THE BLACK CREEK STOPPING-HOUSE

AND

OTHER STORIES

BY

NELLIE L. McCLUNG

Copyright, 1912

_To the Pioneer Women of the West, who made life tolerable, and evencomfortable, for the others of us; who fed the hungry, advised theerring, nursed the sick, cheered the dying, comforted the sorrowing, and performed the last sad rites for the dead;

The beloved Pioneer Women, old before their time with hard work, privations, and doing without things, yet in whose hearts there wasalways burning the hope of better things to come;

The godly Pioneer Women, who kept alive the conscience of theneighborhood, and preserved for us the best traditions of the race;

To these noble Women of the early days, some of whom we see no more, for they have entered into their inheritance, this book is respectfullydedicated by their humble admirer, The Author. _

"_Let me live in a house by the side of the road, and be a friend ofman_. "

CONTENTS

THE BLACK CREEK STOPPING-HOUSE--

CHAPTER I. The Old Trail II. The House of Bread III. The Sailors' Rest IV. Farm Pupils V. The Prairie Club-House VI. The Counter-Irritant VII. Ladies' Day at the Stopping-House VIII. Shadows of the Night IX. His Evil Genius X. Da's Turn XI. The Blizzard XII. When the Day Broke

THE RUNAWAY GRANDMOTHER

THE RETURN TICKET

THE UNGRATEFUL PIGEONS

YOU NEVER CAN TELL

A SHORT TALE OF A RABBIT

THE ELUSIVE VOTE

THE WAY OF THE WEST

THE BLACK CREEK STOPPING-HOUSE

CHAPTER I. 

_THE OLD TRAIL. _

When John Corbett strolled leisurely into the Salvation Army meeting inold Victoria Hall in Winnipeg that night, so many years ago now, theremay have been some who thought he came to disturb the meeting. 

There did not seem to be any atmospheric reason why Mr. Corbett oranyone else should be abroad, for it was a drizzling cold Novembernight, and the streets were muddy, as only Winnipeg streets in the olddays could be--none of your light-minded, fickle-hearted, changeablemud that is mud to-day and dust to-morrow, but the genuine, original, brush-defying, soap-and-water-proof, north star, burr mud, blacker thanlampblack, stickier than glue!

Mr. Corbett did not come to disturb the meeting. His reason forattending lay in a perfectly legitimate desire to see for himself whatit was all about, he being happily possessed of an open mind. 

Mr. Corbett would do anything once, and if he liked it he would do itagain. In the case of the Salvation Army meeting, he liked it. He likedthe music, and the good fellowship, and the swing and the zip of itall. More still, he liked the blue-eyed Irish girl who sold _War Crys_at the door. When he went in he bought one; when he came out he boughtall she had left. 

The next night Mr. Corbett was again at the meeting. On his way in hebought all the _War Crys_ the blue-eyed Irish girl had. Every minute heliked her better, and when the meeting was over and an invitation wasgiven to the anxious ones to "tarry awhile, " Mr. Corbett tarried. Whenthe other cases had been dismissed Mr. Corbett had a long talk with thecaptain in charge. 

Mr. Corbett was a gentleman of private means, though he was accustomedto explain his manner of making a livelihood, when questioned bymagistrates and other interested persons, by saying he was employed ina livery stable. When further pressed by these insatiably curiouspeople as to what his duties in the livery stable were, he alwaysdescribed his position as that of "chamber maid. " Here the magistratesand other questioners thought that Mr. Corbett was disposed to befacetious, but he was perfectly sincere, and he had described his workmore accurately than they gave him credit for. It might have been moreilluminative if he had said that in the livery stable of Pacer andKelly he did the "upstairs" work. 

It was a small but well appointed room in which Mr. Corbett worked. Ithad an unobtrusive narrow stairway leading up to it. The only furnitureit contained was several chairs and a round table with a well-concealeddrawer, which opened with a spring, and held four packs and an assortedvariety of chips! Its one window was well provided with a heavy blind. Here Mr. Corbett was able to accommodate any or all who felt that theywould like to give Fortune a chance to be kind to them. 

The night after Mr. Corbett had attended the Salvation Army meeting, his "upstairs" room was as dark inside as it always appeared to be onthe outside. Two anxious ones, whose money was troubling them, had tobe turned away disappointed. Mr. Corbett had left word downstairs thathe was going out. 

After Mr. Corbett had explained the situation to the Salvation Armycaptain, the captain took a day to consider. Then Mrs. Murphy, motherof Maggie Murphy who sold _War Crys_, was consulted. Mrs. Murphy hadlong been a soldier in the Army, and she had seen so many brandsplucked from the burning that she was not disposed to discourage Mr. Corbett in his new desire to "do diff'rent. "

Soon after this Mr. Corbett, in his own words, "pulled his freight"from the Brunswick Hotel, where he had been a long, steady boarder, andinstalled himself in the only vacant room in the Murphy house, havingread the black and white card in the parlor window, which proclaimed"Furnished Rooms and Table Board, " and regarding it as a providentialopportunity for him to see Maggie Murphy in action!

Having watched Maggie Murphy wait on table in the daytime and sell _WarCrys_ at night for a week or more, Mr. Corbett decided he liked hermethods. The way she poised a tray of teacups on her head proclaimedher a true artist. 

At the end of two weeks Mr. Corbett stated his case to Mrs. Murphy andMaggie. 

"I've a poor hand, " he declared; "but I am willing to play it out ifMaggie will sit opposite me and be my partner. I have only one gift--I'm handy with cards and I can deal myself three out of the four aces--but that's not much good to a man who tries to earn an honest living. Iam willing to try work--it may be all right for anything I know. IfMaggie will take me I'll promise to leave cards alone, and I'll dowhatever she thinks I ought to do. "

Maggie and her mother took a few days to consider. On one point theirminds were very clear. If Maggie "took" him, he could not keep any ofthe money he had won gambling--he would have to start honest. Mr. Corbett had, fortunately, arrived at the same conclusion himself, sothat point was easily disposed of. 

"It ain't for us to be hard on anyone that's tryin' to do better, " saidMaggie's mother, as she rolled out the crust for the dried-apple pies. "He's wasted his substance, and wasted his days, but who knows but theLord can use him yet to His honor and glory. The Lord ain't like us, havin' to wait until He gets everything to His own likin', but He cango ahead with whatever comes to His hand. He can do His work with poortools, and it's well for Him He can, and well for us, too. "

Maggie Murphy and John Corbett were married. 

John Corbett got a job at once as teamster for a transfer company, andMaggie followed her mother's example and put a sign of "Table Board" inthe window. They lived in this way for ten years, and in spite of thedismal prognostications of friends, John Corbett worked industriously, and did not show any desire to return to his old ways! When he said hewould do what Maggie told him it was not the rash promise of an eagerlover, for Mr. Corbett was never rash, and the subsequent years showedthat his purpose was honest to fulfil it to the letter. 

Maggie, being many years his junior, could not think of addressing himby his first name, and she felt that it was not seemly to use theprefix, so again she followed her mother's example, and addressed himas her mother did Murphy, senior, as "Da. "

It was in the early eighties that Maggie and John Corbett decided tocome farther west. The cry of free land for the asking was coming tomany ears, and at Maggie's table it was daily discussed. They sold outthe contents of their house, and, purchasing oxen and a covered wagon, they made the long overland journey. On the bank of Black Creek theypitched their tent, and before a week had gone by Maggie Corbett wasgiving meals to hungry men, cooking bannocks, frying pork, and makingcoffee on her little sheet-iron camp-stove, no bigger than a biscuit-box. 

The next year, when the railroad came to Brandon, and the wheat wasdrawn in from as far south as Lloyd's Lake, the Black Creek Stopping-House became a far-famed and popular establishment. 

CHAPTER II. 

_THE HOUSE OF BREAD_. 

Across the level plain which lies between the valley of the Souris andthe valley of the Assiniboine there ran, at this time, three trails. There was the deeply-rutted old Hudson Bay trail, over which went thefabulously heavy loads of fur long ago--grass-grown now and broken withbadger holes; there was "the trail, " hard and firm, in the full prideof present patronage, defying the invasion of the boldest blade ofgrass; and by the side of it, faint and shadowy, like a rainbow'sunderstudy, ran "the new trail, " strong in the certainty of being thetrail in time. 

For miles across the plain the men who follow the trail watch the steepoutlying shoulder of the Brandon Hills for a landmark. When they leavethe Souris valley the hills are blue with distance and seem to promisewooded slopes, and maybe leaping streams, but a half-day's journeydispels the illusion, for when the traveller comes near enough to seethe elevation as it is, it is only a rugged bluff, bald and bare, andblotched with clumps of mangy grass, with a fringe of stunted poplar atthe base. 

After rounding the shoulder of the hill, the thick line of poplars andelms which fringe the banks of Black Creek comes into view, and many aman and horse have suddenly brightened at the sight, for in the shelterof the trees there stands the Black Creek Stopping-House, which is thehalf-way house on the way to Brandon. Hungry men have smelled the baconfrying when more than a mile away, and it is only the men who followthe trail who know what a heartsome smell that is. The horses, too, tired with the long day, point their ears ahead and step livelier whenthey see the whitewashed walls gleaming through the trees. 

The Black Creek Stopping-House gave not only food and shelter to themen who teamed the wheat to market--it gave them good fellowship andcompanionship. In the absence of newspapers it kept its guests abreastwith the times; events great and small were discussed there withimpartial deliberation, and often with surprising results. Actions andevents which seemed quite harmless, and even heroic, when discussedalong the trail, often changed their complexion entirely when Mrs. Maggie Corbett let in the clear light of conscience on them, for evenon the very edge of civilization there are still to be found finger-posts on the way to right living. 

Mrs. Maggie Corbett was a finger-post, and more, for a finger-postmerely points the way with its wooden finger, and then, figuratively, retires from the scene to let you think it over; but Maggie Corbettcontinued to take an interest in the case until it was decided to herentire satisfaction. 

Black Creek, on whose wooded bank the Stopping-House stands, is a deepblack stream which makes its way leisurely across the prairie betweensteep banks. Here and there throughout its length are little shallowstretches which show a golden braid down the centre like any peacefulmeadow brook where children may with safety float their little boats, but Black Creek, with its precipitous holes, is no safe companion forany living creature that has not webbed toes or a guardian angel. 

The banks, which are of a spongy black loam, grow a heavy crop ofcoarse meadow grass, interspersed in the late summer with the umbrella-like white clusters of water hemlock. 

 * * * * *

About a mile from the Stopping-House there stood a strange logstructure, the present abode of Reginald and Randolph Brydon, late ofH. M. Navy, but now farmers and homesteaders. The house was built inthat form of architecture known as a "Red River frame, " and the cornerswere finished in the fashion called "saddle and notch. "

Whatever can be done to a house to spoil its appearance had been doneto this one. There was a "join" in each side, which was intended, and abulge which was accidental, and when the sailor brothers were unable tomake a log lie comfortably beside its neighbor by using the axe, theyresorted to long iron spikes, and when these split the logs, as wasusually the case, they overcame the difficulty by using ropes. 

What had brought the Brydon brothers to Manitoba was a matter ofconjecture in the Black Creek neighborhood. Some said they probablywere not wanted at home; others, with deeper meaning, said theyprobably _were_ wanted at home; and, indeed, their bushy eyebrows, their fierce black eyes, the knives which they carried in their belts, and their general manner of living, gave some ground to thisinsinuation. 

The Brydon brothers did not work with that vigor and zeal which bringssuccess to the farmer. They began late and quit early, with numerousrests in between. They showed a delightfully child-like trust in Natureand her methods, for in the springtime, instead of planting theirpotatoes in the ground the way they saw other people doing it, theysprinkled them around the "fireguard, " believing that the birds of theair strewed leaves over them, or the rain washed them in, or in somemysterious way they made a bed for themselves in the soil. 

They bought a cow from one of the neighbors, but before the summer wasover brought her back indignantly, declaring that she would give nomilk. Randolph declared that he knew she had it, for she had plenty thelast time he milked her, and that was several days ago--she should havemore now. It came out in the evidence that they only took from the cowthe amount of milk that they needed, reasoning that she had a betterway of keeping it than they had. The cow's former owner exonerated herfrom all blame in the matter, saying that "Rosie" was all right as acow; but, of course, she was "no bloomin' refrigerator!"

There was only one day in the week when the Brydon brothers could workwith any degree of enjoyment, and that was on Sunday, when there wasthe added zest of wickedness. To drive the oxen up and down the fieldin full view of an astonished and horrified neighborhood seemed to takeaway in large measure from the "beastliness of labor, " and then, too, the Sabbath calm of the Black Creek valley seemed to stimulate theirimagination as they discoursed loudly and elaborately on the presentand future state of the oxen, consigning them without hope of releaseto the remotest and hottest corner of Gehenna. But the complacent oldoxen, graduates in the school of hard knocks and mosquitoes, winkedsolemnly, switched their tails and drowsed along unmoved. 

The sailors had been doing various odd jobs around the house on Sundaysever since they came, but had not worked openly until one particularSunday in May. All day they hoped that someone would come and stop themfrom working, or at least beg of them to desist, but the hot afternoonwore away, and there was no movement around any of the houses on theplain. The guardian of the morals of the neighborhood, Mrs. MaggieCorbett, had taken notice of them all right, but she was a wise womanand did not use militant methods until she had tried all others; andshe believed that she had other means of teaching the sailor twins theadvantages of Sabbath observance. 

About five o'clock the twins grew so uproariously hungry they werecompelled to quit their labors, but when they reached their house theywere horrified to find that a wandering dog, who also had no respectfor the Sabbath, had depleted their "grub-box, " overlooking nothing butthe tea and sugar, which he had upset and spilled when he found he didnot care to eat them. 

Then it was the oxen's turn to laugh, for the twins' wrath was allturned upon each other. Everything that they had said about the oxen, it seemed, was equally true of each other--each of them had confidentlyexpected the other one to lock the door. 

There was nothing to do but to go across to the Black Creek Stopping-House for supplies. Mrs. Corbett baked bread for them each week. 

Reginald, with a gun on his shoulder, and rolling more than ever in hiswalk, strolled into the kitchen of the Stopping-House and made knownhis errand. He also asked for the loan of a neck-yoke, having brokenhis in a heated argument with the "starboard" ox. 

Mrs. Corbett, with a black dress and white apron on, sat, with foldedhands, in the rocking-chair. "Da" Corbett, with his "other clothes" onand his glasses far down on his nose, sat in another rocking-chairreading the life of General Booth. Peter Rockett, the chore boy, in aclean pair of overalls, and with hair-oil on his hair, sat on the edgeof the wood-box twanging a Jew's-harp, and the tune that he played borea slight resemblance to "Pull for the Shore. "

Randolph felt the Sunday atmosphere, but, nevertheless, made known hiserrand. 

"The bread is yours, " said Mrs. Corbett, sternly; "you may have it, butI can't bake any more for you!"

"W'y not?" asked Reginald, feeling all at once hungrier than ever. 

"Of course I am not saying you can help it, " Mrs. Corbett went on, ignoring his question. "I suppose, maybe, you do the best you can. Ibelieve everybody does, if we only knew it, and you haven't had a verygood chance either, piratin' among the black heathen in the islands ofthe sea; but the Bible speaks plain, and old Captain Coombs often toldus not to be unequally yoked with unbelievers, and I can't encourageSunday-breakin' by cookin' for them that do it!"

"We weren't breakin', really we were only back-settin', " interposedReginald, quickly. 

"I don't wish to encourage Sabbath-breakin', " repeated Mrs. Corbett, raising her voice a little to prevent interruptions, "by bakin' forpeople who do it, or neighborin' with people who do it. Of course thereare some who say that the amount of work that you and your brother doany day would not break the Sabbath. " Here she looked hard at her man, John Corbett, who stirred uneasily. "But there is no mistakin' yourmeanin', and besides, " Mrs. Corbett went on, "we have others besidesourselves to think of--there's the child, " indicating the lanky PeterRockett. 

The "child" thus alluded to closed one eye--the one farthest from Mrs. Corbett--for a fraction of a second, and kept on softly teasing theJew's-harp. 

"Now you need not glare at me so fierce, you twin. " Mrs. Corbett'svoice was still full of Sunday calm. "I do not know which one of youyou are, but anyway what I say applies to you both. Now take that lookoff your face and stay and eat. I'll send something home to your otherone, too. "

Having delivered her ultimatum on the subject of Sunday work, Mrs. Corbett became quite genial. She heaped Reginald's plate with coldchicken and creamed potatoes, and, mellowed by them and the comfort ofher well-appointed table, he was prepared to renounce the devil and allhis works if Mrs. Corbett gave the order. 

CHAPTER III. 

_THE SAILORS' REST_. 

When Reginald reached home he found his brother in a state of mindbordering on frenzy, but when he shoved the basket which Mrs. Corbetthad filled for him toward Randolph with the unnecessary injunction to"stow it in his hold, " the lion's mouth was effectively closed. When hehad finished the last crumb Reginald told him Mrs. Corbett's decreeregarding Sunday work, and found that Randolph was prepared to abstainfrom all forms of labor on all days in the week if she wished it. 

That night, after the twins had washed the accumulated stock of dishes, and put patches on their overalls with pieces of canvas and a sailneedle, and performed the many little odd jobs which by all acceptedrules of ethics belong to Sunday evening's busy work, they sat besidethe fire and indulged in great depression of spirits!

"She can't live forever, " Reginald broke out at last with apparentirrelevance. But there was no irrelevance--his remark was perfectly inorder. 

He was referring to a dear aunt in Bournemouth. This lady, who waspossessed of "funds, " had once told her loving nephews--the twins--thatif they would go away and stay away she might--do something for them--by and by. She had urged them so strongly to go to Canada that theycould not, under the circumstances, do otherwise. Aunt Patience Brydonshared the delusion that is so blissfully prevalent among parents andguardians of wayward youth in England, that to send them to Canada willwork a complete reformation, believing that Canada is a good, kindwilderness where iced tea is the strongest drink known, and where nomore exciting game than draughts is ever played. 

Aunt Patience, though a frail-looking little white-haired lady, had, itseemed, a wonderful tenacity of life. 

"She'll slip her cable some day, " Reginald declared soothingly. "Shecan't hold out much longer--you know the last letter said she wasfailin' fast. "

"Failin' fast!" Randolph broke in impatiently. "It's us that's failin'fast! And maybe when we've waited and waited, and stayed away for 'er, she'll go and leave it all to some Old Cats' 'Ome or Old Hens' Roost, or some other beastly charity. I don't trust 'er--'any woman that 'oldson to life the way she does--'er with one foot in the grave, and 'erwill all made and everything ready. "

"Well, she can't last always, " Reginald declared, holding firmly tothis one bit of comfort. 

The next news they got from Bournemouth was positively alarming! Shewas getting better. Then the twins lost hope entirely and decided totreat Aunt Patience as one already dead--figuratively speaking, to turnher picture to the wall. 

"Let her live as long as she likes, " Reginald declared, "if she's sojolly keen on it!"

When they decided to trust no more to the deceitfulness of woman theyturned to another quarter for help, for they were, at this time, "uncommonly low in funds. "

It was Randolph who got the idea, one day when he was sitting on theplow handle lighting his pipe. 

"Wot's the matter with us gettin' out Fred for our farm pupil? He's gotsome money--they say he married a rich man's daughter--and we've gotthe experience!"

"He's only a 'alf-brother!" said Reginald, at last, reflectively. 

"That don't matter one bit to me, " declared Randolph, generously, "I'lltreat him just the same as I would you!"

Reginald shrugged his shoulders eloquently. 

"What about his missus?" asked Reginald, after a silence. 

"She can come, " Randolph said, magnanimously. "We'll build a piece tothe house. "

The more they talked about it the more enthusiastic they became. Underthe glow of this new project they felt they could hurl contempt on AuntPatience and her unnatural hold on life. 

"I don't know but what I would rather take 'elp from the livin' thanthe dead, anyway, " Reginald said, virtuously, that night before theywent to bed. 

"They're more h'apt to ask it back, just the same, " objected Randolph. 

"I was just goin' to say, " Reginald began again, "that I'd just as soontake 'elp from the livin' as the dead, especially when there ain't nodead!"

They began at once to write letters to their long-neglected brotherFred, enthusiastically setting forth the charms of this new country. They dwelt on the freedom of the life, the abundance of game, and theview! They made a great deal of the view, and certainly there wasnothing to obstruct it, for the prairie lay a dead level for ten milesnorth of them, only dotted here and there with little weather-bleachedwarts of houses like their own, where other optimists were trying tomake a dint in the monotony. 

The letters which went east every mail were splendid productions intheir way, written with ease and eloquence, and utterly untrammeled byany regard for facts. 

Their brother responded just as they hoped he would, and the twins weregreatly delighted with the success of their plan. 

Events of which the twins knew nothing favored their project and madeFred and his wife glad to leave Toronto. Evelyn Grant had bitterlyestranged her father by marrying against his wishes. So the proposalfrom Randolph and Reginald that they come West and take the homesteadnear them seemed to offer an escape from much that was unpleasant. Besides, it was just at the time when so many people were hearing thecall of the West. 

At the suggestion of his brothers, Fred sent in advance the money tobuild a house on his homestead. But the twins, not wishing to make anymistake, or to have any misunderstanding with Fred, built it rightbeside their own. Fred sent enough money to have a frame building putup but the twins decided that logs were more romantic and cheaper. Itwas a remarkable structure when they were through with it, stuckagainst their own house, as if by accident, and resembling in itsirregularity the growth of a freak potato. Cables were freely used;binder twine served as hinges on the doors and also as latches. 

They gave as a reason for sticking the new part against their ownirregularly that they intended to use the alcoves for verandahs!

They agreed to put in Fred's crop for him--for a consideration; to putup hay; to buy oxen. Indeed, so many kindly offices did they agree toperform for him that Fred had advanced them, in all, nearly twothousand dollars. 

The preparations were watched with great interest by the neighbors, andthe probable outcome of it all was often a topic of conversation at theBlack Creek Stopping-House. 

