and it was a considerable time since he had pumped her out. Clambering wearily on board, he made the dingy fast; and then stood still a moment or two, looking about him with his hand on the cabin slide. Thin flakes of snow drifted past him; the firs were rustling eerily ashore, and ragged wisps of cloud drove by low down above their tops. Little frothy ripples flecked the darkening water with streaks of white and splashed angrily against the bows of the craft. The prospect was oppressively dreary, and the worn-out man was glad that he was at last in shelter and could snatch a few hours' rest.

Thrusting back the slide, he stepped below and lighted the lamp. The brightening glow showed him that the boat's starboard side was wet high up, and though there was a good deal of water in her, this puzzled him until an explanation suggested itself. They had moored the craft carefully, but he supposed she must have dragged her anchor or kedge and swung in near enough the shore to ground toward low tide. Then as the tide left her she would fall over on her starboard bilge, because they had lashed the heavy boom down on that side, and the water in her would cover the depressed portion of her interior. This reasoning was probably correct; but he did not foresee the result until, after lighting the stove and putting on the kettle, he opened the provision locker, which was to starboard. Then he saw with a shock of dismay that the stock of food they had counted on was ruined. The periodically-submerged flour-bag had rotted and burst, and most of its contents had run out into the water as the boat righted with the rising tide; the prepared cereals, purchased to save cooking, had turned to moldy pulp; and the few other stores were in much the same condition. There were only two sound cans of beef and a few ounces of unspoiled tea in a canister.

Carroll's courage failed him as he realized it, but he felt that he must eat and sleep before he could grapple with the situation. He would allow himself a scanty meal and a few hours' rest. While the kettle boiled, he crawled out and shortened in the cable and plied the pump. Then he went below and feasted on preserved beef and tea, gaging the size of each slice with anxious care, until he reluctantly laid the can aside. After that, he filled his pipe and stretching his aching limbs out on the port locker, which was comparatively dry, soon sank into heavy sleep.



CHAPTER XXVIII

CARROLL SEEKS HELP

Carroll slept for several hours before he awakened and sat up on the locker, shivering. He had left the hatch slightly open, and a confused uproar reached him from outside; the wail of wind-tossed trees; the furious splash of ripples against the bows; and the drumming of the halyards upon the mast. There was no doubt that it was blowing hard, but the wind was off the land and the sloop in shelter.

Filling his pipe, he set himself to think, and promptly decided that it would have been better had he gone down to the sloop in the beginning, before the provisions had been spoiled. A natural reluctance to leave his helpless companion had mainly prevented him from doing this, but he had also been encouraged by the possibility of obtaining a deer now and then. It was clear that he had made a mistake in remaining, but it was not the first time he had done so, and the point was unimportant. The burning question was—what should he do now.

It would obviously be useless to go back with rations that would barely suffice for the march. Vane still had food enough to keep life in one man for a little while, and it would not be a long run to Comox with a strong northerly wind. If the sloop would face the sea that was running he might return with assistance before his comrade's scanty store was exhausted. Getting out the mildewed chart, he laid off his course, carefully trimmed and lighted the binnacle lamp, and going up on deck hauled in the kedge-anchor. He could not break the main one out, though he worked savagely with a tackle, and deciding to slip it, he managed to lash three reefs in the mainsail and hoist it with the peak left down. Then he stopped to gather breath—for the work had been cruelly heavy—before he let the cable run and hoisted the jib.

She paid off when he put up his helm, and the black loom of trees ashore vanished. He thought that he could find his way out of the inlet, but he knew that he had done so only when the angry ripples that splashed about the boat suddenly changed to confused tumbling combers. They foamed up in quick succession on her quarter, but he fancied she would withstand their onslaught so long as he could prevent her from screwing up to windward when she lifted. It would need constant care, and if he failed, the next comber would, no doubt, break on board. His task was one that would have taxed the vigilance of a strong, well-fed man, and Carroll had already nearly reached the limit of his powers.

His case, however, was by no means an unusual one. The cost of the subjugation of the wilderness is the endurance of hunger and thirst, cold and crushing fatigue; and somebody pays, to the utmost farthing. Carroll sitting, drenched, strung up and hungry, at the helm, was merely playing his part in the struggle, though he found it cruelly difficult.

It was pitch dark, but he must gaze ahead and guess the track of the pursuing seas by the angle of the spouting white ridge abreast of the weather shrouds. He had a compass, but when his course did not coincide with safety it must be disregarded. The one essential thing was to keep the sloop on top, and to do so he had frequently to let her fall off dead before the mad white combers that leaped out of the dark. By and by his arms began to ache from the strain of the tiller, and his wet fingers grew stiff and claw-like. The nervous strain was also telling, but that could not be helped; he must keep the craft before the sea or go down with her. There was one consolation; she was traveling at a furious speed.

At length, morning broke, gray and lowering, over a leaden sea that was seamed with white. Carroll glanced longingly at the meat can on the locker near his feet. He could reach it by stooping, though he dare not leave the helm, but he determined to wait until noon before he broke his fast again. It could not be very far to Comox, but the wind might drop. Then he began to wonder how he had escaped the perils of the night. He had come down what was really a wide and not quite straight sound, passing several unlighted islands. Before starting, he had decided that he would run so far, and then change his course a point or two, but he could not be sure that he had done so. He had a hazy recollection of seeing surf, and once a faint loom of land, but he supposed that he had avoided it half-consciously or that chance had favored him.

In the afternoon, the wind changed a little, backing to the northwest; the sky grew brighter, and Carroll made out shadowy land over his starboard quarter. Soon he recognized it with a start. It was the high ridge north of Comox. He had run farther than he had expected, and he must try to hoist the peak of the mainsail and haul her on the wind. There was danger in rounding her up, but it must be faced, though a sea foamed across her as he put down his helm. Another followed, but he scrambled forward and struggled desperately to hoist the down-hanging gaff. The halyards were swollen; and he could scarcely keep his footing on the deluged deck that slanted steeply under him. He thought he could have mastered the banging canvas had he been fresh; but worn out as he was, drenched with spray and buffeted by the shattered tops of the seas, the task was beyond his power. Giving it up, he staggered back, breathless and almost nerveless, to the helm.

He could not reach Comox, which lay to windward, with the sail half set, but it was only seventy miles or so to Nanaimo and not much farther to Vancouver. The breeze would be fair to either, and he could charter a launch or tug for the return journey. Letting her go before the sea again, he ate some canned meat ravenously, tearing it with one hand.

During the afternoon, a gray mass rose out of the water to port and he supposed it was Texada. There were mines on the island and he might be able to engage a rescue party; but he reflected that he could not beat the sloop back to windward unless the breeze fell, which it showed no signs of doing. It would be more prudent to go on to Vancouver, where he would be sure of getting a steamer; but he closed with the long island a little, and dusk was falling when he made out a boat in the partial shelter of a bight. Standing in closer, he saw that there were two men on the craft, and driving down upon her he backed and ran alongside. There was a crash as he struck the boat and an astonished and angry man clutched the sloop's rail.

"Now what in the name of thunder—" he began and stopped, struck by Carroll's haggard and ragged appearance.

"Can you take this sloop to Vancouver?" Carroll asked hoarsely.

"I could if it was worth while," was the cautious answer. "It will be a mighty wet run."