CHAPTER IV. 

_FARM PUPILS_. 

June in Manitoba, when the tender green of grass and leaf is bathed inthe sparkling sunshine; when the first wild roses are spilling theirperfume on the air, and the first orange lilies are lifting their gladfaces to the sun; when the prairie chicken, intent on family cares, runs cautiously beside the road, and the hermit thrushes from thethickets drive their sweet notes into the quiet evening. It is a timeto remember lovingly and with sweet gratitude; a time when the love ofthe open prairie overtakes us, and binds us fast in golden fetters. There is no hint of the cruel winter that is waiting just around thecorner, or of the dull autumn drizzle closer still; there is nothingbut peace and warmth and beauty. 

As the old "Cheyenne, " the only sidewheeler on the Assiniboine, churning the muddy water into creamy foam, made its way to the greenshore at Curry's Landing, Fred and Evelyn Brydon, standing on thenarrow deck, felt the grip of the place and the season. Even thecaptain's picturesque language, as he directed the activities of the"rousters" who pulled the boat ashore, seemed less like profanity andmore like figure of speech. 

The twins had made several unfruitful journeys to the Landing for theirbrother and his wife, for they began to go two days before the"Cheyenne" was expected, and had been going twice a day since, all ofwhich had been carefully entered in their account book!

Their appearance as they stood on the shore, sneering at the captain'sdirections to his men from the superior height of their nauticalexperience, was warlike in the extreme, although they were clothed inthe peaceful overalls and smock of the farmer and also had submitted toa haircut at the earnest instigation of Mrs. Corbett, who threatened tocut off all bread-making unless her wishes were complied with!

Evelyn, who had never seen her brothers-in-law, looked upon them now inwonder, and she could see their appearance was somewhat of a surpriseto Fred, who had not seen them for many years, and who remembered themonly as the heroes of his childhood days. 

They greeted Fred hilariously, but to his wife they spoke timidly, for, brave as they were in facing Spanish pirates, they were timid to thepoint of flight in the presence of women. 

As they drove home in the high-boxed wagon, the twins endeavored tokeep up the breezy enthusiasm that had characterized their letters. They raved about the freedom of the West; they went into fresh rapturesover the view, and almost deranged their respiratory organs in theirpraises of the air. They breathed in deep breaths of the ambientatmosphere, chewed it up with loud smacks of enjoyment, and then blewit out, snorting like whales. Evelyn, who was not without a sense ofhumor, would have enjoyed it all, and laughed _at_ them, even if shecould not laugh with them, if she could have forgotten that they wereher husband's brothers, but it is very hard to see the humorous in thegrotesque behavior of those to whom we are "bound by the ties of duty, "if not affection. 

A good supper at the Black Creek Stopping-House and the heartyhospitality of Mrs. Corbett restored Evelyn's good spirits. Shenoticed, too, that the twins tamed down perceptibly in Mrs. Corbett'spresence. 

Mrs. Corbett insisted on Fred and his wife spending the night at theStopping-House. 

"Don't go to your own house until morning, " she said. "Things look alot different when the sun is shining, and out here, you see, Mrs. Fred, we have to do without and forget so many things that we bank alot on the sun. You people who live in cities, you've got gas and biglamps, and I guess it doesn't bother you much whether the sun rises ordoesn't rise, or what he does, you're independent; but with us it isdifferent. The sun is the best thing we've got, and we go by himconsiderable. Providence knows how it is with us, and lets us have lotsof the sun, winter and summer. "

Evelyn gladly consented to stay. 

Mrs. Corbett, observing Evelyn's soft white hands, decided that she wasnot accustomed to work, and the wonder of how it would all turn out washeavy upon her kind Irish heart as she said goodbye to her nextmorning. 

A big basket of bread and other provisions was put into the wagon atthe last minute. "Maybe your stove won't be drawin' just right at thefirst, " said Maggie Corbett, apologetically. As she watched Evelyn'shat of red roses fading in the distance she said softly to herself:"Sure I do hope it's true that He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, tho' there's some that says that ain't in the Bible at all. But itsounds nice and kind anyway, and yon poor lamb needs all the help Hecan give her. Him and me, we'll have to do the best we can for her!"

Mrs. Corbett went over to see her new neighbor two or three days after. In response to her knock on the rough lumber door, a thin little voicecalled to her to enter, which she did. 

On the bare floor stood an open trunk from which a fur-trimmed palepink opera cloak hung carelessly. Beside the trunk in an attitude ofhomesickness huddled the young woman, hair dishevelled, eyes red. Herdress of green silk, embroidered stockings and beaded slippers lookedout of place and at variance with her primitive surroundings. 

When Mrs. Corbett entered the room she sprang up hastily and apologizedfor the untidiness of her house. She chattered gaily to hide thetrouble in her face, and Mrs. Corbett wisely refrained from anyapparent notice of her tears, and helped her to unpack her trunks andset the house to rights. 

Mrs. Corbett showed her how to make a combined washstand and clothespress out of two soap boxes, how to make a wardrobe out of the head ofthe bed, and set the twin sailors at the construction of a cookhousewhere the stove could be put. 

When Mrs. Corbett left that afternoon it was a brighter and moreliveable dwelling. Coming home along the bank of Black Creek, she wastroubled in mind and heart for her new neighbor. 

"This is June, " she said to herself, "and wild roses are crowdin' up toher door, and the meadow larks are sittin' round all over blinkin' atthe sun, and she has her man with her, and she ain't tired with thework, and her hands ain't cracked and sore, and she hasn't been therelong enough to dislike the twins the way she will when she knows thembetter, and there's no mosquitoes, and she hasn't been left to stayalone, and still she cries! God help us! What will she do in the longdrizzle in the fall, when the wheat's spoilin' in the shock maybe, andthe house is dark, and her man's away--what _will_ she do?"

Mrs. Brydon spent many happy hours that summer at the Stopping-House, and soon Mrs. Corbett knew all the events of her past life; thesympathetic understanding of the Irish woman made it easy for her totell many things. Her mother had died when she was ten years old, andsince then she had been her father's constant companion until she metFred Brydon. 

She could not understand, and so bitterly resented, her father'sdislike of Fred, not knowing that his fond old heart was torn withjealousy. She and her father were too much alike to ever arrive at anunderstanding, for both were proud and quick-tempered and imperious, and so each day the breach grew wider. Just a word, a caress, anassurance from her that she loved him still, that the new love had notdriven out the old, would have set his heart at rest, but with thecruel thoughtlessness of youth she could see only one side of theaffair, and that her own. 

At last she ran away and was married to the young man, whom her fatherhad never allowed her to bring to see him, and the proud old man wasleft alone in his dreary mansion, brooding over what he called theheartlessness of his only child. 

Mrs. Corbett, with her quick understanding, was sorry for both of them, and at every opportunity endeavored to turn Evelyn's thoughts towardshome. Once, at her earnest appeal, after she had got the young womantelling her about how kind her father had been to her when her motherdied, Evelyn consented to write him a letter, but when it was finished, with a flash of her old imperious pride, she tore it across and flungthe pieces on the floor, then hastily gathered them up and put them inthe stove. 

One half sheet of the letter did not share the fate of the remainder, for Mrs. Corbett intercepted it and hastily hid it in her apron pocket. She might need it, she thought. 

CHAPTER V. 

_THE PRAIRIE CLUB-HOUSE. _

The tender green of the early summer deepened and ripened into thegolden tinge of autumn as over the Black Creek Valley the mantle ofharvest was spread. 

Only a small portion of the valley was under cultivation, for theoldest settler had been in only for three years; but it seemed as ifevery grain sowed had fallen upon good soil and gave promise of thehundredfold. 

Across John Corbett's ten acres of wheat and forty acres of oats thewind ran waves of shadow all day long, and the pride of the land-ownerthrilled Maggie Corbett's heart over and over again. 

Not that the lady of the Stopping-House took the time to stand aroundand enjoy the sensation, for the busy time was coming on and manytravellers were moving about and must be fed. But while she scraped thenew potatoes with lightning speed, or shelled the green peas, all ofher own garden, her thoughts were full of that peace and reverentgratitude that comes to those who plant the seed and see it grow. 

It was a glittering day in early August; a light shower the nightbefore had washed the valley clean of dust, and now the hot harvest sunpoured down his ripening rays over the pulsating earth. To the souththe Brandon Hills shimmered in a pale gray mirage. Over the trees whichsheltered the Stopping-House a flock of black crows circled in the blueair, croaking and complaining that the harvest was going to be late. Onthe wire-fence that circled the haystack sat a row of red-wingedblackbirds like a string of jet beads, patiently waiting for the oatsto ripen and indulging in low-spoken but pleasant gossip about all theother birds in the valley. 

Within doors Mrs Corbett served dinner to a long line of stoppers. Manyof the "boys" she had not seen since the winter before, and while sheworked she discussed neighborhood matters with them, the pleasingsizzle of eggs frying on a hot pan making a running accompaniment toher words. 

The guests at Mrs. Corbett's table were a typical pioneer group--homesteaders, speculators, machine men journeying through the countryto sell machinery to harvest the grain not yet grown; the farmer hasever been well endowed with hope, and the machine business flourishes. 

Mrs. Corbett could talk and work at the same time, her suddendisappearances from the room as she replenished the table merelyserving as punctuation marks, and not interfering with the thread ofthe story at all. 

When she was compelled by the exigencies of the case to be present inthe kitchen, and therefore absent in the dining-room, she merelyelevated her voice to overcome distance, and dropped no stitch in theconversation. 

"New neighbor, is it, you are sayin', Tom? 'Deed and I have, and herthe purtiest little trick you ever saw--diamond rings on her, and silkskirts, and plumes on her hat, and hair as yalla as gold. "

"When she comes over here I can't be doin' my work for lookin' at her. She was brought up with slathers of money. " This came back from the"cheek of the dure", where Mrs. Corbett was emptying the tea leaves fromthe teapot. "But the old man, beyant, ain't been pleased with her sinceshe married this Fred chap--he wouldn't ever look at Fred, nor let himcome to the house, and so she ran away with him, and no one could blameher either for that, and now her and the old man don't write at all, atall--reach me the bread plate in front of you there, Jim--and there'sbad blood between them. I can see, though, her and the old man are fondo' one another!"

"Is her man anything like the twin pirates?" asked Sam Moggey from OakCreek; "because if he is I don't blame the old man for being mad aboutit. " Sam was helping himself to another quarter of vinegar pie as hespoke. 

Mrs. Corbett could not reply for a minute, for she was putting a newbandage on Jimmy MacCaulay's finger, and she had the needle and threadin her mouth. 

"Not a bit like them, Sam, " she said, as soon as she had the bandage inplace, and as she put in quick stitches; "no more like them than day islike night--he's only a half-brother, and a lot younger. He's adifferent sort altogether from them two murderin' villains that sits inthe house all day playin' cards. He's a good, smart fellow, and hasdone a lot of breakin' and cleanin' up since he came. What he thinks ofthe other two lads I don't know--she never says, but I'd like fine toknow. "

"Sure, you'll soon know then, Maggie, " said "Da" Corbett, bringing inanother platter of bacon and eggs and refilling the men's plates. "Don't worry. "

In the laugh that followed Maggie Corbett joined as heartily as any ofthem. 

"Go 'long with you, Da!" she cried; "sure you're just as anxious as Iam to know. We all think a lot of Fred and Mrs. Fred, " she went on, bringing in two big dishes of potatoes; "and if you could see thatpoor, precious lamb trying to cook pork and beans with a little wisp ofan apron on, all lace and ribbons, and big diamonds on her fingers, you'd be sorry for her, and you'd say, 'What kind of an old tyrant isthe old man down beyant, and why don't he take her and Fred back?' It'snot wrastlin' round black pots she should be, and she's never been anyplace all summer only over here, for they've only the oxen, and altho'she never says anything, I'll bet you she'd like a bit of a drive, orto get out to some kind of a-doin's, or the like of that. "

While Mrs. Corbett gaily rattled on there was one man at her table whoapparently took no notice of what she said. 

He was a different type of man from all the others. Dark complexioned, with swarthy skin and compelling black eyes, he would be noticeable inany company. He was dressed in the well-cut clothes of a city man, andcarried himself with a certain air of distinction. 

Happening to notice the expression on his face, Mrs. Corbett suddenlychanged the conversation, and during the remainder of the meal watchedhim closely with a puzzled and distrustful look. 

When the men had gone that day and John Corbett came in to have hisafternoon rest on the lounge in the kitchen, he found Maggie in a self-reproachful mood. 

"Da, " she began, "the devil must have had a fine laugh to himself whenhe saw the Lord puttin' a tongue in a woman's head. Did ye hear meto-day, talking along about that purty young thing beyant, and RanceBelmont takin' in every word of it? Sure and I never thought of himbein' here until I noticed the look on that ugly mug of his, and mindyou, Da, there's people that call him good-lookin' with that heavy jowlof his and the hair on him growin' the wrong way on his head, and themblack eyes of his the color of the dirt in the road. They do say he'sjust got a bunch of money from the old country, and he's cuttin' a wideswath with it. If I'd kept me mouth shut he'd have gone on to Brandonand never knowed a word about there being a purty young thing near. ButI watched him hitchin' up, and didn't he drive right over there; and Itell you, Da, he means no good. "

"Don't worry, Maggie, " John Corbett said, soothingly. "He can't pickher up and run off with her. Mrs. Fred's no fool. "

"He's a divil!" Maggie declared with conviction. "Mind you, Da, thereain't many that can put the comaudher on me, but Rance Belmont done itonce. "

Mr. Corbett looked up with interest and waited for her to speak. 

"It was about the card-playin'. You know I've never allowed a card inme house since I had a house, and never intended to, but the last dayRance Belmont was here--that was away last spring, when you were away--he begins to play with one of the boys that was in for dinner. Right inthere on the sewin'-machine in plain sight of all of us I saw them, andI wiped me hands and tied up me apron, and I walked in, and says I, 'I'll be obliged to you, Mr. Belmont, to put them by, ' and I looked athim, stiff as pork. 'Why, certainly, Mrs. Corbett, ' says he, smilin' atme as if I had said somethin' pleasant. I felt a little bit ashamed, and went on to sort of explain about bein' brought up in the Army andall that, and he talked so nice about the Army that you would havethought it was old Major Morris come back again from the dead, andpretty soon he had me talkin' away to him and likin' him; and says he, 'I was just going to show Jimmy here a funny trick that can be donewith cards, but, ' says he, 'if Mrs. Corbett objects I wouldn't offendher for the world!' Now here's the part that scares me, Da--me, MaggieMurphy, that hates cards like I do the divil; says I to him, 'Oh, goon, Mr. Belmont; I don't mind at all!' Now what do you think of that, Da?"

John Corbett sat thinking, but he was not thinking of what Maggiethought he was thinking. He was wondering what trick it was that RanceBelmont had showed Jimmy Peters!

CHAPTER VI. 

_THE COUNTER-IRRITANT. _

When Fred Brydon made the discovery that his two brothers spent a greatdeal of their time in the pleasant though unprofitable occupation ofcard-playing with two or three of the other impecunious young men ofthe neighborhood, he remonstrated with them on this apparent waste oftime. When he later discovered that they were becoming so engrossed inthe game that they had but little time to plant, sow or reap, or do anyof the things incidental to farm life, he became very indignant indeed. 

The twins naturally resented any such interference from their farmpupil. They told him that he was there to learn farming, and not togive advice to his elders. 

Nearly everyone agrees that card playing is a pleasant and effectiveway of killing time for people who wait for a long delayed train at alonely wayside station. This is exactly the position in which the twinsfound themselves. So, while Aunt Patience, of Bournemouth, tarried andprocrastinated, her loving nephews across the sea, thinking of hernight and day, waited with as good grace as they could and played thegame!

Unlike the twins, Fred Brydon liked hard work, and applied himself withgreat energy to the work of the farm, determined to disprove his angryfather-in-law's words that he would never make a success of anything. 

The fact that the twins were playing for money gave Fred some uneasymoments, and the uncomfortable suspicion that part of his money wasbeing used in this way kept growing upon him. 

He did not mention any of these things to Evelyn, for he knew it washard for her to keep up friendly relations with Reginald and Randolph, and he did not want to say anything that would further predispose heragainst them. 

However, Evelyn, with some of her father's shrewdness, was arriving ata very correct estimate of the twins without any help from anyone. 

The twins had enjoyed life much better since the coming of theirbrother and his wife. They quite enjoyed looking out of the fly-speckedwindow at their brother at work with the oxen in the fields. Then, too, the many flattering remarks made by their friends in regard to theirsister-in-law's beauty were very grateful to their ears. 

One day, in harvest time, when something had gone wrong with theirbinder, and Fred had sent to Brandon for a new knotter, the twinsrefused to pay for it when it came, telling him that he could pay forit himself. Fred paid for it and worked all afternoon without sayinganything, but that evening he came into their part of the house andtold them he wanted a detailed statement of how his money had beenspent. 

The twins were thoroughly hurt and indignant. Did he think they hadcheated him? And they asked each other over and over again, "Didanybody ever hear of such ingratitude?"

The next day Evelyn made a remark which quite upset them. She told themthat if Fred did all the work he should have more than half the crop. 

The twins did not like these occurrences. Instinctively they felt thata storm was coming. They began to wonder what would be the best way toavoid trouble. 

The prairie-dwellers have a way of fighting a prairie fire which isvery effective. When they see the blue veil of smoke lying close to thehorizon, or the dull red glare on the night sky, they immediately startanother fire to go out and meet the big fire!

Some such thought as this was struggling in the twins' brains the daythat Rance Belmont came over from the Stopping-House, and in hisgraceful way asked Mrs. Brydon to go driving with him, an invitationwhich Fred urged her to accept. When the drive was over and Rance camein to the twins' apartments, and on their invitation had a game withthem and lost, they were suddenly smitten with an idea. They began tosee how it might be possible to start another fire!

CHAPTER VII. 

_LADIES' DAY AT THE STOPPING-HOUSE. _

The glory of the summer paled and faded; the crimson and gold of theharvest days had fled before the cold winds of autumn, and now thetrees along the bank of the creek stood leafless and bare, tremblingand swaying as if in dread of the long winter that would soon be uponthem. The harvest had been cut and gathered in, and now, when theweather was fine, the industrious hum of the threshing-machine came onthe wind for many miles, and the column of blue smoke which proclaimedthe presence of a "mill" shot up in all directions. 

At the Black Creek Stopping-House the real business of the year hadbegun, for every day heavily-loaded wheat wagons wound slowly over thelong trail on their way to Brandon, and the Stopping-House became theforegathering place of all the farmers in the settlement. At noon thestable yard presented a lively appearance as the "boys" unhitched theirsteaming teams and led them to the long, straggling straw-roofedstables. The hay that John Corbett had cut on the meadows of BlackCreek and stacked beside the stables was carried in miniature stackswhich completely hid the man who carried them into the mangers, whilethe creaking windlass of the well proclaimed that the water-troughswere being filled. The cattle who foraged through the straw stack inthe field near by always made the mistake of thinking that they wereincluded in the invitation, much to the disgust of Peter Rockett, thechore boy, who drove them back with appropriate remarks. 

Inside of the Stopping-House the long dining-room, called "the room, "was a scene of great activity. The long oilcloth-covered table down thecentre of the "room" was full of smoking dishes of potatoes and ham andcorned beef, and piled high with bread and buns; tin teapots were ateach end of the table and were passed from hand to hand. There werewhite bowls filled with stewed prunes and apricots and pitchers of"Goldendrop" syrup at intervals down the table. 

Table etiquette was fairly well observed--the person who took the lastof the potatoes was in duty bound to take the dish out to the kitchenand replenish it from the black pot which stood on its three legs onthe back of the kitchen stove. The same rule applied to the tea and thebread. Also when one had finished his meal the correct plan ofprocedure was to gather up his plate, knife and fork and cup and saucerand carry them out to the kitchen, where Mrs. Corbett or Peter Rocketthastily washed them to be ready for the next one. 

When entering the Black Creek dining-room with the purpose of having ameal there were certain small conventions to be observed. If a placewas already set, the newcomer could with impunity sit down and proceedwith the order of business; if there was no place set, but room for aplace to be set, the hungry one came out to the kitchen and selectedwhat implements he needed in the way of plate and knife and proceededto the vacancy; if there was not a vacant place at the table, thenewcomer retired to the window and read the _Northern Messenger_ or the_War Cry_, which were present in large numbers on the sewing-machine. But before leaving the table conversation zone, it was consideredperfectly legitimate to call out in a loud voice: "Some eat fast, someeat long, and some eat both ways, " or some such bright and felicitousremark. It was a bitter cold day in November--one of those dark, colddays with a searching wind, just before the snow comes. In Mrs. Corbett's kitchen there was an unusual bustle and great excitement, forthe women from the Tiger Hills were there--three of them on their wayto Brandon. Mrs. Corbett said it always made her nervous to cook forwomen. You can't fool them on a bad pudding by putting on a good sauce, the way you can a man. But Mrs. Corbett admitted it was good to seethem anyway. 

There was Mrs. Berry and her sister, Miss Thornley, and Mrs. Smith. They had ridden fifteen miles on a load of wheat, and had yet anotherfifteen to go to reach their destination. In spite of a long, cold andvery slow ride, the three ladies were in splendid condition, and assoon as they were thawed out enough to talk, and long before theirteeth stopped chattering, they began to ask about Mrs. Corbett'sneighbor, young Mrs. Brydon, in such a way, that, as Mrs. Corbettafterwards explained to Da Corbett, "you could tell they had heardsomething. "

"Our lads saw her over at the Orangemen's ball in Millford, and theysaid Rance Belmont was with her more than her own man, " said Mrs. Berry, as she melted the frost from her eyebrows by holding her faceover the stove. 