"Seven dollars a day, until you're home again. A bonus, if you can sail her with the whole reefed mainsail up—I won't stick at a few dollars. Can your partner pull that boat ashore alone? If not, cast her adrift; I'll buy her."

"He'll make the beach," returned the other, jumping on board. "Seven dollars sounds a square deal. I won't put the screw on you."

"Then help me hoist the peak. After that, you can take the helm; I'm played out."

The man shouted something to his companion and then seized the halyards, and the sloop drove on again, furiously, with an increased spread of canvas, while Carroll stood holding on by the coaming until the boat dropped back.

"I'll leave you to it," he told the new helmsman, "It's twenty-four hours since I've had more than a bite or two of food, and some weeks since I had a decent meal."

"You look it. Been up against it somewhere?"

Carroll, without replying, crawled below and managed to light the stove and make a kettleful of tea. He drank a good deal of it, and nearly emptied the remaining small meat can, which he presently held out for the helmsman's inspection, standing beneath the hatch.

"There's some tea left, but this is all there is to eat on board the craft," he said. "You're hired to take her to Vancouver—you'd better get there as quick as you can."

The bronzed helmsman nodded.

"She won't be long on the way if the mast holds up."

"Have you seen any papers lately?" Carroll inquired. "I've been up in the bush and I'm interested in the Clermont Mine. It looked as if there might be some changes in the company's prospects when I went away."

"I noticed a bit about it in the Colonist a while back. The company sold out to another concern, or amalgamated with it; I don't remember which."

Carroll was not astonished. The news implied that he must be prepared to face a more or less serious financial reverse, and it struck him as a fitting climax to his misadventures.

"It's pretty much what I expected," he said. "I'm going to sleep and I don't want to be wakened before it's necessary."

He crawled below, and he had hardly stretched himself out upon the locker before his eyes closed. When he opened them, feeling more like his usual self, he saw that the sun was above the horizon, and he recognized by the boat's motion that the wind had fallen. Going out he found her driving through the water under her whole mainsail and the helmsman sitting stolidly at the tiller. The man stretched out a hand and pointed to the hazy hills to port.

"We'll fetch the Narrows some time before noon. If you'll take the helm, I guess we'll half that meat for breakfast"

His prediction proved correct, for Carroll reached his hotel about midday, and hastily changing his clothes set off to call on Nairn. He had not yet recovered his mental equipoise and, in spite of his long, sound sleep, he was still badly jaded physically. On arriving at the house, he was shown into a room where Mrs. Nairn and her husband were sitting with Evelyn, waiting for the midday meal The elder lady rose with a start of astonishment when he walked in.

"Man," she cried, "what's wrong? Ye're looking like a ghost."

It was not an inapt description. Carroll's face was worn and haggard, and his clothes hung slack upon him.

"I've been feeling rather unsubstantial of late, as the result of a restricted diet," he answered with a smile sinking into the nearest chair.

Nairn regarded him with carefully suppressed curiosity.

"Ye're over lang in coming," he remarked. "Where left ye your partner?"

Carroll sat silent a moment or two, his eyes fixed on Evelyn. It was evident that his sudden appearance unaccompanied by Vane, which he felt had been undesirably dramatic, had alarmed her. At first, he felt compassionate, and then he was suddenly possessed by hot indignation. This girl, with her narrow prudish notions and dispassionate nature, had presumed to condemn his comrade, unheard, for an imaginary offense. The thing was at once ludicrous and intolerable; if his news brought her dismay, let her suffer. His nerves, it must be remembered, were not in their normal condition.

"Yes," he said, in answer to his host's first remark; "I've gathered that we have failed to save the situation. But I don't know exactly what has happened. You had better tell me."

Mrs. Nairn made a sign of protest, but her husband glanced at her restrainingly.

"Ye will hear his news in good time," he informed her, and then turned to Carroll. "In a few words, the capital was no subscribed—it leaked out that the ore was running poor—and we held an emergency meeting. With Vane away, I could put no confidence into the shareholders—they were anxious to get from under—and Horsfield brought forward an amalgamation scheme: A combine would take the property over, on their valuation. I and a few others were outvoted; the scheme went through; and when the announcement steadied the stock, which had been tumbling down, I exercised the authority given me and sold your shares and Vane's at considerably less than their face value. Ye can have particulars later. What I have to ask now is—where is Vane?"

The man's voice grew sharp; the question was flung out like an accusation; but Carroll still looked at Evelyn. He felt very bitter against her; he would not soften the blow.

"I left him in the bush, with no more than a few days' provisions and a broken leg," he announced.

Then, in spite of Evelyn's efforts to retain her composure, her face blanched. Carroll's anger vanished, because the truth was clear. Vane had triumphed through disaster; his peril and ruin had swept his offenses away. The girl, who had condemned him in his prosperity, would not turn from him in misfortune. In the meanwhile the others sat silent, gazing at the bearer of evil news, until he spoke again.

"I want a tug to take me back, at once, if she can be got. I'll pick up a few men along the waterfront."

Nairn rose and went out of the room. The tinkle of a telephone bell reached those who remained, and a minute or two later he came back.

"I've sent Whitney round," he explained. "He'll come across if there's a boat to be had, and now ye look as if ye needed lunch."

"It's several weeks since I had one," Carroll smiled.

The meal was brought in, but for a while he talked as well as ate, relating his adventures in somewhat disjointed fragments, while the others sat listening eagerly. He was also pleased to notice something which suggested returning confidence in him in Evelyn's intent eyes as the tale proceeded. When at last he had made the matter clear, he added:

"If I keep you waiting, you'll excuse me."

His hostess watched his subsequent efforts with candid approval, and looking up once or twice, he saw sympathy in the girl's face, instead of the astonishment or disgust he had half expected. When he finished, his hostess rose and Carroll stood up, but Nairn motioned to him to resume his place.

"I'm thinking ye had better sit still a while and smoke," he said.

Carroll was glad to do so, and they conferred together until Nairn was called to the telephone.

"Ye can have the Brodick boat at noon to-morrow," he reported on his return.

"That won't do," Carroll objected heavily. "Send Whitney round again; I must sail to-night."

He had some difficulty in getting out the words, and when he rose his eyes were half closed. Walking unsteadily, he crossed the room and sank onto a big lounge.

"I think," he added, "if you don't mind, I'll go to sleep."

Nairn merely nodded, and when he went silently out of the room a minute or two afterward, the worn-out man was already wrapped in profound slumber. Nairn just then received another call by telephone and left in haste for his office without speaking to his wife, with the result that Mrs. Nairn and Evelyn, returning to the room in search of Carroll, found him lying still. The elder lady raised her hand in warning as she bent over the sleeper, and then taking up a light rug spread it gently over him. Evelyn, too, was stirred to sudden pity, for the man's attitude was eloquent of exhaustion. They withdrew softly and had reached the corridor outside when Mrs. Nairn turned to the girl.

"When he first came in, ye blamed that man for deserting his partner," she said.

Evelyn confessed it and her hostess smiled meaningly.

"Are ye no rather too ready to blame?"

"I'm afraid I am," Evelyn admitted, with the color creeping into her face as she remembered another instance in which she had condemned a man hastily.