"Oh, well, " Mrs. Corbett said, "I guess all the young fellows weremakin' a lot of her, but sure there's no harm in that. "

Miss Thornley was too busy examining her feet for possible frostbitesto give in her contribution just then, but after she had put hercoldest foot in a wash-basin of water she said, "I don't see how anywoman can go the length of her toe with Rance Belmont, but young Mrs. Brydon went to Brandon with him last week, for my sister's husbandheard it from somebody that had seen them. I don't know how she can doit. "

Mrs. Corbett was mashing potatoes with a gem-jar, and without stoppingher work she said: "Oh, well, Miss Thornley, it's easy for you and meto say we would not go out with Rance Belmont, but maybe that's mostlybecause we have never had the chance. He's got a pretty nice way withhim, Rance has, and I guess if he came along now with his sorrel pacerand says to you, 'Come on, Miss Thornley, ' you would get on that bootand stocking in two jiffies and be off with him like any young girl!"

Miss Thornley mumbled a denial, and an angry light shone in her paleblue eyes. 

Mrs. Smith was also full of the subject, and while she twisted her hairinto a small "nub" about the size, shape and color of a peanut, sheexpressed her views. 

"It ain't decent for her to be goin' round with Rance Belmont the wayshe does, and they say at the dance at Millford she never missed adance. Since Rance has got his money from England he hasn't done athing but play cards with them twins and take her round. I don't seehow her man can put up with it, but he's an awful easy-goin' chap--justthe kind that wouldn't notice anything wrong until he'd come home somenight and find her gone. I haven't one bit of respect for her. "

"Oh, now, Mrs. Smith, you're too hard on her. She's young and prettyand likes a good time. " Mrs. Corbett was giving her steel knives aquick rub with ashes out of deference to the lady stoppers. "It's easyenough for folks like us, " waving her knife to include all present, "tobe very respectable and never get ourselves talked about, for nobody'saskin' us to go to dances or fly around with them, but with her it'sdifferent. Don't be hard on her! She ain't goin' to do anything sheshouldn't. "

But the ladies were loath to adopt Mrs. Corbett's point of view. Alltheir lives nothing had happened, and here was a deliciously excitingpossible scandal, and they clung to it. 

"They say the old man Grant is nearly a millionaire, and he's gettinglonely for her, and is pretty near ready to forgive her and Fred andtake them back. Wouldn't it be awful if the old man should come up hereand find she'd gone with Rance Belmont?"

Mrs. Berry looked anxiously around the kitchen as if searching for thelost one. 

"Oh, don't worry, " declared Mrs. Corbett; "she ain't a quitter. She'llstay with her own man; they're happy as ever I saw two people. "

"If she did go, " Miss Thornley said, sentimentally, "if she did go, doyou suppose she'd leave a note pinned on the pin-cushion? I think theymostly do!"

When the ladies had gone that afternoon, and while Mrs. Corbett washedthe white ironstone dishes, she was not nearly so composed andconfident in mind as she pretended to be. 

"Don't it beat the band how much they find out? I often wonder howthings get to be known. I do wish she wouldn't give them the chance totalk, but she's not the one that will take tellin'--too much like herfather for that--and still I kind o' like her for her spunky ways. Rance is a divil, but she don't know that. It is pretty hard to tellwhat ought to be done. This is surely work for the Almighty, and notfor sinful human beings!"

That night Mrs. Corbett took her pen in hand. Mrs. Corbett was more athome with the potato-masher or the rolling-pin, but when duty calledher she followed, even though it involved the using of unfamiliartools. 

She wrote a lengthy letter to Mr. Robert Grant, care of The ImperialLumber Company, Toronto, Ontario:

"Dear and respected sir, " Mrs. Corbett wrote, "I take my pen in hand towrite you a few things that maybe you don't know but ought to know, andto tell you your daughter is well, but homesick sometimes hoping thatyou are enjoying the same blessings as this leaves us at present. Yourdaughter is my neighbor and a blessed girl she is, and it is because Ilove her so well that I am trying to write to you now, not being handyat it, as you see; also my pen spits. As near as I can make out you andher's cut off the same cloth; both of you are touchy and quick, and, ifthings don't suit you, up and coming. But she's got a good heart in heras ever I see. One day she told me a lot about how good you were to herwhen her mother died, and about the prayer her mother used to tell herto say: 'Help papa and mamma and Evelyn to be chums. ' When she came tothat she broke right down and cried, and says she to me, 'I haven'teither of them now!' If you'd a-seen her that day you'd have forgoteverything only that she was your girl. Then she sat down and wrote youa long letter, but when she got done didn't she tear it up, because shesaid you told her you wouldn't read her letters. I saved a bit of theletter for you to see, and here it is. We don't any of us see what madeyou so mad at the man she got--he's a good fellow, and puts up with allher high temper. She's terrible like yourself, excuse me for saying soand meaning no harm. If she'd married some young scamp that was soakedin whiskey and cigarettes you'd a-had something to kick about. I don'tsee what you find in him to fault. Maybe you'll be for telling me tomind my own business, but I am not used to doing that, for I like totake a hand any place I see I can do any good, and if I was leaving mygirl fretting and lonely all on account of my dirty temper, both in meand in her, though for that she shouldn't be blamed, I'd be glad forsomeone to tell me. If you should want to send her a Christmas present, and she says you never forgot her yet, come yourself. It's you she'sfretting for. You can guess it's lonely for her here when I tell youshe and me's the only women in this neighborhood, and I keep astopping-house, and am too busy feeding hungry men to be company foranyone. 

"Hoping these few lines will find you enjoying the same blessings, "Yours respectively, "MAGGIE CORBETT. "

The writing of the letter took Mrs. Corbett the greater part of theafternoon, but when it was done she felt a great weight had been liftedfrom her heart. She set about her preparations for the evening mealwith more than usual speed. 

Going to the door to call Peter Rockett, she was surprised to see RanceBelmont, with his splendid sorrel pacer, drive into the yard. He cameinto the house a few minutes afterwards and seemed to be makingpreparations to stay for supper. 

A sudden resolve was formed in Mrs. Corbett's mind as she watched himhanging up his coat and making a careful toilet at the square looking-glass which hung over the oilcloth-covered soap box on which stood thewash-basin and soap saucer. She called to him to come into the pantry, and while she hurriedly peeled the potatoes she plunged at once intothe subject. 

"Rance, " she began, "you go to see Mrs. Brydon far too often, andpeople are talking about it. "

Rance shrugged his shoulders. 

"Now, don't tell me you don't care, or that it's none of my business, though that may be true. "

"I would never be so lacking in politeness, however true it might be!"he answered, rolling a cigarette. 

Mrs. Corbett looked at him a minute, then she broke out, "Oh, but youare the smooth-tongued gent!--you'd coax the birds off the bushes; butI want to tell you that you are not doing right hanging around Mrs. Brydon the way you do. "

"Does she object?" he asked, in the same even tone, as he slowly strucka match on the sole of his boot. 

"She's an innocent little lamb, " Mrs. Corbett cried, "and she's lonelyand homesick, and you've taken advantage of it. That poor lamb can'tstand the prairie like us old pelters that's weatherbeaten and gray andtoughened--she ain't made for it--she was intended for diamond ringsand drawing-rooms, and silks and satins. "

Rance Belmont looked at her, still smiling his inexplicable smile. 

"I can supply them better than she is getting them now, " he said. 

Mrs. Corbett gave an exclamation of surprise. 

"But she's a married woman, " she cried, "and a good woman, and what areyou, Rance? Sure you're no mate for any honest woman, you blackhearted, smooth-tongued divil!" Mrs. Corbett's Irish temper was mounting higherand higher, and two red spots burned in her cheeks. "You know as wellas I do that there's no happiness for any woman that goes wrong. Thatwoman must stand by her man, and he's a good fellow, Fred is; such afine, clean, honest lad, he never suspects anyone of being a crook ormeanin' harm. Why can't you go off and leave them alone, Rance? Theywere doin' fine before you came along. Do one good turn, Rance, andtake yourself off. "

"You ask too much, Mrs. Corbett. I find Mrs. Brydon very pleasantcompany, and Mr. Fred does not object to my presence. "

"But he would if he knew how the people talk about it. "

"That is very wrong of them, and entirely unavoidable, " Rance answered, calmly, "But the opinion of the neighbors has never bothered me yet, "he continued; "why should it in this instance?"

Mrs. Corbett's eyes flashed ominously. 

"Do you know what I'd do if it was my girl you were after?" she asked, pausing in her work and fixing her eyes on him. 

"Something very unpleasant, I should say, by the tone of your voice--and, by the way, you are pointing your potato knife at me--"

Mrs. Corbett with an effort controlled her temper. 

"I believe, Mrs. Corbett, you would do me bodily injury. What ahorrible thought, and you a former officer in the Salvation Army!"Rance was smiling again and enjoying the situation. "What a thrillingheadline it would make for the Brandon _Sun_: 'The Black CreekStopping-House scene of a brutal murder. Innocent young man struck downin his youth and beauty. ' You make me shudder, Mrs. Corbett, but youlook superb when you rage like that; really, you women interest me agreat deal. I am so fond of all of you!"

"You're a divil, Rance!" Mrs. Corbett repeated again. "But you ain'tgoin' to do that blessed girl any harm--she's goin' to be saved fromyou some way. "

"Who'll do it, I wonder?" Rance seemed to triumph over her. 

"There is One, " said Maggie Corbett, solemnly, "who comes to help whenall other help fails. "

"Who's that?" he asked, yawning. 

Maggie Corbett held up her right hand. 

"It is God!" she said slowly. Rance laughed indulgently. "A myth--aname--a superstition, " he sneered; "there is no God any more. "

"There is a God, " she said, slowly and reverently, for she was MaggieMurphy now, back to the Army days when God walked with her day by day, "and He can hear a mother's prayer, and though I was never a motherafter the flesh, I am a mother now to that poor girl in the place ofthe one that's gone, and I'm askin' Him to save her, and I've got meanswer. He will do it. "

There was a gleam in her eyes and a white glow in her face that madeRance Belmont for one brief moment tremble, but he lighted anothercigarette and with a bow of exaggerated politeness left the room. 

The days that followed were anxious ones for Mrs. Corbett. Manystoppers sat at her table as the Christmas season drew near, and manytimes she heard allusions to her young neighbor which filled her withapprehension. She had carefully counted the days that it would take herletter to reach its destination, and although there had been time for areply, none came. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

_SHADOWS OF THE NIGHT_. 

It was a wind-swept, chilly morning in late November, and EvelynBrydon, alone in the silent little house, stood at the window lookinglistlessly at the dull gray monochrome which stretched before her. 

The unaccustomed housework had roughened and chapped her hands, and themany failures in her cooking experiments, in spite of Mrs, Corbett'sinstructions, had left her tired and depressed, for a failure is alwaysdepressing, even if it is only in the construction of the things whichperish. 

This dark morning it seemed to her that her life was as gray andcolorless as the bleached-out prairie--the glamor had gone fromeverything. 

She and Fred had had their first quarrel, and Fred had gone away dazedand hurt by the things she had said under the stress of her anger. Hewas at a loss to know what had gone wrong with Evelyn, for she hadseemed quite contented all the time. He did not know how the manylittle annoyances had piled up on her; how the utter loneliness of theprairie, with its monotonous sweep of frost-killed grass, the deadlysameness, and the perpetual silence of the house, had so worked uponher mind that it required but a tiny spark to cause an explosion. 

The spark he had supplied himself when he had tried to defend hisbrothers from her charges. All at once Evelyn felt herself grow coldwith anger, and the uncontrolled hasty words, bitterer than anythingshe had ever thought, utterly unjust and cruel, sprang to her lips, andFred, stung to the quick with the injustice of it, had gone awaywithout a word. 

It was with a very heavy heart that he went to his work that day; buthe had to go, for he was helping one of the neighbors to thresh, andevery dry day was precious, and every man was needed. 

All day long Evelyn went about the house trying to justify herself. Agreat wave of self-pity seemed to be engulfing her and blotting outevery worthier feeling. 

The prairie was hateful to her that day, its dull gray stretches crueland menacing, and a strange fear of it seemed to possess her. 

All day she tried to busy herself about the house, but she worked to nopurpose, taking up things and laying them down again, forgetting whatshe was going to do with them; strange whispering voices seemed tosound in the room behind her, trying to tell her something--to warnher--and it was in vain that she tried to shake off their influence. Once or twice she caught a glimpse of a black shadow over her shoulder, just a reflecting vanishing glimpse, and when she turned hastily roundthere was nothing there, but the voices, mocking and gibbering, werelouder than ever. 

She wished Fred would come. She would tell him that she hadn't meantwhat she said. 

As the afternoon wore on, and Fred did not make his appearance, asudden deadly fear came over her at the thought of staying alone. Ofcourse the twins occupied the other half of the house, and to-night, atleast, she was glad of their protection. 

Suddenly it occurred to her that she had heard no sound from theirquarters for a long time. She listened and listened, the silencegrowing more and more oppressive, until at last, overcoming her fears, she went around and tried the door. Even the voices of her much-despised brothers-in-law would be sweet music to her ears. 

The door was locked and there was no response to her knocks. 

An old envelope stuck in a sliver in the door bore the entry in lead-pencil, "Gone Duck Shooting to Plover Slough, " for it was the custom ofthe twins to faithfully chronicle the cause of their absence and theirprobable location each time they left home, to make it easy to findthem in the event of a cablegram from Aunt Patience's solicitors!

Evelyn turned away and ran back to her own part of the house. Shehastily barred the door. 

The short autumn day was soon over. The sun broke out from the dullgray mountain of clouds and threw a yellow glare on the colorlessfield. She stood by the window watching the light as it faded and paledand died, and then the shades of evening quickly gathered. Turningagain to replenish the fire, the darkness of the room startled her. There was a shadow under the table like a cave's mouth. Unaccustomedsounds smote her ear; the logs in the house creaked uncannily, and whenshe walked across the floor muffled footfalls seemed to follow her. 

She put more wood in the stove and tried to shake off the apprehensionswhich were choking her. She lit the lamp and hastily drew down thewhite cotton blind and pinned it close to keep out the great pitilessstaring Outside, which seemed to be peering in at her with a dozenwhite, mocking, merciless faces. 

In the lamp's dim light the shadows were blacker than ever; the bigpacking-box threw a shadow on the wall that was as black as the mouthof a tunnel in a mountain. 

She noticed that her stock of wood was running low, and with a mightyeffort of the will she opened the door to bring in some from a pile inthe yard. Stopping a minute to muster up her courage, she waited at theopen door. Suddenly the weird cry of a wolf came up from the creekbank, and it was a bitter, lonely, insistent cry. 

She slammed the door, and coming back into the room, sank weak andtrembling into a chair. A horror grew upon her until the beads ofperspiration stood upon her face. Her hands grew numb and useless, andthe skin of her head seemed stiff and frozen. Her ears were strained tocatch any sound, and out of the silence there came many strange noisesto torment her overstrained senses. 

She thought of Mrs. Corbett at the Stopping-House, and tried to mustercourage to walk the distance, but a terrible fear held her to the spot. 

The fire died out, and the room grew colder and colder, but huddled ina chair in a panic of fear she did not notice the cold. Her teethchattered; spots of light danced before her tightly-shut eyes. She didnot know what she was afraid of; a terrible nameless fear seemed to beclutching at her very heart. It was the living, waking counterpart ofthe nightmare that had made horrible her childhood nights--a gripping, overwhelming fear of what might happen. 

Suddenly something burst into the room--the terrible something that shehad been waiting for. The silence broke into a thousand screamingvoices. She slipped to the floor and cried out in an agony of terror. 

There was a loud knocking on the door, and then through the horriblesilence that followed there came a voice calling to her not to beafraid. 

She staggered to the door and unbarred it, and heard someone speakagain in blessed human voice. 

The door opened, and she found herself looking into the face of RanceBelmont, and her fear-tortured eyes gave him a glad welcome. 

She seized him by the arm, holding to him as a child fear-smitten inthe night will hold fast to the one who comes in answer to his cries. 

Rance Belmont knew how to make the most, yet not too much, of anadvantage. He soothed her fears courteously, gently; he built up thefire; he made her a cup of tea; there was that strange and subtleinfluence in all that he said and did that made her forget everythingthat was unpleasant and be happy in his presence. 

A perfect content grew upon her; she forgot her fears--her loneliness--her quarrel with Fred; she remembered only the happy company of thepresent. 

Under the intoxication of the man's presence she ceased to be thetired, discouraged, irritable woman, and became once more the EvelynGrant whose vivacity and wit had made her conspicuous in the brightestcompany. 

She tried to remind herself of some of the unpleasant things thatneighborhood gossip said of Rance Belmont--of Mrs. Corbett's dislike ofhim--but in the charm of his presence they all faded into vagueunrealities. 

There was flattery, clever, hidden flattery, which seemed likeadoration, in every word he spoke, every tone of his voice, everyglance of his coal-black eyes, that seemed in some way to atone for thelong, gray, monotonous days that had weighed so heavily upon herspirits. 

"Are you always frightened when you are left alone?" he asked her. Every word was a caress, the tone of his voice implying that she shouldnever be left alone, the magnetism of his presence assuring her thatshe would never be left alone again. 

"I was never left alone in the evening before, " she said. "I thought Iwas very brave until to-night, but it was horrible--it makes me shudderto think of it. "

"Don't think!" he said gently. 

"Fred thought the twins would be here, I know, or he would not havestayed away, " Evelyn said, wishing to do justice to Fred, and feelingindefinitely guilty about something. 

"The twins are jolly good company, --oh, I say!" laughed Rance, in tonesso like her brothers-in-law that Evelyn laughed delightedly. It waslovely to have someone to laugh with. 

"But where are the heavenly twins to-night?"

"I suppose they saw a flock of ducks going over, or heard the honk-honkof wild geese, " she answered. "It does not take much to distract themfrom labor--and they have a soul above it, you know. "

Rance Belmont need not have asked her about the twins; he had met themon their way to the Plover Slough and had given Reginald the loan ofhis gun; he had learned from them that Fred, too, was away. 

"But if dear Aunt Patience will only lift her anchor all will yet bewell, and the dear twins will not need to be bothered with anything sobeastly as farm-work. " His tone and manner were so like the twins thatEvelyn applauded his efforts. Then he told her the story of the cow, and of how the twins, endeavoring to follow the example of some of theCanadians whom they had seen locking their wagon-wheels with a chainwhen going down the Souris hill, had made a slight mistake in thelocation of the chain and hobbled the oxen, with disastrous results. 

When he looked at his watch it was nine o'clock. 

"I must go, " he said, hastily rising; "it would hardly do for me to befound here!"

"What do you mean?" she asked in surprise. 

"What do you suppose your husband would say if he came home and foundme here?"

Evelyn flushed angrily. 

"My husband has confidence in me, " she answered proudly. "I don't knowwhat he thinks of you, but I know what he thinks of me, and it wouldmake no difference what company he found me in, he would never doubtme. I trust him in the same way. I would believe his word against thatof the whole world. "

She held her handsome head high when she said this. 

Rance Belmont looked at her with a dull glow in his black eyes. 

"I hope you are right, " he said, watching the color coming in her face. 

"I am right, " she said after a pause, daring which she had looked athim defiantly. He was wise enough to see he had made a false move andhad lost ground in her regard. 

"I think you had better go, " she said at last. "I do not like thatinsinuation of yours that your presence here might be misconstrued. Yes, I want you to go. I was glad to see you; I was never so glad tosee anyone; I was paralyzed with fear; but now I am myself again, and Iam sure Fred will come home. "

There was a sneering smile on his face which she understood andresented. 

"In that case I had better go, " he said. 

"That is not the reason I want you to go. I tell you again that Fredwould not believe that I was untrue to him. He believes in me utterly. "She drew herself up with an imperious gesture and added: "I am worthyof his trust. "

Rance Belmont thought he had never seen her so beautiful. 

"I will not leave you, " he declared. "Forgive me for speaking as I did. I judged your husband by the standards of the world. I might have knownthat the man who won you must be different from other men. It was onlyfor your sake that I said I must go. I care nothing for his fury. If itwere the fury of a hundred men I would stay with you; just to be nearyou, to hear your sweet voice, to see you, is heaven to me. "

Evelyn sprang to her feet indignantly as he arose and came towards her. 

Just at that moment the door opened, and Fred Brydon, having heard thelast words, stood face to face with them both!

CHAPTER IX. 

_HIS EVIL GENIUS_. 

When Fred Brydon went to his work that morning, smarting from the angrywords that Evelyn had hurled at him, everyone he met noticed how gloomyand burdened he seemed to be; how totally unlike his former easy good-nature and genial cheerfulness was his strange air of reserve. 

They thought they knew the cause, and told each other so when he wasnot listening. 

When he came into the kitchen to wash himself at noon he heard one ofthe men say to another in an aside: "He'll be the last one to catchon. "

He paid no particular attention to the sentence at the time, but itstuck in his memory. 

The day was fine and dry, and the thresher was run at the top of itsspeed. One more day would finish the stacks, and as this was the lastthreshing to be done in the neighborhood, the greatest effort was putforth to finish it before the weather broke. 

They urged him to stay the night--they would begin again at daylight--the weather was so uncertain. 

He thought, of course, that the twins were safely at home, and Evelynhad often said that she was not afraid to stay. He had consented tostay, when all at once the weather changed. 

The clouds had hung low and heavy all day, but after sundown a drivingwind carrying stray flakes of snow began to whistle around the stacks. The air, too, grew heavy, and a feeling of oppression began to beevident. 

The pigs ran across the yard carrying a mouthful of straw, and thecattle crowded into the sheds. Soon the ground was covered with loosesnow, which began to whirl in gentle, playful eddies. The warmth of theair did not in any way deceive the experienced dwellers on the plain, who knew that the metallic whistle in the wind meant business. 

The owner of the threshing machine covered it up with canvas, and allthose who had been helping, as soon as they had supper, started to makethe journey to their homes. It looked as if a real Manitoba blizzardwas setting in. 

In spite of the protestations of all the men, Fred did not wait for hissupper, but set out at once on the three-mile walk home. 

Evelyn's hasty words still stung him with the sense of failure anddefeat. If Evelyn had gone back on him what good was anything to him?