"In this case, ye were very foolish. The man came down for help, and if he could no get it, he would go back his lone, if all the way was barred with ice and he must walk on his naked feet. Love of woman's strong and the fear of death is keen, but ye will find now and then a faith between man and man that neither would sever." She paused and looked at the girl fixedly as she asked: "What of him that could inspire it?"

Evelyn did not answer. She had never seen her hostess in this mood, and she also was stirred; but the elder lady went on again:

"The virtue of a gift lies in part, but no altogether, with the giver. Whiles, it may be bestowed unworthily, but I'm thinking it's no often. The bond that will drag Carroll back to the North again, to his death, if need be, has no been spun from nothing."

Evelyn had no doubt that Mrs. Nairn was right. Loyalty, most often, demanded a worthy object to tender service to; it sprang from implicit confidence, mutual respect and strong appreciation. It was not without a reason that Vane had inspired it in his comrade's breast; and this was the man she had condemned. That fact, however, was by comparison a very minor trouble. Vane was lying, helpless and alone, in the snowy wilderness, in peril of his life; and she knew that she loved him. She realized now, when it might be too late, that had he in reality been stained with dishonor, she could have forgiven him. Indeed, it had only been by a painful effort that she had maintained some show of composure since Carroll had brought the disastrous news, and she felt that she could not keep it up much longer.

What she said to Mrs. Nairn she could not remember, but escaping from her she retired to her own room, to lie still and grapple with an agony of fear and contrition.

It was two hours later when she went down and found Carroll, who still looked drowsy, about to go out. His hostess had left him for a moment in the hall, and meeting the girl's eyes, he smiled at her reassuringly.

"Don't be anxious. I'll bring him back," he said.

Then Mrs. Nairn appeared and in a few moments Carroll left without another word to Evelyn. She did not ask herself why he had taken it for granted that she would be anxious; she was beyond any petty regard for appearances then. It was consoling to remember that he was Vane's tried comrade; a man who kept his word.



CHAPTER XXIX

JESSY'S CONTRITION

After leaving Mrs. Nairn, Carroll walked toward Horsfield's residence in a thoughtful mood, because he felt it incumbent upon him to play a part he was not particularly fitted for in a somewhat delicate matter. Uncongenial as his task was, it was one that could not be left to Vane, who was even less to be trusted with the handling of such affairs; and Carroll had resolved, as he would have described it, to straighten out things.

His partner had somehow offended Evelyn, and though she was now obviously disposed to forgive him, the recollection of his supposititious iniquity might afterward rankle in her mind. Though Vane was innocent of any conduct to which she could with reason take exception, it was first of all needful to ascertain the exact nature of the charge against him. Carroll, who for several reasons had preferred not to press this question upon Evelyn, had a strong suspicion that Jessy Horsfield was at the bottom of the trouble. There was also one clue to follow—Vane had paid the rent of Celia Hartley's shack, and he wondered whether Jessy could by any means have heard of it. If she had done so, the matter would be simplified, for he had a profound distrust of her. A recent action of hers was, he thought, sufficient to justify this attitude.

He found her at home, reclining gracefully in an easy-chair in her drawing-room, and though she did not seem astonished to see him, he fancied that her expression hinted at suppressed concern.

"I heard that you had arrived alone, and I intended to make inquiries from Mrs. Nairn as soon as I thought she would be at liberty," she informed him.

Carroll had found the direct attack effective in Evelyn's case, and he determined to try it again.

"Then," he declared, "it says a good deal for your courage."

He never doubted that she possessed courage, and she displayed it now.

"So," she said calmly, "you have come as an enemy."

"Not exactly; it didn't seem worth while. Though there's no doubt you betrayed us—Vane waited for the warning you could have sent—so far as it concerns our ruined interests in the Clermont, the thing's done and can't be mended. We'll let that question go. The most important point is that if you had recalled us, as you promised, Vane would now be safe and sound."

This shot told. The girl's face became less imperturbable; there was eagerness and, he thought, a hint of fear in it.

"Then has any accident happened to him?"

"He's lying in the bush, helpless, in imminent peril of starvation."

"Go on!"

There were signs of strain clearly perceptible in the girl's voice. Carroll was brief, but he made her understand the position; then she turned upon him imperiously.

"Then why are you wasting your time here?"

"It's a reasonable question. I can't get a tug to take me back until noon to-morrow."

"Ah!" murmured Jessy. "Excuse me for a minute."

She left him astonished. He had not expected her to take him at a disadvantage, as she had done with her previous thrust, and now he did not think that she had slipped away to hide her feelings. That did not seem necessary in Jessy's case, though he believed she was more or less disturbed. She came back presently, looking calm, and sat down again.

"My brother will be here in a quarter of an hour," she informed him. "Things are rather slack, and he had half promised to take me for a drive. I have just called him up."

Carroll did not see how this bore upon the subject of their conversation, but he left her to take the lead.

"Did Mr. Vane tell you that I had promised to warn him?" she asked.

"To do him justice, he let it out before he quite realized what he was saying. I'd better own that I partly surprised him into giving me the information."

"The expedient seems a favorite one with you. I suppose no news of what has happened here can have reached him?"

"None. If it's any consolation, he has still an unshaken confidence in you," Carroll assured her with blunt bitterness.

The girl showed faint signs of confusion, but she sat silent for the next few moments. During that time it flashed upon Carroll with illuminating light that he had heard Celia Hartley say that Miss Horsfield had found her orders for millinery. This confirmed his previous suspicion that Jessy had discovered who had paid the rent of Celia's shack, and that she had with deliberate malice informed Evelyn, distorting her account so that it would tell against Vane. There were breaks in the chain of reasoning which led him to this conclusion, but he did not think that Jessy would shrink from such a course, and he determined to try a chance shot.

"Vane's inclined to be trustful, and his rash generosity has once or twice got him into trouble," he remarked, and went on as if an explanation were needed: "It's Miss Hartley's case I'm thinking about just now. I've an idea he asked you to look after her. Am I right?"

As soon as he had spoken he knew that he had hit the mark. Jessy did not openly betray herself, but there are not many people who can remain absolutely unmoved when unexpectedly asked a startling question. Besides, the man was observant, and had all his faculties strung up for the encounter. He saw one of her hands tighten on the arm of her chair and a hint of uneasiness in her eyes, and that sufficed him.

"Yes," she replied; "I recommended her to some of my friends. I understand that she is getting along satisfactorily."

Carroll felt compelled to admire her manner. He believed that she loved his comrade but had nevertheless tried to ruin him in a fit of jealous rage. She was, no doubt, now keenly regretting her success, but though he thought she deserved to suffer, she was bravely facing the trying situation. It was one that was rife with dramatic possibilities, and he was grateful to her for avoiding them.

"You are going back to-morrow," she said after a brief silence. "I suppose you will have to tell your partner—what you have discovered here—as soon as you reach him?"

Carroll had not intended to spare her, but now he felt almost compassionate, and he had one grain of comfort to offer.

"I must tell him that his shares in the Clermont have been sacrificed. I wonder if that is all you meant?"

Jessy met his inquiring gaze with something very much like an appeal, and then she spread out her hands in a manner that seemed to indicate that she threw herself upon his mercy.

"It is not all I meant," she confessed.