Walking rapidly down the darkening trail, his thoughts were very bitterand self-reproachful; he had done wrong, he told himself, to bring herto such a lonely place--it would have been better for Evelyn if she hadnever met him--she had given up too much for his sake. 

He noticed through the drifting storm that there was something ahead ofhim on the trail, and, quickening his steps, he was surprised toovertake his two brothers leisurely returning from their duck hunt. 

"Why did you two fellows leave when you knew I was away? You know thatEvelyn will be frightened to be left there all alone. "

Instantly all his own troubles vanished at the thought of his wife leftalone on the wide prairie. 

His brothers strongly objected to his words. 

"We don't 'ave to stay to mind 'er, do we?" sneered Reginald. 

"Maybe she ain't alone, either, " broke in Randolph, seeing anopportunity to turn Fred's wrath in another direction. 

"What are you driving at?" asked Fred in surprise. 

"Maybe Rance Belmont has dropped in again to spend the evenin'--heusually does when you're away!"

"You lie!" cried Fred, angrily. 

"We ain't lyin', " declared Randolph. "Everybody knows it only you. "

The words were no sooner said than Fred fell upon him like a madman. Randolph roared lustily for help, and Reginald valiantly strove to savehim from Fred's fury. But they retreated before him as he rained hisblows upon them both. 

Then Reginald, finding that he was no match for Fred in open conflict, dodged around behind him, and soon a misty dizziness in his head toldFred that he had been struck by something heavier than hands. There wasa booming in his ears and he fell heavily to the road. 

The twins were then thoroughly frightened. Here was a dreadful andunforeseen possibility. 

They stood still to consider what was to be done. 

"It was you done it, remember, " said Randolph to Reginald. 

"But I done it to save you!" cried Reginald, indignantly, "and youcan't prove it was me. People can't tell us apart. "

"Anyway, " said Reginald, "everybody will blame it on Rance Belmont ifhe is killed--and see here, here's the jolly part of it. I'll leaveRance's gun right beside him. That'll fix the guilt on Rance!"

"Well, we won't go home; we'll go back and stay in the shootin'-houseat the Slough, and then we can prove we weren't home at all, andthere'll be no tracks by mornin', anyway. "

The twins turned around and retraced their steps through the storm, very hungry and very cross, but forgetting these emotions in thepresence of a stronger one--fear. 

But Fred was not killed, only stunned by Reginald's cowardly blow. Thesoft flakes melting on his face revived him, and sitting up he lookedabout him trying to remember where he was. Slowly it all came to him, and stiff and sore, he got upon his feet. There were no signs of thetwins, but to this Fred gave no thought; his only anxiety was forEvelyn, left alone on such a wild night. 

When he entered his own house with Rance Belmont's words ringing in hisears, he stood for a moment transfixed. His brother's words which hehad so hotly resented surged over him now with fatal conviction; alsothe words he had heard at the threshing, "He'll be the last one tocatch on, " came to him like the flash of lightning that burns anduproots and destroys. 

His head swam dizzily and lights danced before his eyes. He stood for amoment without speaking. He was not sure that it wasn't all a horribledream. 

If he had looked first at Evelyn, her honest face and flashing eyeswould have put his unworthy suspicions to flight. But Rance Belmontwith his fatal magnetic presence drew his gaze. Rance Belmont stoodwith downcast eyes, the living incarnation of guilt. It was all a pose, of course, but Rance Belmont, with his deadly gift of being able tomake any impression he wished, made a wonderful success of the part hehad all at once decided to play. 

Looking at him, Fred's smouldering jealousy burst into flame. 

There was an inarticulate sound in his throat, and striding forward helanded a smashing blow on Rance Belmont's averted face. 

"Oh, Fred!" Evelyn cried, springing forward, "for shame!--how couldyou!--how dare you!--"

"Don't talk to me of shame!" Fred cried, his face white with anger. 

"Don't blame her, " Rance said in a low voice. He made no attempt todefend himself. 

In her excitement Evelyn did not notice the sinister significance ofhis words and what they implied. She was conscious of nothing only thatFred had insulted her by his actions, and her wrath grew as terrible asher husband's. 

She caught him by the shoulder and compelled him to look at her. 

"Fred, " she cried, "do you believe--do you dare to believe thisterrible thing?"

She shook him in her rage and excitement. 

Rance Belmont saw that Fred would be convinced of her innocence if hedid not gain his attention, and the devil in him spoke again, soft, misleading, lying words, part truth, yet all false, leaving no chancefor denial. 

"Don't blame her--the fault has all been mine, " he interposed again. 

In her blind rage again Evelyn missed the significance of his words. She was conscious of one thought only--Fred had not immediately cravedher pardon. She shook and trembled with uncontrollable rage. 

"I hate you, Fred!" she cried, her voice sounding thin and unnatural. "I hate you! One minute ago I believed you to be the noblest man onearth; now I know you for an evil-minded, suspicious, contemptible, dog!--a dog!--a cur! My father was right about you. I renounce youforever!"

She pulled the rings from her finger and flung them against the window, cracking the glass across. "I will never look on your face again, Ihope. This is my reward, is it, for giving up everything for you? Iboasted of your trust in me a minute ago, but you have shamed me; youhave dragged my honor in the dust, but now I am free--and you maybelieve what you please!"

She turned to Rance Belmont. 

"Will you drive me to Brandon to-night?" she asked. 

She put on her coat and hat without a word or a look at the man, whostood as if rooted to the ground. 

Then opening the door she went out quickly, and Rance Belmont, withsomething like triumph on his black face, quickly followed her, andFred Brydon, bruised in body and stricken in soul, was left alone inhis desolate house. 

CHAPTER X. 

_DA'S TURN_. 

The wind was whistling down the Black Creek Valley, carrying heavyflakes of snow that whirled and eddied around them, as Rance Belmontand Evelyn made their way to the Stopping-House. The stormy nightaccorded well with the turmoil in Evelyn's brain. One point she haddecided--she would go back to her father, and for this purpose sheasked her companion if he would lend her one hundred dollars. This hegladly consented to do. 

He was discreet enough to know that he must proceed with caution, though he felt that in getting her separated from her husband and sothoroughly angry with him that he had made great progress. Now hebelieved that if he could get her away from the Stopping-House hismagnetic influence over her would bring her entirely under his power. 

But she had insisted on going in to the Stopping-House to see Mrs. Corbett and tell her what she was going to do. It was contrary toEvelyn's straightforwardness to do anything in an under-handed way, andshe felt that she owed it to Mrs. 

Corbett, who had been her staunch friend, to tell her the truth of thestory, knowing that many versions of it would be told. 

Mrs. Corbett was busy setting a new batch of bread, and looked up withan exclamation of surprise when they walked into the kitchen, whitewith snow. It staggered Mrs. Corbett somewhat to see them together atthat late hour, but she showed no surprise as she made Mrs. Brydonwelcome. 

"I am going away, Mrs. Corbett, " Evelyn began at once. 

"No bad news from home, is there?" Mrs. Corbett asked anxiously. 

"No bad news from home, but bad news here. Fred and I have quarrelledand parted forever!"

Mrs. Corbett drew Evelyn into the pantry and closed the door. She coulddo nothing, she felt, with Rance Belmont present. 

"Did you quarrel about him?" she asked, jerking her head towards thedoor. 

Evelyn told her story, omitting only Rance Belmont's significantremarks, which indeed she had not heard. 

Mrs. Corbett listened attentively until she was done. 

"Ain't that just like a man, poor, blunderin' things they are. Sure andit was just his love for you, honey, that made him break out sojealous!"

"Love!" Evelyn broke in scornfully. "Love should include trust andrespect--I don't want love without them. How dare he think that I woulddo anything that I shouldn't? Do I look like a woman who would gowrong?"

"Sure you don't, honey!" Mrs. Corbett soothed her, "but you know RanceBelmont is so smooth-tongued and has such a way with him that all menhate him, and the women like him too well. But what are you goin' todo, dear? Sure you can't leave your man. "

"I have left him, " said Evelyn. "I am going to Brandon now to-night intime for the early train. Rance Belmont will drive me. "

Something warned Mrs. Corbett not to say all that was in her heart, soshe temporized. 

"Sure, if I were you I wouldn't go off at night--it don't look well. Stay here till mornin'. The daylight's the best time to go. Don't gooff at night as if you were doin' something you were ashamed of. Go inbroad daylight. "

"What do I care what people say about me?" Evelyn raged again. "Theycan't say any worse than my husband believes of me. No--I am going--Iwant to put distance between us; I just came in to say good-bye and totell you how it happened. I wanted you and Mr. Corbett to know thetruth, for you have been kind friends to me, and I'll never, neverforget you. "

"I'd be afraid you'd never get to Brandon tonight, honey. " Mrs. Corbettheld her close, determining in her own mind that she would lock her inthe pantry if there was no other way of detaining her. "Listen to thewind--sure it's layin' in for a blizzard. I knew that all day. Theroads will be drifted so high you'd never get there, even with the bigpacer. Stay here tonight just to oblige me, and you can go on in themorning if it's fit. "

Meanwhile John Corbett had been warning Rance Belmont that the weatherwas unfit for anyone to be abroad, and the fact that George Sims, thehorse trader from Millford, and Dan Lonsbury, had put in for the night, made a splendid argument in favor of his doing the same. Rance Belmonthad no desire to face a blizzard unnecessarily, particularly at night, and the storm was growing thicker every minute. So after consultingwith Evelyn, who had yielded to Mrs. Corbett's many entreaties, heagreed to remain where he was for the night. Evelyn went at once to thesmall room over the kitchen, which Mrs. Corbett kept for specialguests, and as she busied herself about the kitchen Mrs. Corbett couldhear her pacing up and down in her excitement. 

Mrs. Corbett hastily baked biscuits and "buttermilk bread" to feed herlarge family, who, according to the state of the weather and thesubsequent state of the roads, might be with her for several days, andwhile her hands were busy, her brain was busier still, and being apraying woman, Maggie Corbett was looking for help in the directionfrom which help comes. 

The roaring of the storm as it swept past the house, incessantlymourning in the mud chimney and sifting the snow against the frostedwindows, brought comfort to her anxious heart, for it reminded her thatdominion and majesty and power belong to the God whom she served. 

When she put the two pans of biscuits in the oven she looked throughthe open door into the "Room, " where her unusual number of guests werelounging about variously engaged. 

Rance Belmont smoked cigarettes constantly and shuffled the cards as ifto read his fate therein. He would dearly have loved a game with someone, for he had the soul of a gambler, but Mrs. Corbett's decreeagainst card-playing was well known. 

Dan Lonsbury, close beside the table lamp, read a week-old copy of theBrandon _Times_. George Sims, the horse-dealer, by the light of his ownlantern, close beside him on the bench, pared his corns with minuteattention to detail. 

Under the wall lamp, which was fastened to the window frame, DaCorbett, in his cretonne-covered barrel-chair of home manufacture, readthe _War Cry_, while Peter Rockett, on his favorite seat, the wood-box, played one of the Army tunes on his long-suffering Jew's-harp. 

"They can't get away as long as the storm lasts, anyway, " Mrs. Corbettwas thinking, thankful even for this temporary respite, "but they'll goin the mornin' if the storm goes down, and I can't stop them--vain isthe help of man. "

Suddenly Mrs. Corbett started as if she had heard a strange anddisturbing noise; she threw out her hands as if in protest. She satstill a few moments holding fast to the kitchen table in herexcitement; her eyes glittered, and her breath came short and fast. 

She went hurriedly into the pantry, fearful that her agitation might benoticed. In her honest soul it seemed to her that her plan, soterrible, so daring, so wicked, must be sounding now in everybody'sears. 

In the darkness of the pantry she tried to think it out. Was it aninspiration from heaven, or was it a suggestion of the devil? Oneminute she was imploring Satan to "get thee behind me, " and the nextminute she was thanking God and whispering Hallelujahs! A lull in thestorm drove her to immediate action. 

John Corbett came out into the kitchen to see what was burning, forMaggie had forgotten her biscuits. 

When the biscuits were attended to she took "Da" with her into thepantry, and she said to him, "Da, is it ever right to do a little wrongso that good will come of it?"

She asked the question so impersonally that John Corbett repliedwithout hesitation: "It is never right, Maggie. "

"But, Da, " she cried, seizing the lapel of his coat, "don't you mindhearin' o' how the priests have given whiskey to the Indians when theycouldn't get the white captives away from them any other way? Wasn'tthat right?"

"Sure and it was; at a time like that it was right to do anything--butwhat are you coming at, Maggie?"

"If Rance Belmont lost all the money he has on him, and maybe ran a bitin debt, he couldn't go away to-morrow with her, could he? She thinkshe's just goin' to drive her to Brandon, but I know him--he'll go withher, sure--she can't help who travels on the train with her--and how'llthat look? But if he were to lose his money he couldn't travel deadbroke, could he, Da?"

"Not very far, " agreed Da, "but what are you coming at, Maggie? Do youwant me to go through him?" He laughed at the suggestion. 

"Ain't there any way you can think of, Da--no, don't think--the sin ismine and I'll take it fair and square on my soul. I don't want you tobe blemt for it--Da, listen--" she whispered in his ear. 

John Corbett caught her in his arms. 

"Would I? Would I? Oh, Maggie, would a duck swim?" he said, keeping hisvoice low to avoid being heard in the other room. 

"Don't be too glad, Da; remember it's a wicked thing I'm askin' you todo; but, Da, are you sure you haven't forgot how?"

John Corbett laughed. "Maggie, when a man learns by patient toil totell the under side of an ace he does not often forget, but of coursethere is always the chance, that's the charm of it--nobody can be quitesure. "

"I've thought of every way I can think of, " she said, after a pause, "and this seems to be the only way. I just wish it was something Icould do myself and not be bringing black guilt on your soul, but maybeGod'll understand. Maybe it was so that you'd be ready for to-nightthat He let you learn to be so handy with them. Sure Ma always saidthat God can do His work with quare tools; and now, Da, I'll slip offto bed, and you'll pretend you're stealin' a march on me, and he'llenjoy himself all the more if he thinks he's spitin' me. Oh, Da, I wishI knew it was right--maybe it's ruinin' your soul I am, puttin' you upto such wickedness, but I'll be prayin' for you as hard as I can. "

Da looked worried. "Maggie, I don't know about the prayin'--I wasalways able to find the card I needed without bein' prayed for. "

"Oh, I mean I'll pray it won't hurt you. I wouldn't interfere with thegame, for I don't know one card from another, and I'm sure the Lorddon't either, but it's your soul I'm thinkin' of and worried about. I'll slip down with the green box--there's more'n a hundred dollars init. And now good-bye, Da--go at him, and God bless you--and play likethe divil!"

Mr. John Corbett slowly folded up the _War Cry_ and placed it in hispocket, and when Maggie brought down the green box with their earningsin it he emptied its contents in his pocket, and then, softly hummingto himself, he went into the other room. 

The wind raged and the storm roared around the Black Creek Stopping-House all that night, but inside the fire burned bright in the box-stove, and an interested and excited group sat around the table whereRance Belmont and John Corbett played the game! Peter Rockett, with hiseyes bulging from his head, watched his grave employer cut and deal andgather in the stakes, with as much astonishment as if that dignifiedgentleman had walked head downward on the ceiling. Yet John Corbettproceeded with the game, as grave and solemn as when he asked ablessing at the table. Sometimes he hummed snatches of Army tunes, andsometimes Rance Belmont swore softly, and to the anxious ear whichlistened at the stovepipe-hole above, both sounds were of surpassingsweetness!

CHAPTER XI. 

_THE BLIZZARD_. 

When the door closed behind Rance Belmont and Evelyn, Fred sank into achair with the whole room whirling dizzily around him. Why had theworld gone so suddenly wrong?

His head was quite clear now, and only the throbbing hurt on the backof his head reminded him of Reginald's cowardly blow. But his angeragainst his brothers had faded into apathy in the presence of this newtrouble which seemed to choke the very fountains of his being. 

One terrible fact smote him with crushing force--Evelyn had left himand gone with Rance Belmont. She said she hoped she would never see himagain--that she was done with him--and her eyes had blazed with angerand hatred--and she had stepped in between him and the miserablevillain whom he would have so dearly loved to have beaten the life outof. 

He tried to rage against her, but instead he could think of nothing buther sweet imperiousness, her dazzling beauty, her cheerfulness underall circumstances, and her loyalty to him. 

She had given up everything for him--for his sake she had defied herfather, renounced all share in his great wealth, suffered the hardshipsand loneliness of the prairie, all for him. 

Her workbag lay on the table, partly open. It seemed to call and beckonto him. He took it tenderly in his hands, and from its folds there fella crumpled sheet of paper. He smoothed it out, and found it partlywritten on in Evelyn's clear round hand. 

He held it to the light eagerly, as one might read a message from thedead. Who was Evelyn writing to?

"_ When you ask me to leave my husband you ask me to do a dishonorableand cowardly thing. Fred has never_"--the writing ceased abruptly. Fredread it again aloud, then sprang to his feet with a smotheredexclamation. Only one solution presented itself to his mind. She hadbeen writing to Rance Belmont trying to withstand his advances, tryingto break away from his devilish influence. She had tried to be true toherself and to him. 

Fred remembered then with bitter shame the small help he had given her. He had wronged her when he struck Rance Belmont. 

One overwhelming thought rose out of the chaos of his mind--she must beset free from the baneful influence of this man. If she were not strongenough to resist him herself, she must be helped, and that help mustcome from him--he had sworn to protect her, and he would do it. 

There was just one way left to him now. Fred's face whitened at thethought, and his eyes had an unnatural glitter, but there was a deadlypurpose in his heart. 

In his trunk he found the Smith and Wesson that one of the boys in theoffice had given him when he left, and which he had never thought ofsince. He hastily but carefully loaded it and slipped it into hispocket. Then reaching for his snowy overcoat, which had fallen to thefloor, and putting the lamp in the window, more from habit than withany purpose, he went out into the night. 

The storm had reached its height when Fred Brydon, pulling has cap downover his ears, set out on his journey. It was a wild enough night toturn any traveller aside from his purpose, but Fred Brydon, in hisrage, had ceased to be a man with a man's fears, a man's frailties, andhad become an avenging spirit, who knew neither cold nor fatigue. Asudden stinging of his ears made him draw his cap down more closely, but he went forward at a brisk walk, occasionally breaking into a run. 

He had but one thought in his mind--he must yet save Evelyn. He haddeserted her in her hour of need, but he would yet make amends. 

The wind which sang dismally around him reminded him with a sickeningblur of homesickness of the many pleasant evenings he and Evelyn hadspent in their little shack, with the same wind making eerie music inthe pipe of the stove. Yesterday and to-day were separated by a gulf aswide as death itself. 

He had gone about three miles when he heard a faint halloo come downthe wind. It sounded two or three times before the real significance ofit occurred to him, so intent was he upon his own affairs. But louderand more insistent came the unmistakable call for help. 

A fierce temptation assailed Fred Brydon. He must not delay--everyminute was precious--to save Evelyn, his wife, was surely more his dutythan to set lost travellers on their way again. Besides, he toldhimself, it was not a fiercely cold night--there was no great danger ofany person freezing to death; and even so, were not some things morevital than saving people from death, which must come sooner or later?Then down the wind came the cry again--a frightened cry--he could hearthe words--"Help! help! for God's sake!" Something in Fred Brydon'sheart responded to that appeal. He could not hurry by unheeding. 

Guided by the calls, he turned aside from his course and made his waythrough the choking storm across the prairie. 

The cries came nearer, and Fred shouted in reply--words of impatientencouragement. No rescuer ever went to his work with a worse grace. 

A large, dark object loomed faintly through the driving storm. 

"What's the matter?" called Fred, when he was within speaking distance. 

"I'm caught--tangled up in some devilish thing, " came back the cry. 

Fred hurried forward, and found a man, almost covered with snow, huddled beside a haystack, his clothing securely held by the barbs ofthe wire with which the stack was fenced. 

"You're stuck in the barbed wire, " said Fred, as he removed his mittensand with a good deal of difficulty released the man from the close gripof the barbs. 

"I hired a livery-man at Brandon to bring me out, and his bronchosupset us and got away from him. He walked them the whole way--the roadswere heavy--and then look at what they did! I came over here forshelter--the driver ran after the team, and then these infernalfishhooks got hold of me--what are they, anyway?"

Fred explained. 

"This is surely a God-forsaken country that can jerk a storm like thison you in November, " the older man declared, as Fred carefully dustedthe snow off him, wondering all the time what he was going to do withhim. 

"Where are you going?" Fred asked, abruptly. 

"I want to get to the Black Creek Stopping-House. How far am I fromthere now?"

"About three miles, " said Fred. 

"Well, I guess I can walk that far if you'll show me the road. "

Fred hesitated. 

"I am going to Brandon, " he said. 

"What is any sane man going to Brandon to-night for?" the strangercried, impatiently. "Great Scott! I thought I was the only man who wasa big enough fool to be out to-night. The driver assured me of thatseveral times. I guess there's a woman in the case with you, too. "

"Did you meet anyone?" Fred asked, quickly. "Not a soul! I tell youyou and I are the only crazy ones to-night. "

Fred considered a minute. 

"I'll take you on your way, " he said. 

The stranger suddenly remembered something. "I'm a good bit obliged toyou, young man, whoever you are. I guess I'd have been here all nightif you hadn't come along and heard me. I was beginning to get chilly, too. Is this a blizzard?"

"Yes, I guess it is, " Fred answered, shortly, "and it's not improvingany, so I guess we had better hurry on. "

It was much easier going with the wind, and at first the older man, helped along by Fred, made good progress. Fred knew that every minutethe drifts were growing higher and the road harder to keep. 

The night grew colder and darker, and the storm seemed to thicken. 

"Pretty hard going for an old man of sixty, " the stranger said, stopping to get his breath. The storm seemed to choke him. 

Soon he begged to be let rest, and when Fred tried to start him againhe experienced some difficulty. The cold was getting into his verybones, and was causing a fatal drowsiness. 