"Then if it's any relief to you, I'll confine myself to telling him that he has been deprived of his most valuable property. I dare say the news will hit him hard enough. He may afterward discover other facts for himself, but on the whole I shouldn't consider it likely. As I said, he's confiding and slow to suspect."

He read genuine gratitude, which he had hardly expected, in the girl's face; but he raised his hand and went on in the rather formal manner which he felt was the only safe one to assume:

"I had, perhaps, better mention that I am going to call on Miss Hartley. After that, I shall be uncommonly thankful to start back for the bush." He paused and concluded with a sudden trace of humor: "I'll own that I feel more at home with the work that awaits me there."

Jessy made a little gesture which, while it might have meant anything, was somehow very expressive. Just then there were footsteps outside and the next moment Horsfield walked into the room.

"So you're back!"

"Yes," Carroll replied shortly. "Beaten at both ends—there's no use in hiding it."

Horsfield showed no sign of satisfaction, and Carroll afterward admitted that the man behaved very considerately.

"Well," he declared, "though you may be astonished to hear it, I'm sorry. Unfortunately, our interests clashed, and I naturally looked after mine. Once upon a time I thought I could have worked hand in hand with Vane, but our ideas did not coincide, and your partner is not the man to yield a point or listen to advice."

Carroll was aware that Horsfield had by means which were far from honorable deprived him of a considerable portion of his possessions. He had also betrayed his fellow shareholders in the Clermont Mine, selling their interests, doubtless for a tempting consideration, to the directors of another company. For all that, Carroll recognized that since he and Vane were beaten, as he had confessed, recriminations and reproaches would be useless as well as undignified. He preferred to face defeat calmly.

"It's the fortunes of war," he returned. "What you say about Vane is more or less correct; but, although it is not a matter of much importance now, it was impossible from the beginning that your views and his ever should agree."

Horsfield smiled.

"Too great a difference of temperament? I dare say you're right. Vane measures things by a different standard—mine's perhaps more adapted to the market-place. But where have you left him?"

"In the bush. Miss Horsfield will, no doubt, give you particulars; I've just told her the tale."

"She called me up at the office and asked me to come across at once. Will you excuse us for a few minutes?"

They went out together, and Jessy presently came back alone and looked at Carroll in a diffident manner.

"I suppose," she began, "one could hardly expect you to think of either of us very leniently; but I must ask you to believe that I am sincerely distressed to hear of your partner's accident. It was a thing I could never have anticipated; but there are amends I can make. Every minute you can save is precious, isn't it?"

"It is."

"Then I can get you a tug. My brother tells me the Atlin is coming across from Victoria and should be here early this evening. He has gone back to the office to secure her for you, though she was fixed to go off for a lumber boom."

"Thank you," responded Carroll. "It's a very great service. She's a powerful boat."

Jessy hesitated.

"I think my brother would like to say a few words when he comes back. Can I offer you some tea?"

"I think not," answered Carroll, smiling. "For one thing, if I sit still much longer, I shall, no doubt, go to sleep again, as I did at Nairn's; and that would be neither seemly nor convenient, if I'm to sail this evening. Besides, now that we've arranged an armistice, it might be wiser not to put too much strain on it."

"An armistice?"

"I think that describes it." Carroll's manner grew significant. "The word implies a cessation of hostilities—on certain terms."

Jessy could take a hint, and his meaning was clear. Unless she forced him to do so, he would not betray her to his comrade, who might never discover the part she had played; but he had given her a warning, which might be bluntly rendered as "Hands off." There was only one course open to her—to respect it. She had brought down the man she loved, but it was clear that he was not for her, and now that the unreasoning fury which had driven her to strike had passed, she was troubled with contrition. There was nothing left except to retire from the field, and it was better to do so gracefully. For all that, there were signs of strain in her expression as she capitulated.

"Well," she said, "I have given you proof that you have nothing to fear from me. My brother is the only man in Vancouver who could have got you that tug for this evening; I understand that the sawmill people are very much in need of the lumber she was engaged to tow."

She held out her hand and Carroll took it, though he had not expected to part from her on friendly terms.

"I owe you a good deal for that," he smiled.

His task, however, was only half completed when he left the house, and the remaining portion was the more difficult, but he meant to finish it. He preferred to take life lightly; he had trifled with it before disaster had driven him out into the wilds; but there was resolution in the man, and he could force himself to play an unpleasant part when it was needful. Fortune also favored him, as she often does those who follow the boldest course.

He had entered a busy street when he met Kitty and Celia. The latter looked thin and somewhat pale, but she was moving briskly, and her face was eager when she shook hands with him.

"We have been anxious about you," she declared; "there was no news. Is Mr. Vane with you? How have you got on?"

"We found the spruce," answered Carroll. "It's not worth milling—a forest fire has wiped out most of it—but we struck some shingling cedar we may make something of."

"Where's Mr. Vane?"

"In the bush. I've a good deal to tell you about him; but we can't talk here. I wonder if we could find a quiet place in a restaurant, or if the park would be better."

"The park," said Kitty decidedly.

They reached it in due time, and Carroll, who had refused to say anything about Vane on the way, found the girls a seat in a grove of giant firs and sat down opposite to them. Though it was winter, the day, as is often the case near Vancouver, was pleasantly mild.

"Now," he began, "my partner is a singularly unfortunate person. In the first place, the transfer of the Clermont property, which you have no doubt heard of, means a serious loss to him, though he is not ruined yet. He talks of putting up a shingling mill, in which Drayton will be of service, and if things turn out satisfactorily you will be given an interest in it."

He added the last sentence as an experiment, and was satisfied with the result.

"Never mind our interests," cried Kitty. "What about Mr. Vane?"

For the third time since his arrival, Carroll made the strongest appeal he could to womanly pity, drawing, with a purpose, a vivid picture of his comrade's peril and suffering. Nor was he disappointed, for he saw consternation, compassion and sympathy in the girls' faces. So far, the thing had been easy, but now he hesitated, and it was with difficulty that he nerved himself for what must follow.

"He has been beaten out of his stock in the mine; he's broken down in health and in danger; but, by comparison, that doesn't count for very much with him. He has another trouble; and though I'm afraid I'm going out of the way in mentioning it, if it could be got over, it would help him to face the future and set him on his feet again."

Then he briefly recounted the story of Vane's regard for Evelyn, making the most of his sacrifice in withdrawing from the field, and again he realized that he had acted wisely. A love affair appealed to his listeners, and there was a romance in this one that heightened the effect of it.

"But Miss Chisholm can't mean to turn from him now," interrupted Celia.

Carroll looked at her meaningly.

"No; she turned from him before he sailed. She heard something about him."

His companions appeared astonished.

"She couldn't have heard anything that anybody could mind," Kitty exclaimed indignantly. "He's not that kind of man."

"It's a compliment," returned Carroll. "I think he deserves it. At the same time, he's a little rash, and now and then a man's generosity is open to misconception. In this case, I don't think one could altogether blame Miss Chisholm."

Kitty glanced at him sharply and then at Celia, who looked at first puzzled and then startled. Then the blood surged into Kitty's cheeks.

"Oh!" she gasped, as if she were breathless, "I was once afraid of something like this. You mean we're the cause of it?"

The course he followed was hateful to Carroll, but the tangle could not be straightened without having somebody's feelings hurt, and it was his comrade about whom he was most concerned.

"I believe that you understand the situation," he said quietly.

He saw the fire in Kitty's eyes and noticed that Celia's face also was flushed, but he did not think their anger was directed against him. They knew the world they lived in, and, for that matter, he could share their indignation. He resented the fact that a little thing should bring swift suspicion upon them. He was, however, not required to face any disconcerting climax. Indeed, it struck him as curious that a difficult situation in which strong emotion was stirred up could become so tamely prosaic merely because it was resolutely handled in a matter-of-fact manner.

"Well," inquired Celia, "why did you tell us this?"

"I think you both owe Vane something, and you can do him a great favor just now."

Kitty looked up at him.

"Don't ask me too much, Mr. Carroll. I'm Irish, and I feel like killing somebody."

"It's natural," responded Carroll with a sympathetic smile. "I've now and then felt much the same way; it's probably unavoidable in a world like this. However, I think you ought to call on Miss Chisholm, after I've gone, though you'd better not mention that I sent you. You can say you came for news of Vane—and add anything that you consider necessary."

The girls looked at each other, and at length, though it obviously cost her a struggle, Kitty said decidedly:

"We will have to go."

Then she faced round toward Carroll.

"If Miss Chisholm won't believe us, she'll be sorry we came!"

Carroll made her a slight inclination.

"She'll deserve it, if she's not convinced. But it might be better if you didn't approach her in the mood you're in just now."

Kitty rose, motioning to Celia, and Carroll turned back with them toward the city, feeling a certain constraint in their company and yet conscious of a strong relief. It had grown dark when he returned to Nairn's house.

"Where have ye been?" his host inquired. "I had a clerk seeking ye all round the city. I canna get ye a boat before the morn."

Carroll saw that Mrs. Nairn shared her husband's desire to learn how he had been occupied. Evelyn also was in the room, and she waited expectantly for his answer.

"There were one or two little matters that required attention and I managed to arrange them satisfactorily," he explained. "Among other things, I've got a tug, and I expect to sail in an hour or two. Miss Horsfield found me the vessel."

He noticed Evelyn's interest, and was rather pleased to see it. If she were disposed to be jealous of Jessy it could do no harm. Nairn, however, frowned.

"I'm thinking it might have been better if ye had no troubled Jessy," he commented.

"I'm sorry I can't agree with you," Carroll retorted. "The difference between this evening and noon to-morrow is a big consideration."

"Weel," replied Nairn resignedly; "I can no deny the thing, if ye look at it like that."

Carroll changed the subject; but some time later Mrs. Nairn sat down near him in the temporary absence of her husband and Evelyn.

"We will no be disturbed for two or three minutes," she said. "Ye answered Alic like a Scotsman before supper and put him off the track, though that's no so easy done."

Carroll grinned. He enjoyed an encounter with Mrs. Nairn, though she was, as a rule, more than a match for him.

"You're too complimentary," he declared. "The genuine Caledonian caution can't be acquired by outsiders; it's a gift."

"I'll no practise it now," returned the lady. "Ye're no so proud of yourself for nothing. What have ye been after?"

Carroll crossed his finger-tips and looked at her over them.

"Since you ask the question, I may say this—If Miss Chisholm has two lady visitors during the next few days, you might make sure that she sees them."

"What are their names?"

"Miss Celia Hartley, the daughter of the prospector who sent Vane off to look for the timber, and Miss Kitty Blake, who, as you have probably heard, once came down the west coast with him, in company with an elder lady and myself."

Mrs. Nairn started, then she looked thoughtful, and finally she broke into a smile of open appreciation.

"Now," she ejaculated, "I understand. I did no think it of ye. Ye're no far from a genius!"

"Thanks. I believe I succeeded better than I could have expected, and perhaps than I deserved."

They were interrupted then by Nairn, who came hastily into the room.

"There's one of the Atlin deck-hands below," he announced. "He's come on here from Horsfield's to say that the boat's ready with a full head of steam up, and the packers ye hired are waiting on the wharf."

Carroll rose and became in a moment intent and eager.

"Tell him I'll be down almost as soon as he is. You'll have to excuse me." Two minutes later he left the house, and fervent good wishes followed him from the party on the stoop. He did not stop to acknowledge them, but shortly afterward the blast of a whistle came ringing across the roofs from beside the water-front.



CHAPTER XXX

CONVINCING TESTIMONY

One afternoon three or four days after Carroll had sailed, Evelyn sat alone in Mrs. Nairn's drawing-room, a prey to confused regrets and keen anxiety. She had recovered from the first shock caused her by Carroll's news, but though she could face the situation more calmly, she could find no comfort anywhere—Vane was lying, helpless and famishing, in the frost-bound wilderness. She knew that she loved the man; indeed, she had really known it for some time, and it was that which had made Jessy's revelation so bitter. Now, fastidious in thought and feeling as she was, she wondered whether she had been too hard upon him; it was becoming more and more difficult to believe that he could have justified her disgust and anger; but this was not what troubled her most. She had sent him away with cold disfavor. Now he was threatened by dangers. It was horrible to think of what might befall him before assistance arrived, and yet she could not drive the haunting dread out of her mind.

She was in this mood when a maid announced that two visitors wished to see her; and when they were shown in, she found it difficult to hide her astonishment as she recognized in Kitty the very attractive girl she had once seen in Vane's company. It was this which prompted her to assume a chilling manner, though she asked her guests to be seated. Neither of them appeared altogether at her ease, and there was, indeed, a rather ominous sparkle in Kitty's blue eyes.

"Mr. Carroll was in town not long ago," Kitty began bluntly. "Have you had any news of him since he sailed?"

Evelyn did not know what to make of the question, and she answered coldly.

"No; we do not expect any word for some time."

"I'm sorry. We're anxious about Mr. Vane."

On the surface, the announcement appeared significant, but the girl's boldness in coming to her for news was inexplainable to Evelyn. Puzzled as she was, her attitude became more discouraging.

"You know him then?"

Something in her tone made Celia's cheeks burn and she drew herself up.

"Yes," she said; "we know him, both of us. I guess it's astonishing to you. But I met him first when he was poor, and getting rich hasn't spoiled Mr. Vane."

Evelyn was once more puzzled. The girl's manner savored less of assurance than of wholesome pride which had been injured. Kitty then broke in:

"We had no cards to send in; but I'm Kathleen Blake, and this is Celia Hartley—it was her father sent Mr. Vane off to look for the spruce."

"Ah!" exclaimed Evelyn, a little more gently, addressing Celia. "I understand that your father died."

Kitty flashed a commanding glance at Celia.

"Yes," the girl replied; "that is correct. He left me ill and worn out, without a dollar, and I don't know what I should have done if Mr. Vane hadn't insisted on giving Drayton a little money for me; on account, he said, because I was a partner in the venture. Then Miss Horsfield got some work among her friends for me to do at home. Mr. Vane must have asked her to; it would be like him."

Evelyn sat silent a few moments. Celia had given her a good deal of information in answer to a very simple remark; but she was most impressed by the statement that Jessy, who had prejudiced her against Vane, had helped the girl at his request. It was difficult to believe that she would have done so had there been any foundation for her insinuations. If Celia spoke the truth, and Evelyn somehow felt this was the case, the whole thing was extraordinary.