Fred told him this and urged him to put forth his greatest efforts. They were now but a mile from Fred's house. Every few minutes the lightin the window glimmered through the storm, the only ray of light in themaze of whirling snow which so often thickened and darkened and blottedit out altogether. 

When they were about half a mile from the house, the old man, withoutwarning, dropped into the snow and begged Fred to go on without him. Hewas all right, he declared, warm and comfortable, and wanted to rest. 

"You'll freeze to death!" Fred cried. "That's the beginning of it. "

"Feel very comfortable, " the old man mumbled. 

Fred coaxed, reasoned, entreated, but all in vain. He shook the oldman, scolded, threatened, but all to no purpose. 

There was only one thing to be done. 

Fred threw off his own coat, which was a heavy one, and picked the oldman up, though he was no light weight, and set off with him. 

But the man objected to being carried, and, squirming vigorously, slipped out of Fred's arms, and once more declared his intention ofsleeping in the snow. 

With his frozen mitten Fred dealt him a stinging blow on the cheekwhich made him yell with pain and surprise. 

"Do what I tell you!" cried Fred. 

The blow seemed to rouse him from his stupor, and he let Fred lead himonward through the storm. 

When they arrived at Fred's house he put the old man in a rocking-chair, first removing his snowy outer garments, and made sure that hehad no frost-bites. Then hastily lighting the fire, which had burneditself out, he made coffee and fried bacon. 

When the old man had taken a cup of the coffee he began to take aninterest in his surroundings. 

"How did I get here?" he asked. "The last thing I remember I wassitting down, feeling very drowsy, and someone was bothering me to getup. Did I get up?"

"Not until I lifted you, " said Fred. 

"Did you carry me?" the other man asked in surprise. 

"I did until you kicked and squirmed so I couldn't hold you. "

"What did you do then?" queried his visitor, tenderly feeling his sorecheek. 

"I slapped you once, but you really deserved far more, " said Fred, gravely. 

"What did I do then?"

"You got up and behaved yourself so nicely I was sorry that I hadn'tslapped you sooner!"

The old man laughed to himself without a sound. 

"What's your name?" he asked. 

While this dialogue had been in progress Fred had been studying hiscompanion closely, with a growing conviction that he knew him. He wasolder, grayer, and of course the storm had reddened his face, but Fredthought he could not be mistaken. 

The old man repeated the question. 

"Brown!" said Fred, shortly, giving the first name he could think of. 

"You're a strapping fine young fellow, Brown, even if you did hit mewith your hard mitt, and I believe I should be grateful to you. "

"Don't bother, " said Fred shortly. 

"I will bother, " the old man cried, imperiously, with a gesture of hishead that Fred knew well; "I will bother, and my daughter will thankyou, too. "

"Your daughter!" Fred exclaimed, turning his back to pick out anotherstick for the stove. 

"Yes, my girl, my only girl--it's her I came to see. She's living nearhere. I guess you'd know her: she's married to a no-good Englishman, areal lizzie-boy, that wouldn't say boo to a goose!"

Fred continued to fix the fire, poking it unnecessarily. He wasconfident that Evelyn's father would not recognize him with his crop ofwhiskers and sunburnt face. His mind was full of conflicting emotions. 

"Maybe you know him, " said the old man. "His name is Brydon. They livesomewhere near the Stopping-House. "

"I've not lived here long, " said Fred, evasively, "but I've heard ofthem. "

The comfort and security of the warm little shack, as well as the goodmeal Fred had given him, had loosened the old man's tongue. 

"I never liked this gent. I only saw him once, but it don't take melong to make up my mind. He carried a cane and had his monogram on hissocks--that was enough for me--and a red tie on him, so red you'd thinkhis throat was cut. I says to myself, I don't want that shop windowJudy round my house, ' but Evelyn thought he was the best going. Funnything that that girl was the very one to laugh at dudes before that, but she stuck it out that he was a fine chap. She's game, all right, mygirl is. She stays right with the job. I wrote and told her to come onback and I'd give her every cent I have--but she pitched right into meabout not asking Fred. Here's her letter. Oh, she's a spunky one!" Hewas fumbling in his pockets as he spoke. Drawing out a long pocketbook, he took out a letter. He deliberately opened the envelope and read. Fred with difficulty held back his hand from seizing it. 

"Listen to this how she lit into me: 'When you ask me to leave myhusband you ask me to do a dishonorable thing--'"

Fred heard no more--he hung on to the seat of his chair with bothhands, breathing hard, but the old man took no notice of him and readon:

"'Fred is in every way worthy of your respect, but you have beenutterly unjust to him from the first. I will enjoy poverty andloneliness with him rather than endure every pleasure without him. '"

Fred's world had suddenly righted itself--he saw it all now--this wasthe man she was writing to--this was the man who had tried to induceher to leave him. 

"I haven't really anything against this Fred chap--maybe his clotheswere all right. I was brought up in the lumber business, though, and Idon't take to flowered stockings and monograms--I kept wondering howhe'd look in overalls! What was really wrong with me--and you'll neverknow how it feels until you have a girl of your own, and she leavesyou--was that I was jealous of the young gent for taking my girl whenshe was all I had. "

Fred suddenly understood many things; a fellow feeling for the old manfilled his heart, and in a flash he saw the past in an entirelydifferent light. 

He broke out impetuously, "She thinks of you the same as ever, I knowshe does--" then, seeing his mistake, he said, "I know them slightly, and I've heard she was lonely for you. "

"Then why didn't she tell me? She has always kept up these spunkyletters to me, and said she was happy, and all that--she liked to livehere, she said. What's this Fred fellow like?" The old man leanedtoward him confidentially. 

"Oh, just so-so, " Fred answered, trying to make the stove take morewood than it was ever intended to take. "I never had much use for him, and I know people wondered what she saw in him. "

The old man was glad to have his opinion sustained, and by a localauthority, too. 

"It wasn't because he hadn't money that I objected to him--it wasn'tthat, for I have a place in my business where I need a smart, up-to-date chap, and I'd have put him there quick, but he didn't seem to haveany snap in him--too polite, you know--the kind of a fellow that wouldjump to pick up a handkerchief like as if he was shot out of a gun. Idon't care about money, but I like action. Now, if she had taken afancy to a brown-faced chap like you I wouldn't have cared if he hadn'tenough money to make the first payment on a postage stamp. I kindaliked the way you let fly at me when I was acting contrary with you outthere in the storm. But, tell me, how does this Fred get on? Is he asgreen as most Englishmen?"

"He's green enough, " Fred agreed, "but he's not afraid of work. Butcome now, don't you want to go to bed? I can put you up for the night, what there's left of it; it's nearly morning now. "

The old man yawned sleepily, and was easily persuaded to go to bed. 

When the old man was safely out of the way Fred put his revolver backwhere he had found it. The irony of the situation came home to him--hehad gone out to kill, but in a mysterious way it had been given to himto save instead of take life. But what good was anything to him now?--the old man had come one day too late. 

At daylight, contrary to all expectations, the storm went down, onlythe high packed drifts giving evidence of the fury of the night before. 

As soon as the morning came Fred put on his father-in-law's coat, having left his in the snow, and went over to the Black Creek Stopping-House. Mrs. Corbett was the only person who could advise him. 

He walked into the kitchen, which was never locked, just as Mrs. Corbett, carrying her boots in her hand as if she were afraid ofdisturbing someone, came softly down the stairs. 

Mrs. Corbett had determined to tell Fred what a short-sighted, jealous-minded man he was when she saw him, but one look at his haggard face--for the events of the previous night were telling on him now--made herforget that she had any feeling toward him but sympathy. She read thequestion in his eyes which his lips were afraid to utter. 

"She's here, Fred, safe and sound, " she whispered. 

"Oh, Mrs. Corbett, " he whispered in return, "I've been an awful fool!Did she tell you? Will she ever forgive me, do you think?"

"Ask her!" said Mrs. Corbett, pointing up the narrow stairs. 

CHAPTER XII. 

_WHEN THE DAY BROKE_. 

All night long the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed around the tablewhere Rance Belmont and John Corbett played the game which is stillremembered and talked of by the Black Creek old settlers when theirthoughts run upon old times. 

Just as the daylight began to show blue behind the frosted panes, andthe yellow lamplight grew pale and sickly, Rance Belmont rose andstretched his stiffened limbs. 

"I am sorry to bring such a pleasant gathering to an end, " he said, with his inscrutable smile, "but I believe I am done. " He was searchingthrough his pockets as he spoke. "Yes, I believe the game is over. "

"You're a mighty good loser, Rance, " George Sims declared withadmiration. 

The other men rose, too, and went out to feed their horses, for thestorm was over and they must soon be on the road. 

When John Corbett and Rance Belmont went out into the kitchen, MaggieCorbett was chopping up potatoes in the frying-pan with a baking-powdercan, looking as fresh and rested as if she had been asleep all night, instead of holding a lonely vigil beside a stovepipe-hole. 

John Corbett advanced to the table and solemnly deposited the green boxthereon; then with painstaking deliberation he arranged the contents ofhis pockets in piles. Rance Belmont's watch lay by itself; then thebills according to denomination; last of all the silver and a slip ofbrown paper with writing on it in lead-pencil. 

When all was complete, he nodded to Maggie to take charge of theproceedings. 

Maggie hastily inspected the contents of the green box, and havingsatisfied herself that it was all there, she laid it up, high and dry, on the clock shelf. 

Then she hastily looked at the piles and read the slip of brown paper, which seemed to stand for one sorrel pacer, one cutter, one set singleharness, two goat robes. 

"Rance, " said Maggie, slowly, "we don't want a cent that don't belongto us. I put Da at playing with you in the hope he would win all awayfrom you that you had, for we were bound to stop you from goin' awaywith that dear girl if it could be done, and we knew you couldn't gobroke; but now you can't do any harm if you had all the money in theworld, for she's just gone home a few minutes ago with her man. "

Rance Belmont started forward with a smothered oath, which Mrs. Corbettignored. 

"So take your money and horse and all, Rance. It ain't me and Da wouldkeep a cent we haven't earned. Take it, Rance"--shoving it toward him--"there's no hard feelin's now, and good luck to you! Sure, I guess Daenjoyed the game, and it seems he hadn't forgot the way. " MaggieCorbett could not keep a small note of triumph out of her voice. 

Rance Belmont gathered up the money without a word, and, putting on hiscap and overcoat, he left the Black Creek Stopping-House. John Corbettcarried the green box upstairs and put it carefully back in its placeof safety, while Maggie Corbett carefully peppered and salted thepotatoes in the pan. 

 * * * * *

When Robert Grant, of the Imperial Lumber Company, of Toronto, wakenedfrom his slumber it was broad daylight, and the yellow winter sunpoured in through the frosted panes. The events of the previous nightcame back to him by degrees; the sore place on his face reminding himof the slight difference of opinion between himself and his new friend, young Mr. Brown. 

"Pretty nice, tasty room this young fellow has, " he said to himself, looking around at the many evidences of daintiness and good taste. "He's a dandy fine young fellow, that Brown. I could take to himwithout half trying. "

Then he became conscious of low voices in the next room. 

"Hello, Brown!" he called. 

Fred appeared in the doorway with a smiling face. 

"How do you feel this morning, Mr. Grant?" he asked. 

"I feel hungry, " Mr. Grant declared. "I want some more of your goodprairie cooking. If I get another meal of it I believe I'll be able tomake friends with my son-in-law. When are you going to let me get up?"

Just then there was a rustle of skirts and Evelyn came swiftly into theroom. 

"Oh, father! father!" she cried, kissing the old man over and overagain. "You will forgive me, won't you?"

The old man's voice was husky with happy tears. 

"I guess we won't talk about forgiveness, dearie--we're about even, Ithink--but we've had our lesson. I've got my girl back--and, Evelyn, Iwant you and Fred to come home with me for Christmas and forever. You've got the old man solid, Evelyn. I couldn't face a Christmaswithout you. "

Evelyn kissed him again without speaking. 

"I will apologize to your man, Evelyn, " the old man said, after apause. "I haven't treated the boy right. I hope he won't hold itagainst me. "

"Not a bit of it, " declared Evelyn. "You don't know Fred--that's all. "

"Oh, how did you get here, Evelyn? Do you live near here? I have beenso glad to see you I forgot to ask. "

"Mr. Brown brought me over, " said Evelyn, unblushingly. "He came overearly this morning to tell me you were here. Wasn't it nice of him?"

"He's a dandy fellow, this young Brown, " said the old man, and thenstopped abruptly. 

Evelyn's eyes were sparkling with suppressed laughter. 

"But where is Fred?" her father asked, with an effort, and Evelynwatched him girding himself for a painful duty. 

"I'll call him, " she said, sweetly. 

The old man's grey eyes grew dark with excitement and surprise as hisfriend Brown came into the room and stood beside Evelyn and quitebrazenly put his left arm around her waist. His face was a study inemotions as his quick brain grasped the situation. With a prolongedwhistle he dropped back on the pillow, and pulling the counterpane overhis face he shook with laughter. 

"The joke is all on me, " he cried. "I have been three or four differentkinds of a fool. "

Then he emerged from the bed-clothes and, sitting up, grasped Fred'soutstretched hand. 

"There's one thing, though, I am very proud of, Fred, " he said; "I maynot be a good judge of humanity myself, but I am glad to know that mygirl had all her wits about her when she went to pick out a man forherself!"

Randolph and Reginald stayed in hiding until it was established beyondall doubt that their brother Fred was alive and well. Then they cameback to the "Sailors' Rest, " and life for them went on as before. 

At Christmas time a bulky letter and a small white box came addressedto them, bearing the postmark of Bournemouth. 

The brothers seized their letter with undiluted joy; it was addressedin a bold, masculine hand, a lawyer's undoubtedly--a striking thoughperhaps not conclusive proof that Aunt Patience had winged her flight. 

They were a little bit disappointed that it had not black edges--theyhad always imagined that the "blow" would come with black edges. 

Reginald opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor. 

Randolph opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor. 

It contained a thick announcement card, with heavy gold edge, and thenews that it carried was to the effect that on December the first MissPriscilla Abigail Patience Brydon had been united in marriage to Rev. Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland, Rector of St. Albans, Tilbury-on-the-Stoke, and followed this with the information that Mr. And Mrs. Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland would be at home after January thefirst in the Rectory, Appleblossom Court, Parklane Road, Tilbury-on-the-Stoke. 

The envelope also contained a sweetly happy, fluttery little note fromAunt Patience, saying she hoped they were well, and that she would tryto be a good mother to the Rector's four little boys. 

The small white box contained two squares of wedding cake!

THE RUNAWAY GRANDMOTHER

(Reprinted by permission of _The Globe_, Toronto. )

George Shaw came back to his desolate hearth, and, sitting by theuntidy table, thought bitter things of women. The stove dripped ashes;the table overflowed with dirty dishes. 

His last housekeeper had been gone a week--she had left by request. Incidentally there disappeared at the same time towels, pillow-covers, a few small tools, and many other articles which are of a size to go ina trunk. 

His former housekeeper, second to the last, had been a teary-eyedEnglish lady, who, as a child, had played with King George, and waswell beloved by all the Royal family. She had a soul above work, andutterly despised Canadians. Once, when her employer remonstrated withher for wearing his best overcoat when she went to milk, she fella-weeping and declared she wasn't going to be put on. Mr. Shaw said thesame thing about his coat, and it led to unpleasantness. The next dayhe found her picking chips in his brown derby, and when he expressedhis disapproval she told him it was no fit hat for a young man likehim--he should have a topper. Mr. Shaw decided that he would try to dowithout her. 

Before that he had had a red-cheeked Irishwoman, who cooked so well, scrubbed so industriously, that he had thought his troubles were allover. But one day she went to Millford, and came home in a state ofwild exhilaration, with more of the same in a large black bottle. WhenMr. Shaw came to put away the horse, she struck him over the head withher handbag, playfully blackening one of his eyes, and then begged himto come and make up--"kiss and forgit, like the swate pet that he was. "

Exit Mrs. Murphy. 

George Shaw decided to do his own cooking, but in three days every dishin the house was dirty; the teapot was full of leaves, the stove fullof ashes, and the floor was slippery. 

George Shaw's farm lay parallel with the Souris River in that fertileregion which lies between the Brandon and the Tiger Hills. His fieldsran an unbroken mile, facing the Tiger Hills, blue with mist. He was asuccessful young farmer, and he should have been a happy man without acare in the world, but he did not look it as he sat wearily by his redstove, with the deep furrows of care on his young face. 

The busy time was coming on; he needed another man, and he did hatetrying to do the cooking himself. 

As a last hope he decided to advertise. He hunted up his writing-padand wrote hastily:

"Housekeeper wanted by a farmer; must be sober and steady. Good wagesto the right person. Apply to George Shaw, Millford, Man. "

He read it over reflectively. "There ought to be someone for me, " hesaid. "I am not hard to please. Any good, steady old lady who will giveme a bite to eat, not swear at me or wear my clothes or drink while onduty will answer my purpose. "

Two days after his advertisement had appeared in the Brandon _Times_, "she" arrived. 

Shaw saw a smart-looking woman gaily tripping along the road, and hisheart failed. 

As she drew near, however, he was relieved to find that her hair wassnowy white. 

"Good evening, Mr. Shaw!" she called to him as soon as she was withinspeaking distance. 

"Good evening, madam, " he replied, lifting his hat. 

"I just asked along the road until I found you, " she said, untying herbonnet strings; "I knew this lonesome little house must be the place. No trees, no flowers, no curtains, no washing on the line--I could tellthere was no woman around. " She was fixing her hair at his little glassas she spoke. "Now, son, run out and get a few chips for the fire, andwe'll have a bite of supper in a few minutes. "

Shaw brought the chips. 

"Now, what do you say to pancakes for supper?"

Shaw declared that nothing would suit him so well as pancakes. 

The fire crackled merrily under the kettle, and soon the two of themwere sitting down to an appetizing meal of pancakes and syrup, boiledeggs and tea. 

"Land sakes, George, you must have had your own time with thosehousekeepers of yours! Some of them drank, eh? I could tell that by thepiece you put in the paper. But never mind them now; I'll soon have youfeeling fine as silk. How's your socks? Toes out, I'll bet. Well, I'llhunt you up a pair, if there's any to be found. If I can't find any youcan go to bed when you get your chores done, and I'll wash out themyou've on--I can't bear my men folks to have their toes out; a hole inthe heel ain't so bad, it's behind you and you can forget it, but ahole in the toe is always in your way no matter which way you'regoing. "

After supper, when Shaw was out doing his chores, he could see herbustling in and out of the house; now she was beating his bedclothes onthe line; in another minute she was leaning far out of a bedroom windowdusting a pillow. 

When he came into the house she reported that her search for stockings, though vigorous, had been vain. He protested a little about having togo to bed when the sun was shining, but she insisted. 

"I'm sorry, George, " she said, "to have to make you go to bed, but it'sthe only thing we can do. You'll find your bed feels a lot better sinceI took the horse collar and the pair of rubber boots out from under themattress. That's a poor place to keep things. Good-night now--don'tread lying down. "

When he went upstairs Shaw noticed with dismay that his lamp had gonefrom the box beside his bed. So he was not likely to disobey her lastinjunction--at least, not for any length of time. 

Just at daylight the next morning there came a knock at his door. 

"Come, George--time to get up!"

When he came in from feeding his horses a splendid breakfast was on thetable. 

"Here's your basin, George; go out and have a good wash. Here's yourcomb; it's been lost for quite awhile. I put a towel out there for you, too. Hurry up now and get your vittles while they are nice!"

When Shaw came to the table she regarded him with pleasure. 

"You're a fine-looking boy, George, when you're slicked up, " she said. "Now bow your head until we say grace! There, now pitch in and tell mehow you like grandma's cooking. "

Shaw ate heartily and praised everything. 

A few days afterwards she said, "Now, George, I guess I'll have to askyou to go to town and get some things we need for the house. "

Shaw readily agreed, and took out his paper and pencil. 

"Soap, starch, ten yards of cheesecloth--that's for curtains, " shesaid. "I'll knit lace for them, and they'll look real dressy; toiletsoap, sponge and nailbrush--that's for your bath, George; you haven'tbeen taking them as often as you should, or the hoops wouldn't havecome off your tub. You can't cheat Nature, George; she always tells onyou. Ten yards flannelette--that's for night-shirts; ten yardssheeting--that's for your bed--and your white shirts are pretty fargone. "

"How do you know?" he asked in surprise; "they are all in my trunk. "

"Yes, I know, and the key is in that old cup on the stand, and I knowhow to unlock a trunk, don't I?" she replied with dignity. "You neednew shirts all right, but just get one. I never could abear themboughten shirts, they are so skimpy in the skirt; I'll make you somelovely ones, with blue and pink flossin' down the front. "

He looked up alarmed. 

"Then about collars, " she went on serenely. "You have three, butthey're not in very good shape, though, of course, you couldn't expectanything better of them, kept in that box with the nails--oh, I foundthem, George, you needn't look so surprised. You see I know somethingabout boys--I have three of my own. " A shadow passed over her face andshe sighed. "Well, I guess that is all for to-day. Be sure to get yourmail and hurry home. "

"Shall I tell the postmaster to put your mail in my box?" he asked. 

"Oh, no, never mind--I ain't expectin' any, " she said, and Shaw droveaway wondering. 