"Now," continued Celia, "it's no way astonishing that I'm grateful to Mr. Vane and anxious to hear whether Mr. Carroll has reached him." This was spoken with a hint of defiance, but the girl's voice changed.

"I am anxious. It's horrible to think of a man like him freezing in the bush."

Her concern was so genuine and yet somehow so innocent that Evelyn's heart softened.

"Yes," she asserted, "it's dreadful." Then she asked a question. "Who's the Mr. Drayton you mentioned?"

Kitty blushed becomingly; this was her lead.

"He's a kind of partner in the lumber scheme; I'm going to marry him. He's as firm a friend of Mr. Vane's as any one. There's a reason for that—I was in a very tight place once, left without money in a desolate settlement where there was nothing I could do, when Mr. Vane helped me. But perhaps that wouldn't interest you."

For a moment her doubts still clung to their hold in Evelyn's mind, and then she suddenly drove the last of them out, with a stinging sense of humiliation. She could not distrust this girl; it was Jessy's suggestion that was incredible.

"It would interest me very much," she declared.

Kitty told her story effectively, but with caution, laying most stress upon Vane's compassion for the child and her invalid mother. She was rather impressed by Miss Chisholm, but she supposed that she was endowed with some of the failing common to human nature.

Evelyn listened with confused emotions and a softened face. She was convinced of the truth of the simple tale, and the thought of Vane's keeping his moneyed friends and directors waiting in Vancouver in order that a tired child might rest and gather shells upon a sunny beach stirred her deeply. It was so characteristic; exactly what she would have expected him to do.

"Thank you," she said quietly, when Kitty had finished; and then, flinging off the last of her reserve, she asked a number of questions about Drayton and about Celia's affairs.

Before her visitors left, all three were on friendly terms; but Evelyn was glad when they took their departure. She wanted to be alone to think. In spite of the relief of which she was conscious, her thoughts were far from pleasant. Foremost among them figured a crushing sense of shame. She had wickedly misjudged a man who had given her many proofs of the fineness of his character; the evil she had imputed to him was born of her own perverted imagination. She was no better than the narrow-minded, conventional Pharisees she detested, who were swift to condemn out of the uncleanness of their self-righteous hearts. Then, as she began to reason, it flashed upon her that she was, perhaps, wronging herself. Her mind had been cunningly poisoned by an utterly unscrupulous and wholly detestable woman, and she flamed out into a fit of imperious anger against Jessy. She had a hazy idea that this was not altogether reasonable, for she was to some extent fastening the blame she deserved upon another person's shoulders; but it did not detract from the comfort the indulgence in her indignation brought her.

When she had grown a little calmer, Mrs. Nairn came in; and Mrs. Nairn was a discerning lady. It was not difficult to lead Evelyn on to speak of her visitors, for the girl's pride was broken and she felt in urgent need of sympathy; but when she had described the interview she felt impelled to avoid any discussion of the more important issues, even with the kindly Scotch lady.

"I was surprised at the girls' manner," she concluded. "It must have been embarrassing to them; but they were really so delicate over it, and they had so much courage."

Mrs. Nairn smiled.

"Although one of them has traveled with third-rate strolling companies and the other has waited in a hotel? Weel, maybe your surprise was natural. Ye canna all at once get rid of the ideas and prejudices ye were brought up with."

"I suppose that was it," replied Evelyn thoughtfully.

Her companion's eyes twinkled.

"Then, if ye're to live among us happily, ye'll have to try. In the way ye use the words, some of the leading men in this country were no brought up at all."

"Do you imagine that I'm going to live here?"

Mrs. Nairn gathered up one or two articles she had brought into the room with her and moved toward the door, but before she reached it she looked back with a laugh.

"It occurred to me that the thing was no altogether impossible."

An hour afterward, Evelyn and Mrs. Nairn went down into the town, and in one of the streets they came upon Jessy leaving a store. The latter was not lacking in assurance and she moved toward them with a smile; but Evelyn gazed at her with a total disregard of her presence and walked quietly on. There was neither anger nor disdain in her attitude; to have shown either would have been a concession she could not make. The instincts of generations of gently-reared Englishwomen were aroused, as well as the revulsion of an untainted nature from something unclean.

Jessy's cheeks turned crimson and a malevolent light flashed into her eyes as she crossed the street. Mrs. Nairn noticed her expression and smiled at her companion.

"I'm thinking it's as weel ye met Jessy after she had got the boat for Carroll," she commented.

The remark was no doubt justified, but the fact that Jessy had been able to offer valuable assistance failed to soften Evelyn toward her. It was merely another offense.

In the meanwhile, the powerful tug steamed northward, towing the sloop, which would be required, and after landing the rescue party at the inlet steamed away again. Before she had disappeared Carroll began his march, and his companions long remembered it. Two of them were accustomed to packing surveyors' stores through the seldom-trodden bush and the others had worked in logging camps and chopped new roads, but though they did not spare themselves, they lacked their leader's animus. Carroll, with all his love of ease, could rise to meet an emergency, and he wore out his companions before the journey was half done. He scarcely let them sleep; he fed them on canned stuff to save delay in lighting fires; and he grew more feverishly impatient with every mile they made. He showed it chiefly by the tight set of his lips and the tension of his face, though now and then when fallen branches or thickets barred the way he fell upon the obstacles with the ax in silent fury. For the rest, he took the lead and kept it, and the others, following with shoulders aching from the pack-straps and labored breath, suppressed their protests.

Like many another made in that country, it was a heroic journey; one in which every power of mind and body was taxed to the limit. Delay might prove fatal. The loads were heavy; fatigue seized the shrinking flesh, but the unrelenting will, trained in such adventures, mercilessly spurred it on. Toughened muscle is useful and in the trackless North can seldom be dispensed with; but man's strength does not consist of that alone: there are occasions when the stalwart fall behind and die.

In front of them, as they progressed, lay the unchanging forest, tangled, choked with fallen wreckage, laced here and there with stabbing thorns, appalling and almost impenetrable to the stranger. They must cleave their passage, except where they could take to the creek for an easier way and wade through stingingly cold water or flounder over slippery fangs of rock and ice-encrusted stones. There was sharp frost among the ranges and the brush through which they tore their way was generally burdened with clogging snow. They went on, however, and on the last day Carroll drew some distance ahead of those who followed him. It was dark when he discovered that he had lost them, but that did not matter, for now and then faint moonlight came filtering down and he was leaving a plain trail behind. His shoulders were bleeding beneath the biting straps; he was on the verge of exhaustion; but he struggled forward, panting heavily and rending his garments to rags as he smashed through the brakes in the darkness.

The night—it seemed a very long one—was nearly over when he recognized the roar of a rapid that rang in louder and louder pulsations across the snow-sprinkled bush. He was not far from the end now, and he became conscious of an unnerving fear. The ground was ascending sharply, and when he reached the top of the slope the question from which he shrank would be answered for him—if there should be no blink of light among the serried trunks, he would have come too late.

He reached the summit and his heart leaped; then he clutched at a drooping branch to support himself, shaken by a reaction that sprang from relief. A flicker of uncertain radiance fell upon the trees ahead, and down the bitter wind there came the reek of pungent smoke. The bush was slightly more open, and Carroll broke into a run. Presently he came crashing and stumbling into the light of the fire and then stopped, too stirred and out of breath to speak. Vane lay where the red glow fell upon his face, smiling up at him.