A few nights after she said, "Well, George, I suppose you are wonderin'now who this old lady is, though I am not to say real old either. "

"Indeed you are not old, " Shaw declared with considerable gallantry;"you are just in your prime. "

She regarded him gratefully. "You're a real nice boy, George, " shesaid, "and there ain't going to be no secrets between us. If you wetyour feet, or tear your clothes, don't try to hide it. Don't keepnothing from me and I won't keep nothing from you. Now I'll tell youwho I am and all about it. I am Mrs. Peter Harris, of Owen Sound, Ontario, and I have three sons here in the West. They've all done well, fur as money goes. I came up to visit them. I came from Bert's here. Icouldn't stand the way Bert's folks live. Mind you, they burn theirlights all night, and they told me it doesn't cost a cent more. Land o'liberty! They can't fool me. If lights burn, someone pays--and theamount of hired help they keep is something scandalous. Et, that isBert's wife, is real smart, and they have two hired girls, besidestheir own two girls, and they get in a woman to wash besides. I wantedthem to let the two girls go while I was there, but no, sir! Et says, 'Grandma, you didn't come here to work, you must just rest. ' Theywouldn't let me do a thing, and that brazen hired girl--the housemaid, they call her--one day even made my bed; and, mind you, George, she putthe narrow hem on the sheet to the top, and she wasn't a bit ashamedwhen I told her. She said she hoped it didn't make me feel that I wasstandin' on my head all night; and the way that woman hung out theclothes was a perfect scandal!" Her voice fell to an awed whisper. "Shehangs the underwear in plain sight. I ain't never been used to the likeof that! I could not stay. Bert is kind enough, so is Et, and they haveone girl, Maud, that I really do like. She is twenty-one, but, ofcourse, brought up the way she has been, she is awful ignorant for thatage. Mind you, that girl had never turned the heel of a stocking untilI got her at it, but Maud can learn. I'd take that girl quick, andbring her up like my own, if Bert would let me. Well, anyway, I couldnot put up with the way they live, and I just ran away. "

"You ran away!" echoed Shaw. "They'll be looking for you!"

"Let 'em look!" said the old lady, grimly. "They won't ever find mehere. "

"I'll hide you in the haymow, and if they come in here to search foryou I'll declare I never knew you--I am prepared to do desperatethings, " Shaw declared. 

"George, if they ever get in here--that is, Et anyway--she'll know whodid the fixin' up. There ain't many that know how to do this Rocky Roadto Dublin that is on your lounge. Et would know who'd been here. "

"That settles it!" declared Shaw. "Et shall not enter. If Et gets in itshall be over my prostrate form, but maybe it would be better for youto take the Rocky Road with you to the hayloft!"

The old lady laughed heartily. "Ain't we happy, George, you and me?I've tried all my own, and they won't let me have one bit of my ownway. Out at Edward's--he's a lawyer at Regina--I tried to get them allto go to bed at half-past ten--late enough, too, for decent people--anddidn't Edward's wife get real miffed over it? And then I went to Tom's--he's a doctor down at Winnipeg, but he's all gone to politics; he wasout night after night makin' speeches, and he had a young fellowlookin' after his practice who wouldn't know a corn from a gumboil onlythey grow in different places. Tom's pa and me spent good money on hiseducation, and it's hard for us to see him makin' no use of it. He wasnice enough to me, wanted me to stay and be company for Edith, but Itold him he should try to be company for Edith himself. Well, he didn'tget elected--that's one comfort. I believe it was an answer to prayer. Maybe he'll settle down to his doctorin' now. Then I went to Bert's, and I soon saw I could not stay there. Just as soon as I saw yourlittle bit in the paper, I says, 'The Lord has opened a door!' I gaveMaud a hint that I would clear out some day and go where I would be letwork, and the dear child says to me, 'Grandma, if I ever get a house ofmy own you can come and live with me, and you can do every bit of thework, and everyone will have to do just what you say; they'll have togo to bed at sundown if you say so. ' Maud's the best one I havebelongin' to me. She'll give them a hint that I'm all right. "

But Shaw was apprehensive. He knew who Bert was, and he haduncomfortable visions of Mr. Albert Harris driving up to his door someday and demanding that Mrs. Peter Harris, his mother, immediately comehome with him; and the fear and dread of former housekeepers swept overGeorge Shaw's soul. No, he would not give her up! Of course, there weretimes when he thought she was rather exacting, and when he felt somesympathy for Edward's wife forgetting "miffed. "

When she was with him about a week she announced that he must have adaily bath! "It is easier to wash you than the bed-clothes, that's onereason, " she said, "and it's good for you besides. That's what's wrongwith lots of young boys; they git careless and dirty, and then theytake to smoking and drinking just natcherally. A clean hide, mind you, is next to a clean heart. Now go along upstairs; everything is readyfor you. "

Henceforth there was no danger of the hoops falling off the tub, for itwas in daily use, and, indeed, it was not many nights until George Shawlooked forward with pleasure to his nightly wash. 

The old lady's face glowed with pleasure as she went about her work, orsat sewing in the shade of the house. At her instigation Shaw had putup a shed for his machinery, which formerly had littered the yard, andput his wood in even piles. 

The ground fell away in a steep ravine, just in front of the house, andpink wild roses and columbine hung in profusion over the spring whichgushed out of the bank. Away to the east were the sand-hills of theAssiniboine--the bad lands of the prairie, their surface peopled withstiff spruce trees that stand like sentries looking, always looking outacross the plain!

Mrs. Harris often sat with her work in the shade of the house, onpleasant afternoons, looking at this peaceful scene, and her heart wasfull of gladness and content. 

The summer passed pleasantly for George Shaw and his cheery oldhousekeeper. Not a word did they hear from "Bert's" folks. 

"I would like to see Maud, " Mrs. Harris said one night to Shaw as shesat knitting a sock for him beside their cheerful fireside. He wasreading. 

"What is Maud like?" he asked. 

"Maud favors my side of the house, " she answered. "She's a pretty good-looking girl, very much the hi'th and complexion I used to be when Iwas her age. You'd like Maud fine if you saw her, George. "

"I don't want to see her, " Shaw replied, "for I am afraid that thecoming of Maud might mean the departure of Grandma, and that would be abad day for me. "

"I ain't goin' to leave you, George, and I believe Maud would bereasonable if she did come! She'd see how happy we are!"

It was in the early autumn that Maud came. The grain had all been cutand stacked, and was waiting for the thresher to come on its rounds. Shaw was ploughing in the field in front of his house when Maud camewalking briskly up the road just as her grandmother had done fourmonths before! The trees in the poplar grove beside the road wereturning red and yellow with autumn, and Maud, in her red-brown suit andhat, looked as if she belonged to the picture. 

Some such thought as this struggled in Shaw's brain and shone in hiseyes as he waited for her at the headland. 

He raised his hat as she drew near. Maud went right into the subject. 

"Have you my grandmother?" she asked. 

Shaw hesitated--the dreaded moment had come. Visions of formerhousekeepers--dirty dishes, unmade bed, dust, flies, mice--rose beforehim and tempted him to say "no, " but something stronger and better, perhaps it was the "clean hide" prompting the clean heart, spoke up inhim. 

"I have your grandmother, " he said slowly, "and she is very well andhappy. "

"Will you give her up?" was Maud's next question. 

"Never!" he answered stoutly; "and she won't give me up, either. Yourgrandmother and I are very fond of each other, I would like you toknow--but come in and see her. "

That night after supper, which proved to be a very merry meal in spiteof the shadow which had fallen across the little home, Mrs. Harris saidalmost tearfully: "I can't leave this pore lamb, Maud--there's noknowin' what will happen to him. "

"I will go straight back to the blanket and dog soup, " Shaw declaredwith cheerful conviction. "You can't imagine the state things were inwhen your grandmother came--bed not made since Christmas, horsenailsfor buttons, comb and brush lost but not missed, wash basin rusty! Yourgrandmother, of course, has been severe with me--she makes me go to bedbefore sundown. Yet I refuse to part with her. Who takes yourgrandmother takes me; and now, Miss Maud, it is your move!"

That night when they sat in the small sitting-room with a bright fireburning in the shining stove, Maud felt her claim on her grandmothergrowing more and more shadowy. Mrs. Harris was in a radiant humor. Shewas knitting lace for the curtains, and chatted gaily as she worked. 

"You see, Maud, I am never lonely here; it's a real heartsome place tolive. There's the trains goin' by twice a day, and George here is areal good hand to read out to me. We're not near done with the bookwe're reading, and I am anxious to see if Adam got the girl. He was seton havin' her, but some of her folks were in for makin' trouble. "

"Folks sometimes do!" said Shaw, meaningly. 

"Well, I can't go until we finish the book, " the old lady declared, "and we see how the story comes out, and I don't believe Maud is theone to ask it. "

Maud made a pretty picture as she sat with one shapely foot on thefender of the stove, the firelight dancing on her face and hair. Shaw, looking at her, forgot the errand on which she came--forgot everythingonly that she was there. 

"Light the lamp and read a bit of the book now, " Mrs. Harris said. "Maud'll like it, I know. She's the greatest girl for books!"

Shaw began to read. It was "The Kentucky Cardinal" he read, thatexquisite love-story, that makes us lovers all, even if we never havebeen, or worse still, have forgotten. Shaw loved the book, and read ittenderly, and Maud, leaning back in her chair, found her heart warmedwith a sudden great content. 

A week later Shaw and Maud walked along the river bank and discussedthe situation. Autumn leaves carpeted the ground beneath their feet, and the faint murmur of the river below as it slipped over its pebblybed came faintly to their ears. In the sky above them, wild geese withflashing white wings honked away toward the south, and a meadow lark, that jolly fellow who comes early and stays late, on a red-leafedhaw-tree poured out his little heart in melody. 

"You see, Mr. Shaw, " Maud was saying, "it doesn't look right forGrandma to be living with a stranger when she has so many of her ownpeople. I know she is happy with you--happier than she has been withany of us--but what will people think? It looks as if we didn't carefor her, and we do. She is the sweetest old lady in the world. " Maudwas very much in earnest. 

Shaw's eyes followed the wild geese until they faded into tiny speckson the horizon. Then he turned and looked straight into her face. 

"Maud, " he said, with a strange vibration in his voice, "I know a wayout of the difficulty; a real good, pleasant way, and by it yourgrandmother can continue to live with me, and still be with her ownfolks. Maud, can you guess it?"

The blush that spread over Maud's face indicated that she was a goodguesser!

Then the meadow-lark, all unnoticed, hopped a little nearer, and sangsweeter than ever. Not that anybody was listening, either!

THE RETURN TICKET

(Reprinted by permission of _The Canadian Ladies' Home Journal_. )

In the station at Emerson, the boundary town, we were waiting for theSoo train, which comes at an early hour in the morning. It was abitterly cold, dark, winter morning; the wires overhead sang dismallyin the wind, and even the cheer of the big coal fire that glowed in therusty stove was dampened by the incessant mourning of the storm. 

Along the walls, on the benches, sat the trackmen, in their sheepskincoats and fur caps, with earlaps tied tightly down. They were tired andsleepy, and sat in every conceivable attitude expressive of sleepinessand fatigue. A red lantern, like an evil eye, gleamed from one darkcorner; in the middle of the floor were several green lamps turned low, and over against the wall hung one barred lantern whose bright littlegleam of light reminded one uncomfortably of a small, live mouse in acage, caught and doomed, but undaunted still. The telegraph instrumentsclicked at intervals. Two men, wrapped in overcoats, stood beside thestove and talked in low tones about the way real estate was increasingin value in Winnipeg. 

The door opened and a big fellow, another snow shoveller, came inhurriedly, letting in a burst of flying snow that sizzled on the hotstove. It did not rouse the sleepers from the bench; neither did thenew-comer's remark that it was a "deuce of a night" bring forth anyargument--we were one on that point. 

The train was late; the night agent told us that when he came out toshovel in more coal--"she" was delayed by the storm. 

I leaned back and tried to be comfortable. After all, I thought, itmight easily be worse. I was going home after a pleasant visit. I hadmany agreeable things to think of, and still I kept thinking to myselfthat it was not a cheerful night. The clock, of course, indicated thatit was morning, but the deep black that looked in through the frostedwindows, the heavy shadows in the room, which the flickering lanternsonly seemed to emphasize, were all of the night, and bore no relationto the morning. 

The train came at last with a roar that drowned the voice of the storm. The sleepers on the bench sprang up like one man, seized theirlanterns, and we all rushed out together. The long coach that I enteredwas filled with tired, sleepy-looking people, who had been sitting upall night. They were curled up uncomfortably, making a brave attempt torest, all except one little old lady, who sat upright, looking out intothe black night. When the official came to ask the passengers wherethey were going, I heard her tell him that she was a Canadian, and shehad been "down in the States with Annie, and now she was bringing Anniehome, " and as she said this she pointed significantly ahead to thebaggage car. 

There was something about the old lady that appealed to me. I went overto her when the official had gone out. No, she wasn't tired, she said;she "had been up a good many nights, and been worried some, but thenight before last she had had a real good sleep. "

She was quite willing to talk; the long black night had made her gladof companionship. 

"I took Annie to Rochester, down in Minnesota, to see the doctorsthere--the Mayos--did you ever hear of the Mayos? Well, Dr. Smale, atRose Valley, said they were her only hope. Annie had been ailing foryears, and Dr. Smale had done all he could for her. Dr. Moore, our olddoctor, wouldn't hear of it; he said an operation would kill her, butAnnie was set on going. I heard Annie say to him that she'd rather diethan live sick, and she would go to Rochester. Dave Johnston--Annie'sman, that is--he drinks, you know--"

The old lady's voice fell and her tired old face seemed to take ondeeper lines of trouble as she sat silent with her own sad thoughts. Iexpressed my sorrow. 

"Yes, Annie had her own troubles, poor girl, " she said at last; "andshe was a good girl, Annie was, and she deserved something better. Shewas a tender-hearted girl, and gentle and quiet, and never talked backto anyone, to Dave least of all, for she worshipped the very ground hewalked on, and married him against all our wishes. She thought shecould reform him!"

She said it sadly, but without bitterness. 

"Was he good to her?" I asked. People draw near together in the stormydark of a winter's morning, and the thought of Annie in her narrow boxahead robbed my question of any rudeness. 

"He was good to her in his own way, " Annie's mother said, trying to bequite just, "but it was a rough way. She had a fine, big, brick houseto live in--it was a grand house, but it was a lonely house. He oftenwent away and stayed for weeks, and her not knowing where he was or howhe would come home. He worried her always. The doctor said that waspart of her trouble--he worried her too much. "

"Did he ever try to stop drinking?" I asked. I wanted to think betterof him if I could. 

"Yes, he did; he was sober once for nearly a year, and Annie's healthwas better than it had been for years, but the crowd around the hotelthere in Rose Valley got after him every chance, and one Christmas Daythey got him going again. Annie never could bear to mention about himdrinkin' to anyone, not even me--it would ha' been easier on her if shecould ha' talked about it, but she wasn't one of the talkin' kind. "

We sat in silence, listening to the pounding of the rails. 

"Everybody was kind to her in Rochester, " she said, after a while. "When we were sitting there waitin' our turn--you know how the sickpeople wait there in two long rows, waitin' to be taken in to theconsultin' room, don't you? Well, when we were sittin' there Annie wassufferin' pretty bad, and we were still a long way from the top of theline. Dr. Judd was takin' them off as fast as he could, and theambulances were drivin' off every few minutes, takin' them away to thehospital after the doctors had decided what was wrong with them. Someof them didn't need to go to the hospital at all--they're the best off, I think. We got talkin' to the people around us--they are there fromall over the country, with all kinds of diseases, poor people. Well, there was a man from Kansas City who had been waitin' a week, but hadgot up now second to the end, and I noticed him lookin' at Annie. I wasfannin' her and tryin' to keep her cheered up. Her face was a bad colorfrom the pain she was in, and what did this man do but git up and comedown to us and tell Annie that she could have his place. He said hewasn't in very bad pain now, and he would take her place. He made verylittle of it, but it meant a lot to us, and to him, too, poor fellow. Annie didn't want to do it, but he insisted. Sick folks know how to bekind to sick folks, I tell you. "

The dawn began to show blue behind the frost ferns on the window andthe lamps overhead looked pale and sickly in the grey light. 

"Annie had her operation on Monday, " she went on after a long pause. "She was lookin' every day for a letter from Dave, and when the doctortold her they would operate on her on Monday morning early, she askedhim if he would mind putting it off until noon. She thought there wouldbe a letter from Dave, for sure, on that morning's mail. The doctor wasvery kind to her--they understand a lot, them Mayos--and he did put itoff. In the ward with Annie there was a little woman from Saskatchewan, that was a very bad case. She talked to us a lot about her man and herfour children. She had a real good man by what she said. They were on ahomestead near Quill Lake, and she was so sure she'd get well. Thedoctor was very hopeful of Annie, and said she had nine chances out often of getting better, but this little woman's was a worse case. Dr. Will Mayo told her she had just one chance in ten---but, dear me, shewas a brave woman; she spoke right up quick, and says she, 'That's allI want; I'll get well if I've only half a chance. I've got to; Jim andthe children can't do without me. ' Jim was her man. When they came totake her out into the operating room they couldn't give her ether, someway. She grabbed the doctor's hand, and says she, kind of chokin' up, all at once, 'You'll do your best for Jim's sake, won't you?' and hesays, says he, 'My dear woman, I'll do my best for your sake. ' Busy andall as they are, they're the kindest men in the world, and just beforethey began to operate the nurse brought her a letter from Jim and readit to her, and she held it in her hand through it all, and when theywheeled her back into the ward after the operation, it was still in herhand, though she had fainted dead away. "

"Did Annie get her letter?" I asked her. 

My companion did not answer at once, but I knew very well that theletter had not come. 

"She didn't ask for it at the last; she just looked at me before theyput the gauze thing over her face. I knew what she meant. I had beendown to see if it had come, and they told me all the mails were in forthe day from the West. She just looked at me so pitiful, but it waslike Annie not to ask. A letter from Dave would have comforted her so, but it didn't come, though I wired him two days before telling him whenthe operation would be. Annie was wonderful cheerful and calm, but Iwas trembling like a leaf when they were givin' her the ether, and whenthey wheeled her out all so stiff and white I just seemed to feel I'dlost my girl. "

I took the old lady's hand and tried to whisper words of comfort. Shereturned the pressure of my hand; her eyes were tearless, and her voicedid not even waver, but the thought of poor Annie going into the valleyunassured by any loving word gave free passage to my tears. 

"Did Dave write or wire?" I asked when I could speak. 

"No, not a word; he's likely off on a spree. " The old lady spokebitterly now. "Everybody was kind to my Annie but him, and it was aword from him that would have cheered her the most. Dr. Mayo came andsat beside her just an hour before she died, and says he, 'You stillhave a chance, Mrs. Johnston, ' but Annie just thanked him again for hiskindness and sort o' shook her head..... 

"The little woman from Saskatchewan didn't do well at all after theoperation, and Dr. Mayo was afraid she wouldn't pull through. She askedhim what chance she had, and he told her straight--the Mayos alwaystell the truth--that she had only one chance in a hundred. She was soweak that he had to bend down to hear her whisperin', 'I'll take thatone chance!'"

"And did she?" I asked eagerly. 

"She was still living when I left. She will get better, I think. Shehas a very good man, by what she was tellin' us, and a woman can standa lot if she has a good man, " the old lady said, with the wisdom bornof experience. "I've nursed around a lot, and I've always noticedthat!"

I have noticed it, too, though I've never "nursed around. "

"Dave came with us to the station the day we left home. He was soberthat day, and gave Annie plenty of money. Annie told him to get areturn ticket for her, too. I said he'd better get just a single forher, for she might have to stay longer than a month; but she said no, she'd be back in a month, all right. Dave seemed pleased to hear hertalk so cheerful. When she got her ticket she sat lookin' at it a longtime. I knew what she was thinkin'. She never was a girl to talkmournful, and when the conductor tore off the goin' down part she gaveme the return piece, and she says, 'You take this, mother. ' I knew thatshe was thinkin' what the return half might be used for. "

We changed cars at Newton, and I stood with the old lady and watchedthe trainmen unload the long box. They threw off trunks, boxes andvalises almost viciously, but when they lifted up the long box theirmanner changed and they laid it down as tenderly as if they had knownsomething of Annie and her troubled life. 

We sent another telegram to Dave, and then sat down in the waiting-roomto wait for the west train. The wind drove the snow in billows over theprairie, and the early twilight of the morning was bitterly cold. 

Her train came first, and again the long box was gently put aboard. Onthe wind-swept platform Annie's mother and I shook hands without aword, and in another minute the long train was sweeping swiftly acrossthe white prairie. I watched it idly, thinking of Annie and her sadhome-going. Just then the first pale beams of the morning sun glintedon the last coach, and touched with fine gold the long white smokeplume, which the wind carried far over the field. There is nothing socheerful as the sunshine, and as I sat in the little grey waiting-room, watching the narrow golden beam that danced over the closed wicket, Icould well believe that a rest remains for Annie, and that she is sureof a welcome at her journey's end. And as the sun's warmth began tothaw the tracery of frost on the window, I began to hope that God'sgrace may yet find out Dave, and that he too may "make good" in theyears to come. As for the little woman from Quill Lake, who was stillwilling to take the one chance, I have never had the slightest doubt. 

THE UNGRATEFUL PIGEONS

Philip was a little boy, with a generous growth of freckles, and aloving heart. Most people saw only the freckles, but his mother neverlost sight of his affectionate nature. So when, one warm spring day, hesat moodily around the house, she was ready to listen to his grievance. 

"I want something for a pet, " said Philip. "I have no dog or cat oranything!"

"What would you like the very best of all?" his mother asked, with theair of a fairy godmother. 

"I want pigeons! They are so pretty and white and soft, and they layeggs and hatch young ones. "

All his gloom had vanished!

"How much a pair?" asked his mother. 

"Twenty-five cents out at Crane's. They have millions of them; I canwalk out--it's only five miles. "

"Where will we put them when you bring them home?" she asked. 

Philip thought they could share his room, but this suggestion waspromptly rejected!

Then Philip's father was hurriedly interviewed by Philip's mother, andhe agreed to nail a box on the end of the stable, far beyond the reachof prowling cats, and Philip, armed with twenty-five cents, set forthgaily on his five-mile walk. It was Saturday morning, and a beautifulday of glittering April sunshine. The sun was nearly down when Philipreturned, tired but happy. It seemed there had been some trouble incatching them. The quoted price of twenty-five cents a pair was forraw, uncaught pigeons, but Philip had succeeded at last and broughtback two beauties, one with blue markings, and the other one almostwhite. 

The path of true love never ran smooth; difficulties were encounteredat once. Philip put a generous supply of straw in one end of the boxfor a bed, but when he put them in they turned round and round as ifthey were not quite satisfied with their lodgings. Then Philip had oneof those dazzling ideas which so often led to trouble with the othermembers of his family. He made a hurried visit to Rose's--his sister's--room. Rose was a grown-up lady of twelve. 

When he came back, he brought with him a dove-grey chiffon auto veil, the kind that was much favored that spring by young ladies in Rose'sset, for a head protection instead of hats. 

Rose's intimate friend, Hattie Matthews, had that very day put a knotin each side, which made it fit very artistically on Rose's head. Philip carefully untied the knots, and draped it over the straw. Theeffect was beautiful. Philip exclaimed with delight! They looked sopretty and "woozy"!

In the innocence of his heart, he ran into the house, for Rose; hewanted her to rejoice with him. 

Rose's language was pointed, though dignified, and the pretty sight wasruthlessly broken up. Philip's mother, however, stepped into the gap, and produced an old, pale blue veil of her own, which was equallybecoming. 

It was she, too, who proposed a pigeon book, and a very pleasant timewas spent making it, --for it was not a common book, bought with money, but one made by loving hands. Several sheets of linen notepaper wereused for the inside, with stiff yellow paper for the cover, the wholefastened with pale blue silk. Then Philip printed on the cover:

Philip Brown, Pigeon Book, but not in any ordinary, plain, little bits of letters! Each capitalwas topped off with an arrow, and ended with a feather, and even thesmall letters had a thick blanket of dots. 

The first entry was as follows:

April 7th. --_I wocked out to Crane's, and got 2 fantales. They are hardto ketch. I payed 25 scents. My father knailed a box on the stable, andI put in a bed of straw, they are bootiful. My sister would not let mehave her vale, but I got one prettier. They look woozy_. 

The next day, Sunday, Philip did not see how he could go to church orSunday-school--he had not time, he said, but his mother agreed to watchthe pigeons, and so his religious obligations did not need to be setaside. 

Monday afternoon the Browns' back yard was full of little boysinspecting Philip's pigeons, not merely idle onlookers, but hard-headedpoultry fanciers, as shown by the following entry:

April 9th. --_I sold a pare of white ones to-day to Wilfred Garbett, tobe kept three weeks after birth, Eva Gayton wants a pare too any color, in July. She paid for them_. 

Under this entry, which was made laboriously in ink, there was anotherone, in lead pencil, done by Philip's brother, Jack:

_This is called selling Pigeons short_. 

Philip's friends recommended many and varied things for the pigeons toeat, and he did his best to supply them all, as far as his slendermeans allowed; he went to the elevator for wheat; he traded his goodjack-knife for two mouse-eaten and anaemic heads of squaw-corn, whichwere highly recommended by an unscrupulous young Shylock, who had justcome to town and was short of a jack-knife. His handkerchief, scribblers and pencils mysteriously disappeared, but other articlescame in their place: a small round mirror advertising corsets on theback (Gordon Smith said pigeons liked a looking-glass--it made themmore contented to stay at home); a small swing out of a birdcage, whichwas duly put in place (vendor Miss Edie Beal, owner unknown). Ofcourse, it was too small for pigeons, but there were going to be littleones very soon, weren't there?

He also brought to them one day five sunflower seeds, recommended andsold by a mild-eyed little Murphy girl, who had the stubby fingers of amoney-maker. Philip, being very low in funds that day, wanted her toaccept prospective eggs in payment, but the stubby-fingered Miss Murphypreferred currency! Philip decided to make no entry of thesetransactions in his Pigeon Book. 

His young brother, Barrie, began to be troublesome about this time, andto evince an unwholesome interest in the pigeons. The ladder, which wasplaced against the stable under their house, at first seemed to him toohigh to climb, but seeing the multitude of delighted spectators whowent up and down without accident, he resolved to try it, too, and sosuccessfully that he was able after a few attempts to carry a stickwith him, stand on the highest rung, and poke up the pigeons. 

One day he was caught--with the goods--by Philip himself. So indignantwas Philip that for a moment he stood speechless. His young brother, jarred by a guilty conscience and fear of Philip, came hastily down theladder, raising a few bruises on his anatomy as he came. Even in hisinfant soul he felt he deserved all he had got, and thought best not tomention the occurrence. Philip, too, generously kept quiet about it, feeling that the claims of justice had been met. The only dissatisfiedparties in the transaction were the pigeons. 

The next Sunday in Sabbath School there was a temperance lesson, andBarrie Brown quoted the Golden Text with a slight variation--"At thelast it biteth like a serpent and stingeth like a _ladder_!"

Philip was the only one who knew what he meant, and he said it servedhim good and right. 

The following entry appears in the Pigeon Book:

_My brother Barrie poks them, but he got his leson. Tomoro I'll letthem out--there fond enough of home now I gess_. 

The next day being Saturday, when Philip could watch them, he let themout. All day long his heart was torn with pride and fear--they lookedso beautiful, circling and wheeling over the stable and far away acrossthe road, and yet his heart was chill with the fear that they wouldnever return. 

That night the Pigeon Book received the following entry:

April 21st. --_I let them out and, they came back--they are sweet pets. I dreem about them every night I have two dreems, my good dreem isthe've layd my bad dreem is about tomcats and two little heaps offethers its horrid_. 

The next week another entry went into the book:

_I sold another pare to-day I've raised the price this pare is to bedelivered in Ogist. I gave them a bran mash to-day, it makes them laysure. _

Under this Jack wrote:

_Thinking of the August delivery_. 

The next entry was this:

May 1st. --_Wilfred G. Is pritty meen, he thinks he knows it all. Theyaint goin to lay all in a hurry. _

There seemed to be no doubt about this. They certainly were not. Inspite of bran mashes, pepper, cotton batting, blue veil and tendercare, they refused to even consider the question of laying. 

Philip was quite satisfied with them as they were, if they would onlystay with him, but the customers who had bought and paid for highlyrecommended young fowl were inclined to be impatient and evenunpleasant when the two parent birds were to be seen gadding around thestreet at all hours of the day, utterly regardless of their youngmaster's promises. 

Philip learned to call them. His "cutacutacoo--cutacutacoo" could beheard up and down the street. Sometimes they seemed to pay a littleattention to him, and then his joy was full. More often they seemed tosay, "Cutacutacoo yourself!" or some such saucy word, and fly fartheraway. 

One night they did not come home. Philip's most insistent "cutacutacoo"brought no response. He hired boys to help him to look for them, beggaring himself of allies and marbles, even giving away his LuckyShooter, a mottled pee-wee, to a lynx-eyed young hunter who claimed tobe able to see in the dark. He even dared the town constable by stayingout long after the curfew had rung, looking and asking. No one had seenthem. 

Through the night it rained, a cold, cruel rain--or so it seemed to thesad-hearted, wide-awake little boy. He stole out quietly, afraid thathe might be sent back to bed, but only his mother heard him, and sheunderstood. It was lonesome and dark outside, but love lighted his way. He groped his way up the ladder, hoping to find them, but though thestraw, the cotton batting, the blue veil, the water-dish were all inplace--there were no pigeons!

Philip came back to bed, cold and wet in body, but his heart colderstill with fear, and his face wetter with tears. Under cover of thenight a boy of ten can cry all he wants to. 

His mother, who heard him going out and who understood, called softlyto him to come to her room, and then sympathized. She said they weresafe enough, never fear, with some flock of pigeons; they had gotlonesome, that was all; they would come back when they got hungry, andthe rain would not hurt them, and be sure to wipe his feet!

The next day they were found across the street with Jerry Andrews'pigeons, as unconcerned as you please. Philip parted with his Lost Heirgame--about the only thing he had left--to get Jerry to help him tocatch them when they were roosting. He shut them up for a few days andworked harder than ever, if that were possible, to try to please them. 

The Pigeon Book would have been neglected only for his mother, who saidit was only right to put in the bad as well as the good. That was theway with all stories. Philip made this entry:

_They went away and staid and had to be brot back by force I guess theywere lonesome. I don't know why they don't like me--I like them_!

When his mother read that she said, "Poor little fellow, " and madepancakes for tea. 

In a few days he let them out again, and watched them with a pale face. 

They did not hesitate a minute, but flew straight away down the streetto the place they had been before, to the place where the people oftenmade pies of pigeons and were not ashamed to tell it!

Philip followed them silently, not having the heart to call. 

"Say, Phil, " the boy of the pigeon loft called--he was a stout boy whomade money out of everything--"I guess they ain't goin' to stay withyou. You might as well sell out to me. I'll give you ten cents for thepair. I'm goin' to sell a bunch to the hotel on Saturday. "

An insane desire to fight him took hold of Philip. He turned awaywithout speaking. 

At school that day he approached the pigeon boy and made theproposition that filled the boy with astonishment: "I'll give them toyou, Jerry, " he said, hurriedly, "if you promise not to kill them. It'sall right! I guess I won't bother with pigeons--I think I'll get a dog--or something, " he ended lamely. 

Jerry was surprised, but being a business man he closed the deal on thespot. When Philip went home he put his pigeon book away. 

There was a final entry, slightly smeared and very badly written:

_They are ungrateful broots_!

YOU NEVER CAN TELL

(Reprinted by permission of _Saturday Night_, Toronto. )

It was at exactly half-past three in the afternoon of a hot June daythat Mrs. Theodore Banks became smitten with the idea. Mrs. Banks oftensaid afterwards she did not know how she came to be thinking about theConvention of the Arts and Crafts at all, although she is theSecretary. The idea was so compelling that Mrs. Banks rushed down townto tell Mr. Banks--she felt she could not depend on the telephone. 

"Ted, " she cried, when she opened the door of the office, "I have anidea!"

Theodore raised his eyelids. 

Mrs. Banks was flushed and excited and looked well. Mrs. Banks was ahandsome woman any time, and to-day her vivacity was quite genuine. 

"You know the Convention of the Arts and Crafts--which begins on thetwentieth. "

"I've heard of it--somewhere. "

"Well, it just came to me, Teddy, what a perfectly heavenly thing itwould be to invite that little Mrs. Dawson, who writes reviews for oneof the papers here--you remember I told you about her--she is awfullyclever and artistic and good-looking, and lives away off from everyplace, and her husband is not her equal at all--perfectly illiterate, I heard--uncultured anyway. What a perfect joy it would be to her tohave her come, and meet with people who are her equals. She's an Ottawagirl originally, I believe, and she does write the most perfectly sweetand darling things--you remember I've read them for you. Of course, sheis probably very shabby and out of date in her clothes by this time. But it doesn't really matter what one wears, if one has heaps ofbrains. It is only dull women, really, who have to be so terriblycareful about what they wear, and spend so much money that way!"

"Dull women!" Theodore murmured. "Oh! is that why? I never reallyknew. "

She laughed at his look of enlightened surprise. When Mrs. Bankslaughed there were three dimples plainly showing, which did notentirely discourage her merriment. 

"And you know, Teddy, there is such a mystery about her marriage! Shewill really be quite an acquisition, and we'll have her on theprogramme. "

"What mystery?" Mr. Banks asked. 

"Oh, well, not mystery, maybe, but we all suppose she's not happy. Howcould she be with so few of the real pleasures of life, and still shestays with it, and actually goes places with her husband, and seems tobe keeping it up, and you know, Ted, she has either three or fourchildren!"

"Is it as bad as that?" he asked, solemnly. 

"Oh, Ted! you know well enough what I mean--don't be such an owl! Justthink of how tied down and horrible it must be for her out there inthat desolate Alberta, with no neighbors at all for miles, and thenonly impossible people. I should think it would drive her mad. I musttry to get her on the programme, too. She will at least be interesting, on account of her personality. Most of our speakers are horribly prosy, at least to me, but of course I never listen; I just look to see whatthey've on and then go straight back to my own thinking. I just thoughtI'd ask your advice, Teddy dear, before I asked the Committee, and sonow I'll go to see Mrs. Trenton, the President. So glad you approve, dear! And really there will be a touch of romance in it, Ted, for BruceEdwards knew her when she lived in Ottawa--it was he who told me somuch about her. He simply raved about her to me--it seems he was quitemad about her once, and probably it was a lover's quarrel or somethingthat drove her away to the West to forget, --and now think of hermeeting Bruce again. Isn't that a thriller?"

"If I thought Bruce Edwards had brains enough to care for any woman I'dsay it was not right to bring her here, " said Mr. Banks; "but hehasn't. "

"Oh, of course, " Mrs. Banks agreed, "he is quite over it now, no doubt. Things like that never last, but he'll be awfully nice to her, and giveher a good time and take her around--you know what Bruce is like--he'sso romantic and cynical, and such a perfect darling in his manners--always ready to open a door or pick up a handkerchief!"

"I am sure he would--if he needed the handkerchief, " Theodore put in, quietly. 

"Oh, Ted! you're a funny bunny! You've never liked Bruce--and I knowwhy--and it's perfectly horrid of you, just because he has always beenparticularly nice to me--he really can't help being dreamy and devotedto any woman he is with, if she is not a positive fright. "

 * * * * *

Mrs. Trenton, the President of the Arts and Crafts, received Mrs. Banks' suggestion cautiously. Mrs. Trenton always asked, Is it right?Is it wise? Is it expedient? It was Mrs. Trenton's extreme cautiousnessthat had brought her the proud distinction of being the first Presidentof the Arts and Crafts, where it was considered necessary to temper theimpetuosity of the younger members; and, besides, Mrs. Trenton nevercarried her doubts and fears too far. She raised all possibleobjections, mentioned all possible contingencies, but in the endallowed the younger members to carry the day, which they did, with aclear and shriven conscience, feeling that they had been very discreetand careful and deliberate. 

Mrs. Banks introduced her subject by telling Mrs. Trenton that she hadcome to ask her advice, whereupon Mrs. Trenton laid aside the work shewas doing and signified her gracious willingness to be asked forcounsel. When Mrs. Banks had carefully laid the matter before Mrs. Trenton, dwelling on the utter loneliness of the prairie woman's life, Mrs. Trenton called the Vice-President, Miss Hastings, who was an oilpainter by profession, and a lady of large experience in matters of theheart. Mrs. Trenton asked Mrs Banks to outline her plan again. 

When she had finished, Mrs. Trenton asked: "Is it wise--is it kind? Shehas chosen her life. Why bring her back? It will only fill her heartwith vain repinings. This man, illiterate though he may be, is herlawful husband--she owes him a duty. Are we just to him?"

"Maybe she is perfectly happy, " Miss Hastings said. "There is noaccounting for love and its vagaries. Perhaps to her he is clothed inthe rosy glow of romance, and all the inconveniences of her life areforgotten. I have read of it, " she added in explanation, when shenoticed Mrs. Trenton's look of incredulity. 

Mrs. Trenton sighed, a long sigh that undulated the black lace on hercapacious bosom. 

"It has been written--it will continue to be written, but to-daymarriage needs to be aided by modern--" she hesitated, and looked atMrs. Banks for the word. 

"Methods, " Mrs. Banks supplied, promptly, "housemaids, cooks, autos, theatres, jewelry and chocolates. "

"You put it so aptly, my dear, " Mrs. Trenton smiled, as she patted herpearl bracelet, Mr. Trenton's last offering on the hymeneal altar. "Itrequires--" she paused again--Mrs. Trenton's pauses were a veryimportant asset in her conversation--"it requires--"

"Collateral, " said Mrs. Banks. 

Miss Hastings shook her head. 

"I believe in marriage--all the same, " she said heroically. 

"Now, how shall we do it?" Mrs. Banks was anxious to get thepreliminaries over. "You have decided to invite her, of course. "

Mrs. Trenton nodded. 

"I feel we have no choice in the matter, " she said slowly. "She iscertainly a woman of artistic temperament--she must be, or she wouldsuccumb to the dreary prairie level. I have followed her career withinterest and predict great things for her--have I not, Miss Hastings?We should not blame her if in a moment of girlish romance she turnedher back on the life which now is. We, as officers of the Arts andCrafts, must extend our fellowship to all who are worthy. This joiningof our ranks may show her what she lost by her girlish folly, but it isbetter for her to know life, and even feel regrets, than never toknow. "

"Better have a scarlet thread run through the dull gray pattern oflife, even if it makes the gray all the duller, " said Miss Hastings, who worked in oils. 

And so it came about that an invitation was sent to Mrs. James Dawson, Auburn, Alberta, and in due time an acceptance was received. 

From the time she alighted from the Pacific Express, a slight youngwoman in a very smart linen suit, she was a constant surprise to theArts and Crafts. The principal cause of their surprise was that sheseemed perfectly happy. There was not a shadow of regret in her cleargrey eyes, nor any trace of drooping melancholy in her quick, business-like walk. 

Naturally the Arts and Crafts had made quite a feature of the Albertaauthor and poet who would attend the Convention. Several of theenthusiastic members, anxious to advertise effectively, had interviewedthe newspaper reporters on the subject, with the result that longarticles were published in the Woman's Section of the city dailies, dealing principally with the loneliness of the life on an Albertaranch. Kate Dawson was credited with an heroic spirit that would havemade her blush had she seen the flattering allusions. Robinson Crusoeon his lonely isle, before the advent of Friday, was not more isolatedthan she on her lonely Alberta ranch, according to the advance notices. Luckily she had not seen any of these, nor ever dreamed she was thecentre of so much attention, and so it was a very self-possessed andunconscious young woman in a simple white gown who came before the Artsand Crafts. 

It was the first open night of the Convention, and the auditorium wascrowded. The air was heavy with the perfume of many flowers, and pulsedwith dreamy music. Mrs. Trenton, in billows of black lace and glintingjet, presided with her usual graciousness. She introduced Mrs. Dawsonbriefly. 

Whatever the attitude of the audience was at first, they soon followedher with eager interest as she told them, in her easy way, simplestories of the people she knew so well and so lovingly understood. There was no art in the telling, only a sweet naturalness and anapparent honesty--the honesty of purpose that comes to people in lonelyplaces. Her stories were all of the class that magazine editors call"homely, heart-interest stuff, " not deep or clever or problematical--the commonplace doings of common people--but it found an entrance intothe hearts of men and women. 

They found themselves looking with her at broad sunlit spaces, wherestruggling hearts work out noble destinies, without any thought ofheroism. They saw the moonlight and its drifting shadows on the wheat, and smelled again the ripening grain at dawn. They heard the whirr ofprairie chickens' wings among the golden stubble on the hillside, andthe glamor of some old forgotten afternoon stole over them. Men andwomen country-born who had forgotten the voices of their youth, heardthem calling across the years, and heard them, too, with opened heartsand sudden tears. There was one pathetic story she told them, of thelonely prairie woman--the woman who wished she was back, the woman towhom the broad outlook and far horizon were terrible and full of fear. She told them how, at night, this lonely woman drew down the blinds andpinned them close to keep out the great white outside that stared ather through every chink with wide, pitiless eyes--the mocking voicesthat she heard behind her everywhere, day and night, whispering, mocking, plotting; and the awful shadows, black and terrible, thatcrouched behind her, just out of sight--never coming out in the open. 

It was a weird and gloomy picture, that, but she did not leave it so. She told of the new neighbor who came to live near the lonely woman--the human companionship which drove the mocking voices away forever--the coming of the spring, when the world awoke from its white sleep andthe thousand joyous living things that came into being at the touch ofthe good old sun!

At the reception after the programme, many crowded around her, expressing their sincere appreciation of her work. Bruce Edwards fullyenjoyed the distinction which his former acquaintance with her gavehim, and it was with quite an air of proprietorship that he introducedto her his friends. 

Mrs. Trenton, Mrs. Banks and other members of the Arts and Crafts, at adistance discussed her with pride. She had made their open night awonderful success--the papers would be full of it to-morrow. 

"You can see how fitted she is for a life of culture, " said MissHastings, the oil painter; "her shapely white hands were made forsilver spoons, and not for handling butter ladles. What a perfect joyit must be for her to associate with people who are her equals!"

"I wonder, " said Mrs. Banks, "what her rancher would say if he saw hishandsome wife now. So much admiration from an old lover is not good forthe peace of mind of even a serious-minded author--and such afascinating man as Bruce! Look how well they look together! I wonder ifshe is mentally comparing her big, sunburned cattleman with Bruce, andthinking of what a different life she would have led if she had marriedhim!"

"Do you suppose, " said Mrs. Trenton, "that that was her own story thatshe told us? I think she must have felt it herself to be able to tellit so. "

Just at that moment Bruce Edwards was asking her the same question. 

"Oh, no, " she answered, quickly, while an interested group drew near;"people never write their own sorrows--the broken heart does not sing--that's the sadness of it. If one can talk of their sorrows they sooncease to be. It's because I have not had any sorrows of my own that Ihave seen and been able to tell of the tragedies of life. "

"Isn't she the jolly best bluffer you ever heard?" one of the menremarked to another. "Just think of that beautiful creature, born foradmiration, living ten miles from anywhere, on an Albertan ranch of allplaces, and saying she is happy. She could be a top-notcher in anysociety in Canada--why, great Scott! any of us would have married thatgirl, and been glad to do it!" And under the glow of this generousdeclaration Mr. Stanley Carruthers lit his cigarette and watched herwith unconcealed admiration. 

As the Arts and Crafts had predicted, the newspapers gave considerablespace to their open meeting, and the Alberta author came in for a largeshare of the reporters' finest spasms. It was the chance of a lifetime--here was local color--human interest--romance--thrills! Good oldphrases, clover-scented and rosy-hued, that had lain in cold storagefor years, were brought out and used with conscious pride. 

There was one paper which boldly hinted at what it called her"_mesalliance_, " and drew a lurid picture of her domestic unhappiness, "so bravely borne. " All the gossip of the Convention was in itintensified and exaggerated--conjectures set down as known truths--theidle chatter of idle women crystallized in print!

And of this paper a copy was sent by some unknown person to JamesDawson, Auburn, Alberta. 