"Well," he said, "you've come. I've been expecting you, but on the whole I got along not so badly."

Carroll flung off his pack and sat down beside the fire; then he fumbled for his pipe and began to fill it hurriedly with trembling fingers. He lighted it and flung away the match before he spoke.

"Sorry I couldn't get through sooner," he mumbled. "The stores on board the sloop were spoiled; I had to go on to Vancouver. But there are things to eat in my pack."

"Hand it across. I haven't been faring sumptuously the last few days. No, sit still! I'm supple enough from the waist up."

He proved it by the way he leaned to and fro as he opened the pack and distributed part of its contents among the cooking utensils. Carroll assisted him now and then but he did not care to speak. The sight of the man's gaunt face and the eagerness in his eyes prompted him to an outbreak of feeling rather foreign to his nature, and he did not think his companion would appreciate it. When the meal was ready, Vane looked up at him.

"I've no doubt this journey cost you something—partner," he said.

Then they ate cheerfully, and Carroll, watching his friend's efforts with appreciation, told his story in broken sentences. Afterward, they lighted their pipes, but by and by Carroll's fell from his relaxing grasp.

"I can't get over this sleepiness," he explained. "I believe I disgraced myself in Vancouver by going off in the most unsuitable places,"

"I dare say it was quite natural. Anyway, hadn't you better hitch yourself a little farther from the fire?"

Carroll did so and lay still afterward, but Vane kept watch during the rest of the night, until in the dawn the packers appeared.



CHAPTER XXXI

VANE IS REINSTATED

Breakfast was over and the two men, wrapped in blankets, lay on opposite sides of the fire, while the packers reclined in various ungainly attitudes about another. Now that they had a supply of provisions, haste was not a matter of importance, and there was no doubt that the rescue party needed a rest. Carroll was aching all over and was somewhat disturbed in mind. He had not said anything about their financial affairs to his comrade yet, and the subject must be mentioned. It was, from every point of view, an unpleasant one.

"What about the Clermont?" Vane asked at length. "You needn't trouble about breaking the news—come right to the point."

"Then, to all intents and purposes, the company has gone under; it's been taken over by Horsfield's friends. Nairn has sold our stock—at considerably less than face value," Carroll explained, adding a brief account of the absorption of the concern.

Vane's face set hard.

"I anticipated something of the kind last night; I saw how you kept clear of the matter."

"But you said nothing."

"No. I'd had time to consider the thing while I lay here, and it didn't look as if I could have got an intelligible account out of you. But you may as well mention how much Nairn got."

He lay smoking silently for a few minutes after he learned the amount, and Carroll was strongly moved to sympathy. He felt that it was not the financial reverse but one indirect result of it which would hit his comrade hardest.

"Well," Vane said grimly, "I suppose I've done what my friends would consider a mad thing in coming up here—and I must face the reckoning."

Carroll wondered whether their conversation could be confined to the surface of the subject, because there were depths beneath it that it would be better to leave undisturbed.

"After all, you're far from broke," he encouraged him. "You have what the Clermont stock brought in, and you may make something out of this shingle scheme."

There was bitterness in Vane's laugh.

"When I left Vancouver for England I was generally supposed to be well on the way to affluence, and there was some foundation for the idea. I had floated the Clermont in the face of opposition; people believed in me; I could have raised what money I required for any new undertaking. Now a good deal of my money and all of my prestige is gone; people have very little confidence in a man who has shown himself a failure. What's more, I may be a cripple. My leg will probably have to be broken again."

Carroll could guess his companion's thoughts. There was a vein of stubborn pride in him, and he had, no doubt, decided it was unfitting that Evelyn's future should be linked to that of a ruined man. This was an exaggerated view, because Vane was in reality far from ruined, and even if he had been so, he had in him the ability to recover from his misfortunes. Still, the man was obstinate and generally ready to make a sacrifice for an idea. Carroll, however, consoled himself with the reflection that Evelyn would probably have something to say upon the subject if she were given an opportunity, and he felt certain that Mrs. Nairn would contrive that she had one.

"I can't see any benefit in making things out considerably worse than they are," he objected.

"Nor can I," Vane agreed. "After all, I was getting pretty tired of the city, and I suppose I can raise enough to put up a small-power mill. It will be a pleasant change to take charge for a year or two in the bush. I'll make a start at the thing as soon as I'm able to walk."

This was significant, as it implied that he did not intend to remain in Vancouver, where he would be able to enjoy Evelyn's company; but Carroll made no comment, and Vane soon spoke again.

"Didn't you mention last night that it was through Miss Horsfield that you got the tug? I was thinking about something else at the time."

"Yes. She made Horsfield put some pressure on the people who had previously hired the boat."

"That's rather strange."

For a moment he looked puzzled, but almost immediately his face grew impassive, and Carroll knew that he had some idea of Jessy's treachery. He was, however, sure that any suspicions his comrade entertained would remain locked up in his breast.

"I'm grateful to her, anyway," Vane added. "I dare say I could have held out another day or two, but it wouldn't have been pleasant."

Carroll began to talk about the preparations for their return, which he soon afterward set about making, and early the next morning they started for the sloop, carrying Vane upon a stretcher they had brought with them. Though they had to cut a passage for it every here and there, they reached the sloop in safety, and after some trouble in getting Vane below and onto a locker, Carroll decided to sail straight for Vancouver. They were favored with moderate, fair winds, and though the little vessel was uncomfortably crowded, she made a quick passage and stole in through the Narrows as dusk was closing down one tranquil evening.

Evelyn had spent the greater part of the afternoon on the forest-crested rise above the city, where she could look down upon the inlet. She had visited the spot frequently during the last few days, watching eagerly for a sail that did not appear. There had been no news of Carroll since the skipper of the tug reported having landed him, and the girl was tormented by doubts and anxieties. She had just come back and was standing in Mrs. Nairn's sitting-room, when she heard the tinkle of the telephone bell. A moment or two later her hostess entered hastily.

"It's a message from Alic," she cried. "He's heard from the wharf—Vane's sloop's crossing the harbor. I'll away down to see Carroll brings him here."

Evelyn turned to follow her, but Mrs. Nairn waved her back.

"No," she said firmly; "ye'll bide where ye are. See they get plenty lights on—at the stairhead and in the passage—and the room on the left of it ready."

She was gone in another moment, and Evelyn hastily carried out her instructions and then waited with what patience she could assume. At last there was a rattle of wheels outside, followed by a voice giving orders, and then a tramp of feet. The sounds brought her a strange inward shrinking, but she ran to the door, and saw two tattered men awkwardly carrying a stretcher up the steps, while Carroll and another assisted them. Then the light fell upon its burden and, half prepared as she was, she started in dismay. Vane, whom she had last seen in vigorous health, lay partly covered with an old blanket which had slipped off him to the waist. His jacket looked a mass of rags, his hat had fallen aside and his face showed hollow and worn and pinched. Then he saw her and a light leaped into his eyes, but the next moment Carroll's shoulder hid him and the men plodded on toward the stairs. They ascended them with difficulty and the girl waited until Carroll came down.

"I noticed you at the door. I dare say you were a little shocked at the change in Vane," he said. "What he has undergone has pulled him down, but if you had seen him when I first found him, you'd have been worse startled. He's getting on quite satisfactorily."

Evelyn was relieved to hear it; and Carroll continued:

"As soon as the doctor comes, we'll make him more presentable; he can't be moved till then, as I'm not sure about the last bandages I put on. Afterward, he'll no doubt hold an audience."

There was nothing to do but wait, and Evelyn again summoned her patience. Before long, a doctor arrived, and Carroll followed him to Vane's room. The invalid's face was very impassive, though Carroll waited in tense suspense while the doctor stripped off the bandages and bark supports from the injured leg. He examined it attentively, and then looked around at Carroll.

"You fixed that limb, when it was broken in the bush?" he asked.

"Yes," Carroll answered, with a desperate attempt to treat the matter humorously. "But I really think we both had a hand in the thing. My partner favored me with his views; I disclaim some of the responsibility."

"Then I guess you've been remarkably fortunate. Perhaps that's the best way of expressing it."

Vane raised his head and fixed his eyes upon the speaker.

"It won't have to be rebroken? I'll be able to walk without a limp?"

"It's most probable."

Vane's eyes glistened and he let his head fall back.

"It's good news; better than I expected. Now if you could fix me up again, I'd like to get dressed. I've felt like a hobo long enough."

The doctor smiled indulgently.

"We can venture to change that state of affairs, but I'll superintend the operation."

It was some time before Vane's toilet was completed, and then Carroll surveyed him with humorous admiration.

"It strikes me you do us credit; and now I suppose I can announce that you'll receive?"

Nairn and his wife and Evelyn came in. Nairn, shaking hands with Vane very heartily, looked down at him with twinkling eyes.

"I'd have been glad to see ye, however ye had come," he asserted, and Vane fully believed him. "For a' that, this is no the way I would have wished to welcome ye."

"When a man won't take his friends' advice, what can he expect?" retorted Vane.

Nairn nodded, smiling.

"Let it be a warning. If the making of your mark and money is your object, ye must stick to it and think of nothing else. Ye canna accumulate riches by spreading yourself, and philanthropy's no lucrative, except maybe to a few."

"It's good counsel, but I'm thinking that it's a pity," Mrs. Nairn remarked. "What would ye say, Evelyn?"

The girl was aware that the tone of light banter had been adopted to cover deeper feelings, which those present shrank from expressing; but she ventured to give her thoughts free rein.

"I agree with you in one respect," she said. "But I can't believe the object mentioned is Mr. Vane's only one. He would never be willing to pay the necessary price."

It was a delicate compliment uttered in all sincerity, and Vane's worn face grew warm. He was, however, conscious that it would be safer to avoid being serious, and he smiled.

"Well," he drawled, "looking for timber rights is apt to prove expensive, too. I had a haunting fear that I might be lame, until the doctor banished it. I'd better own that I'd no great confidence in Carroll's surgery."

Carroll, keeping strictly to the line the others had chosen, made him an ironical bow; but Evelyn was not to be deterred.

"It was foolish of you to be troubled," she declared. "It isn't a fault to be wounded in an honorable fight, and even if the mark remains, there is no reason why one should be ashamed of it."

Mrs. Nairn glanced at the girl rather sharply, but Carroll came to his comrade's relief.

"Strictly speaking, there wasn't a wound," he pointed out. "Fortunately, it was what is known as a simple fracture. If it had been anything else, I'm inclined to think I couldn't have treated it."

Nairn chuckled, as if this met with his approval; and his wife turned around as they heard a patter of footsteps on the stairs.

"Yon bell has kept on ringing ever since we came up," she complained. "I left word I was no to be disturbed. Weel"—as the door opened—"what is it, Minnie?"

"The reception room's plumb full," announced the maid, who was lately from the bush. "If any more folks come along, I sure won't know where to put 'em."

Now that the door was open, Evelyn could hear a murmur of voices on the floor below, and the next moment the bell rang violently again. It struck her as a testimonial to the injured man. Vane had not spent a long time in Vancouver, but he had the gift of making friends. Having heard of the sloop's arrival, they had come to inquire for him, and there was obviously a number of them.

Mrs. Nairn glanced interrogatively at Carroll.

"It does no look as if they could be got rid of by a message."

"I guess he's fit to see them," Carroll answered, "We'll hold a levee. If he'd only let me, I'd like to pose him a bit."

Mrs. Nairn, with Evelyn's assistance, did so instead, rearranging the cushions about the man, in spite of his confused and half-indignant protests; and during the next half-hour the room was generally full. People walked in, made sympathetic inquiries, or exchanged cheerful banter, until Mrs. Nairn forcibly dismissed the last of them. After this, she declared that Vane must go to sleep, and paying no heed to his assertion that he had not the least wish to do so, she led her remaining companions away.

A couple of hours had passed when she handed Evelyn a large tumbler containing a preparation of beaten eggs and milk.

"Ye might take him this and ask if he would like anything else," she said. "I'm weary of the stairs and I would no trust Minnie. She's handiest at spilling things."

Carroll grinned.

"It's the third and, I'd better say firmly, the limit."

Then he assumed an aggrieved expression as Evelyn moved off with the tray.

"I can't see why I couldn't have gone. I think I've discharged my duties as nurse satisfactorily."

"I canna help ye thinking," Mrs. Nairn informed him. "But I would point out that ye have now and then been wrong."

"That's a fact," Carroll confessed.

Evelyn fully shared his suspicions. Her hostess's artifice was a transparent one, but she nevertheless fell in with it. She had seen Vane only in the company of others; this might be the same again to-morrow; and there was something to be said. By intuition as much as reason, she recognized that there was something working in his mind; something that troubled him and might trouble her. It excited her apprehension and animated her with a desire to combat it. That she might be compelled to follow an unconventional course did not matter. She knew this man was hers—and she could not let him go.

She entered his room collectedly. He was lying, neatly dressed, upon a couch with his shoulders raised against the end of it, for he had thrown the cushions which supported him upon the floor. As she came in, he leaned down in an attempt to recover them, and finding himself too late looked up guiltily. The fact that he could move with so much freedom was a comfort to the girl. She set the tray down on a table near him.

"Mrs. Nairn has sent you this," she said, and the laugh they both indulged in drew them together.

Then her mood changed and her heart yearned over him. He had gone away a strong, self-confident, prosperous man, and he had come back defeated, broken in fortune and terribly worn. Her pity shone in her softening eyes.

"Do you wish to sleep?" she asked.

"No," Vane assured her; "I'd a good deal rather talk to you."

"I want to say something," Evelyn confessed. "I'm afraid I was rather unpleasant to you the evening before you sailed. I was sorry for it afterward; it was flagrant injustice."

"Then I wonder why you didn't answer the letter I wrote at Nanaimo."

"The letter? I never received one."

Vane considered this for a few moments.

"After all," he declared, "it doesn't matter now. I'm acquitted?"

"Absolutely."

The man's satisfaction was obvious, but he smiled.

"Do you know," he said, "I've still no idea of my offense?"

Evelyn was exceedingly glad to hear it, but a warmth crept into her face, and as the blood showed through the delicate skin he fixed his eyes upon her intently.

THE END