 * * * * *

The rain was falling at Auburn, Alberta, with the dreary insistence ofunwelcome harvest rain. Just a quiet drizzle--plenty more where thiscame from--no haste, no waste. It soaked the fields, keeping green thegrain which should be ripening in a clear sun. Kate Dawson had beengone a week, and it would still be a week before she came back. Just aweek--seven days. Jim Dawson went over them in his mind as he drove theten miles over the rain-soaked roads to Auburn to get his daily letter. 

Every day she had written to him long letters, full of vital interestto him. He read them over and over again. 

"Nobody really knows how well Kate can write, who has not seen herletters to me, " he thought proudly. Absence had not made him fonder ofhis wife, for every day he lived was lived in devotion to her. Themarvel of it all never left him, that such a woman as Kate Marks, whohad spent her life in the city, surrounded by cultured friends, shouldbe contented to live the lonely life of a rancher's wife. 

He got his first disappointment when there was no letter for him. Hetold himself it was some unavoidable delay in the mails--Kate hadwritten all right--there would be two letters for him to-morrow. Thenhe noticed the paper addressed to him in a strange hand. 

He opened it eagerly. A wavy ink-line caught his eye. "Western authordelights large audience. " Jim Dawson's face glowed with pride. "Mygirl!" he murmured, happily. "I knew it. " He wanted to be alone when heread it, and, folding it hastily, put it in his pocket and did not lookat it again until he was on the way home. The rain still fell drearilyand spattered the page as he read. 

His heart beat fast with pride as he read the flattering words--hisgirl had made good, you bet!

Suddenly he started, almost crushing the paper in his hands, and everybit of color went from his face. "What's this? 'Unhappily married '--'borne with heroic cheerfulness. '" He read it through to the end. 

He stopped his horses and looked around--he did not know, himself, whatthought was in his mind. Jim Dawson had always been able to settle hisdisputes without difficulty or delay. There was something to be donenow. The muscles swelled in his arms. Surely something could bedone!... 

Then the wanton cruelty, the utter brutality of the printed page camehome to him--there was no way, no answer. 

Strange to say, he felt no resentment for himself; even the paragraphabout the old lover, with its hidden and sinister meaning, angered himonly in its relation to her. Why shouldn't the man admire her if he wasan old lover?--Kate must have had dozens of men in love with her--whyshouldn't any man admire her?

So he talked and reasoned with himself, trying to keep the cruel hurtof the words out of his heart. 

Everyone in his household was asleep when he reached home. He stabledhis team with the help of his lantern, and then, going into thecomfortable kitchen, he found the lunch the housekeeper had left forhim. He thought of the many merry meals he and Kate had had on thissame kitchen table, but now it seemed a poor, cold thing to sit downand eat alone and in silence. 

With his customary thoughtfulness he cleared away the lunch beforegoing to his room. Then, lamp in hand, he went, as he and Kate hadalways done, to the children's room, and looked long and lovingly athis boy and girl asleep in their cots--the boy so like himself, withhis broad forehead and brown curls. He bent over him and kissed himtenderly--Kate's boy. 

Then he turned to the little girl, so like her mother, with her tangleof red curls on the pillow. Picking her up in his arms, he carried herto his room and put her in his own bed. 

"Mother isn't putting up a bluff on us, is she, dearie?" he whisperedas he kissed the soft little cheek beside his own. "Mother loves us, surely--it is pretty rough on us if she doesn't--and it's rougherstill on mother!"

The child stirred in her sleep, and her arms tightened around his neck. 

"I love my mother--and my dear daddy, " she murmured drowsily. 

All night long Jim Dawson lay wide-eyed, staring into the darkness withhis little sleeping girl in his arms, not doubting his wife for amoment, but wondering--all night long--wondering!

The next evening Jim did not go for his mail, but one of the neighborsdriving by volunteered to get it for him. 

It was nearly midnight when the sound of wheels roused him from hisreverie. He opened the door, and in the square of light the horsesstopped. 

"Hello, Jim--is that you?" called the neighbor; "I've got something foryou. "

Jim came out bareheaded. He tried to thank the neighbor for hiskindness, but his throat was dry with suppressed excitement--Kate hadwritten!

The buggy was still in the shadow, and he could not see its occupant. 

"I have a letter for you, Jim, " said his friend, with a suspicioustwinkle in his voice, "a big one, registered and special delivery--aright nice letter, I should say. "

Then her voice rang out in the darkness. 

"Come, Jim, and help me out. "

Commonplace words, too, but to Jim Dawson they were sweeter than thechiming of silver bells..... 

An hour later they still sat over their late supper on the kitchentable. She had told him many things. 

"I just got lonely, Jim--plain, straight homesick for you and thechildren. I couldn't stay out the week. The people were kind to me, andsaid nice things about my work. I was glad to hear and see things, ofcourse. Bruce Edwards was there, you know--I've told you about Bruce. He took me around quite a bit, and was nice enough, only I couldn'tlose him--you know that kind, Jim, always saying tiresome, plasterysort of things. He thinks that women like to be fussed over all thetime. The women I met dress beautifully and all talk the same--and atonce. Everything is 'perfectly sweet' and 'darling' to them. They areclever women all right, and were kind to me, and all that, but oh, Jim, they are not for mine--and the men I met while I was away all lookedsmall and poor and trifling to me because I have been looking for thelast ten years at one who is big and brown and useful. I compared themall with you, and they measured up badly. Jim, do you know what itwould feel like to live on popcorn and chocolates for two weeks and tryto make a meal of them--what do you think you would be hungry for?"

Jim Dawson watched his wife, his eyes aglow with love and pride. Notuntil she repeated her question did he answer her. 

"I think, perhaps, a slice of brown bread would be what was wanted, " heanswered smiling. The glamor of her presence was upon him. 

Then she came over to him and drew his face close to hers. 

"Please pass the brown bread!" she said. 

A SHORT TALE OF A RABBIT

(Reprinted by permission of _Canada West Monthly_. )

Johnny was the only John rabbit in the family that lived in the poplarbluff in the pasture. He had a bold and adventurous spirit, but wassadly hampered by his mother's watchfulness. She was as full ofwarnings as the sign-board at the railway crossing. It was "Look outfor the cars!" all the time with mother. She warned him of dogs andfoxes, hawks and snakes, boys and men. It was in vain that Johnnyshowed her his paces--how he could leap and jump and run. She admittedthat he was quite a smart little rabbit for his age, but--oh, well! youknow what mothers are like. 

Johnny was really tired of it, and then, too, Johnny had found out thatwhat mother had said about dogs was very much exaggerated. Johnny hadmet two dogs, so he thought he knew something about them. One was asleek, fat, black puppy, with a vapid smile, called Juno; and the otherwas an amber-eyed spaniel with woolly, fat legs. They had run afterJohnny one day when he was out playing on the road, and he had led themacross a ploughed field. Johnny was accustomed to add, as he told thestory to the young rabbits that lived down in the pasture, that he hadto spurt around the field a few times after the race was over just tolimber up his legs--he was so cramped from sitting around waiting forthe dogs. So it came about that Johnny, in his poor, foolish littleheart, thought dogs were just a joke. 

Johnny's mother told him that all men were bad, and the men who carriedguns were worst of all, for guns spit out fire and death. She saidthere were men who wore coats the color of dead grass, and drove inrigs that rattled and had dogs with them, and they killed ducks andgeese that were away up in the air. She said those men drove miles andmiles just to kill things, and they lived sometimes in a little houseaway out near the lakes where the ducks stayed, and they didn't mindgetting up early in the morning or sitting up at night to get a shot ata duck, and when they got the ducks they just gave them away. If halfwhat old Mrs. Rabbit said about them was true, they certainly were theBad Men from Bitter Creek! Johnny listened, big-eyed, to all this, andthere were times when he was almost afraid to go to bed. Still, when hefound out that dogs were not so dangerous, he began to think his mothermight have overstated the man question, too. 

One day Johnny got away from his mother, when she was busy training theother little rabbits in the old trick of dodging under the wire fencejust when the dog is going to grab you. Johnny knew how it was done--itwas as easy as rolling off a log for him, and so he ran away. He cameup at the Agricultural Grounds. He had often been close to the fencebefore, but his mother had said decidedly he must never go in. 

Just beside the gate he found a bread crust which was lovely, and theremight be more, mightn't there? There wasn't a person in sight, or adog. Johnny went a little farther in and found a pile of cabbageleaves--a pile of them, mind you--he really didn't know what to thinkof his mother--she certainly was the limit! Johnny grew bolder; alittle farther on he found more bread crumbs and some stray lettuceleaves--he began to feel a little sorry for his mother--lettuceleaves, cabbage leaves and bread crumbs--and she had said, "Don't goin there, Johnny, whatever you do!"

The band was playing, and there were flags in the air, but Johnnydidn't notice it. He didn't know, of course, that the final lacrossematch of the season was going to be played that afternoon. Johnny hadjust gone into one of the cattle sheds to see what was there, when alittle boy, with flopped-out ears and a Cow Brand Soda cap on, stealthily closed the gate. Johnny didn't know he had on a Cow BrandSoda cap, and he didn't know that the gate was shut, but he did knowthat that kind of a yell meant business. He wasn't afraid. Pshaw! He'dgive young Mr. Flop-Ears a run for his money. Come on, kid--r-r-r-r-r!Johnny ran straight to the gate with a rabbit's unerring instinct, andhurled himself against it in vain. The flop-eared boy screamed withlaughter. Then there were more Boys. And Dogs. All screaming. Theprimitive savage in them was awake now. Here was a wild thing whodefied them, with all his speed. Johnny was running now with his earslaid back, mad with terror, dogs barking, boys screaming, even menjoining in the chase, for the lust for blood was on them. Again Johnnymade the circuit of the field--the noise grew--a hundred voices, itseemed, not one that was friendly. It was one little throbbing rabbitagainst the field, with all the odds against him, running for his life, and losing! "Sic him, Togo! Sic him, Collie! Gee! Can't he run? Butwe've got him this time. He'll soon slow up. " A dog snapped at him andhis hind leg grew heavy. Some one struck at him with a lacrosse stick, and then--

He found himself running alone. Behind him a dog yelped with pain, andabove the noise someone shouted: "Here, you kids, let up on that! Shameon you! Let him alone! Call off your dogs, there! Poor little duffer, let him go. Get back there, Twin!"

Johnny ran dazed and dizzy, and once more made the circuit and dashedagain for the gate. But this time the gate was open, and Johnny wasfree! Saved, and by whom?

Well, of course, old Mrs. Rabbit didn't believe a word of it whenJohnny went home and told her who called off the dogs and opened thegate for him. She said, --well, she talked very plainly to Johnny, buthe stuck to it, that he owed his life to one of the Bad Men who wearclothes the color of grass, and whose gun spits fire and death. For oldMrs. Rabbit made just the same mistake that many people make ofthinking that a man that hunts must be cruel, forgetting that the truesportsman loves the wild things he makes war on, and though he killsthem, he does it fairly and openly. 

THE ELUSIVE VOTE

AN UNVARNISHED TALE OF SEPTEMBER 21st, 1911

John Thomas Green did not look like a man on whom great issues mightturn. His was a gentle soul encased in ill-fitting armour. Heavy blueeyes, teary and sad, gave a wintry droop to his countenance; his noseshowed evidence of much wiping, and the need of more. When he spoke, which was infrequent, he stammered; when he walked he toed in. 

He was a great and glorious argument in favor of woman suffrage; he wasthe last word, the _piéce de résistance_; he was a living, walking, yellow banner, which shouted "Votes for Women, " for in spite of hismany limitations there was one day when he towered high above themightiest woman in the land; one day that the plain John Thomas wasclothed with majesty and power; one day when he emerged from obscurityand placed an impress on the annals of our country. Once every fouryears John Thomas Green came forth (at the earnest solicitation offriends) and stood before kings. 

The Reciprocity fight was on, and nowhere did it rage more hotly thanin Morton, where Tom Brown, the well-beloved and much-hatedConservative member, fought for his seat with all the intensity of hisIrish blood. Politics were an incident to Tom--the real thing was thefight! and so fearlessly did he go after his assailants--and they weremany--that every day greater enthusiasm prevailed among his followers, who felt it a privilege to fight for a man who fought so well forhimself. 

The night before the election the Committee sat in the Committee Roomsand went carefully over the lists. They were hopeful but not hilarious--there had been disappointments, desertions, lapses!

Billy Weaver, loyal to the cause, but of pessimistic nature, testifiedthat Sam Cowery had been "talkin' pretty shrewd about reciprocity, " bywhich Billy did not mean "shrewd" at all, but rather crooked andadverse. However, there was no mistaking Billy's meaning of the wordwhen one heard him say it with his inimitable "down-the-Ottaway"accent. It is only the feeble written word which requires explanation. 

George Burns was reported to have said he did not care whether he votedor not; if it were a wet day he might, but if it were weather forstacking he'd stack, you bet! This was a gross insult to the Presidentof the Conservative Association, whose farm he had rented and lived onfor the last five years, during which time there had been twoelections, at both of which he had voted "right. " The President had notthought it necessary to interview him at all this time, feeling surethat he was within the pale. But now it seemed that some trifler hadtold him that he would get more for his barley and not have to pay somuch for his tobacco if Reciprocity carried, and it was reported thathe had been heard to say, with picturesque eloquence, that you couldhardly expect a man to cut his throat both ways by voting against it!

These and other kindred reports filled the Committee with apprehension. 

The most unmoved member of the company was the redoubtable Tom himself, who, stretched upon the slippery black leather lounge, hoarse as a frogfrom much addressing of obdurate electors, was endeavoring to sing"Just Before the Battle, Mother, " hitting the tune only in the mostinconspicuous places!

The Secretary, with the list in his hand, went over the names:

"Jim Stewart--Jim's solid; he doesn't want Reciprocity, because he sentto the States once for a washing-machine for his wife, and smuggled itthrough from St. Vincent, and when he got it here his wife wouldn't useit!

"Abe Collins--Abe's not right and never will be--he saw Sir Wilfridonce--

"John Thomas Green--say, how about Jack? Surely we can corral Jack. He's working for you, Milt, isn't he?" addressing one of thescrutineers. 

"Leave him to me, " said Milt, with an air of mystery; "there's no onehas more influence with Jack than me. No, he isn't with me just now, he's over with my brother Angus; but when he comes in to vote I'll bethere, and all I'll have to do is to lift my eyes like this" (he showedthem the way it would be done) "and he'll vote--right. "

"How do you know he will come, though?" asked the Secretary, who hadlearned by much experience that many and devious are the bypaths whichlead away from the polls!

"Yer brother Angus will be sure to bring him in, won't he, Milt?" askedJohn Gray, the trusting one, who believed all men to be brothers. 

There was a tense silence. 

Milt took his pipe from his mouth. "My brother Angus, " he began, dramatically, girding himself for the effort--for Milt was an orator ofTwelfth of July fame--"Angus Kennedy, my brother, bred and reared, andreared and bred, in the principles of Conservatism, as my poor oldfather often says, has gone over--has deserted our banners, has steepedhimself in the false teachings of the Grits. Angus, my brother, " heconcluded, impressively, "is--not right!"

"What's wrong with him?" asked Jim Grover, who was of an analyticalturn of mind. 

"Too late to discuss that now!" broke in the Secretary; "we cannottrace Angus's downfall, but we can send out and get in John Thomas. Weneed his vote--it's just as good as anybody's. "

Jimmy Rice volunteered to go out and get him. Jimmy did not believe inleaving anything to chance. He had been running an auto all week andwould just as soon work at night as any other time. Big Jack Moore, another enthusiastic Conservative, agreed to go with him. 

When they made the ten-mile run to the home of the apostate Angus, theymet him coming down the path with a lantern in his hand on the way tofeed his horses. 

They, being plain, blunt men, unaccustomed to the amenities of electiontime, and not knowing how to skilfully approach a subject of this kind, simply announced that they had come for John Thomas. 

"He's not here, " said Angus, looking around the circle of light thatthe lantern threw. 

"Are you sure?" asked James Rice, after a painful pause. 

"Yes, " said Angus, with exaggerated ease, affecting not to notice thesignificance of the question. "Jack went to Nelson to-day, and he ain'tback yet. He went about three o'clock, " went on Angus, endeavoring topatch up a shaky story with a little interesting detail. "He took overa bunch of pigs for me that I am shippin' into Winnipeg, and he wasgoin' to bring back some lumber. "

"I was in Nelson to-day, Angus, " said John Moore, sternly; "just camefrom there, and I did not see John Thomas. "

Angus, though fallen and misguided, was not entirely unregenerate; alie sat awkwardly on his honest lips, and now that his feeble effort atdeception had miscarried, he felt himself adrift on a boundless sea. Hewildly felt around for a reply, and was greatly relieved by the arrivalof his father on the scene, who, seeing the lights of the auto in theyard, had come out hurriedly to see what was the matter. GrandpaKennedy, although nearing his ninetieth birthday, was still a man ofaffairs, and what was still more important on this occasion, a lifelongConservative. Grandpa knew it was the night before the election; healso had seen what he had seen. Grandpa might be getting on, but hecould see as far through a cellar door as the next one. Angus, glad ofa chance to escape, went on to the stable, leaving the visitinggentlemen to be entertained by Grandpa. 

Grandpa was a diplomat; he wanted to have no hard feelings with anyone. 

"Good-night, boys, " he cried, in his shrill voice; he recognized theoccupants of the auto and his quick brain took in the situation. "Don'tit beat all how the frost keeps off? This reminds me of the fall, 'leven years ago--we had no frost till the end of the month. I ripenedthree bushels of Golden Queen tomatoes!" All this was delivered in avery high voice for Angus's benefit--to show him, if he were listening, how perfectly innocent the conversation was. 

Then as Angus's lantern disappeared behind the stable, the old man'svoice was lowered, and he gave forth this cryptic utterance:

"_John Thomas is in the cellar_. "

Then he gaily resumed his chatter, although Angus was safe in thestable; but Grandpa knew what he knew, and Angus's woman might belistening at the back door. "Much election talk in town, boys?" heasked, breezily. They answered him at random. Then his voice fellagain. "Angle's dead against Brown--won't let you have John Thomas--puthim down cellar soon as he saw yer lights; Angie's woman is sittin onthe door knittin'--she's wors'n him--don't let on I give it away--Idon't want no words with her!--Yes, it's grand weather for threshin';won't you come on away in? I guess yer horse will stand. " The old manroared with laughter at his own joke. 

John Moore and James Rice went back to headquarters for further advice. Angus's woman sitting on the cellar door knitting was a contingencythat required to be met with guile. 

Consternation sat on the face of the Committee when they told theirstory. They had not counted on this. The wildest plans were discussed. Tom Stubbins began a lengthy story of an elopement that happened downat the "Carp, " where the bride made a rope of the sheets and came downfrom an upstairs window. Tom was not allowed to finish his narrative, though, for it was felt that the cases were not similar. 

No one seemed to be particularly anxious to go back and interrupt Mrs. Angus's knitting. 

Then there came into the assembly one of the latest additions to theConservative ranks, William Batters, a converted and reformed Liberal. He had been an active member of the Liberal party for many years, butat the last election he had been entirely convinced of theirunworthiness by the close-fisted and niggardly way in which theydispensed the election money. 

He heard the situation discussed in all its aspects. Milton Kennedy, with inflamed oratory, bitterly bewailed his brother's defection--"notonly wrong himself, but leadin' others, and them innocent lambs!"--buthe did not offer to go out and see his brother. The lady who satknitting on the cellar door seemed to be the difficulty with all ofthem. 

The reformed Liberal had a plan. 

"I will go for him, " said he. "Angus will trust me--he doesn't know Ihave turned. I'll go for John Thomas, and Angus will give him to mewithout a word, thinkin' I'm a friend, " he concluded, brazenly. 

"Look at that now!" exclaimed the member elect. "Say, boys, you'd knowhe had been a Grit--no honest, open-faced Conservative would ever thinkof a trick like that!"

"There is nothing like experience to make a man able to see everyside, " said the reformed one, with becoming modesty. 

An hour later Angus was roused from his bed by a loud knock on thedoor. Angus had gone to bed with his clothes on, knowing that thesewere troublesome times. 

"What's the row?" he asked, when he had cautiously opened the door. 

"Row!" exclaimed the friend who was no longer a friend, "You're the manthat's makin' the row. The Conservatives have 'phoned in to theAttorney-General's Department to-night to see what's to be done withyou for standin' between a man and his heaven-born birthright, keepin'and confinin' of a man in a cellar, owned by and closed by you!"

This had something the air of a summons, and Angus was duly impressed. 

"I don't want to see you get into trouble. Angus, " Mr. Batters went on;"and the only way to keep out of it is to give him to me, and then whenthey come out here with a search-warrant they won't find nothin'. "

Angus thanked him warmly, and, going upstairs, roused the innocent Johnfrom his virtuous slumbers. He had some trouble persuading John, whowas a profound sleeper, that he must arise and go hence; but manythings were strange to him, and he rose and dressed without very muchprotest. 

Angus was distinctly relieved when he got John Thomas off his hands--hefelt he had had a merciful deliverance. 

On the way to town, roused by the night air, John Thomas becamecommunicative. 

"Them lads in the automobile, they wanted me pretty bad, you bet, " hechuckled, with the conscious pride of the much-sought-after; "but gosh, Angus fixed them. He just slammed down the cellar door on me, and sayshe, 'Not a word out of you, Jack; you've as good a right to vote theway you want to as anybody, and you'll get it, too, you bet. '"

The reformed Liberal knitted his brows. What was this simple child ofnature driving at?

John Thomas rambled on: "Tom Brown can't fool people with brains, youbet you--Angus's woman explained it all to me. She says to me, 'Don'tlet nobody run you, Jack--and vote for Hastings. You're all right, Jack--and remember Hastings is the man. Never mind why--don't botheryour head--you don't have to--but vote for Hastings. ' Says she, 'Don'tlet on to Milt, or any of his folks, or Grandpa, but vote the way youwant to, and that's for Hastings!'"

When they arrived in town the reformed Liberal took John Thomas at onceto the Conservative Hotel, and put him in a room, and told him to go tobed, which John cheerfully did. Then he went for the Secretary, who wasalso in bed. "I've got John Thomas, " he announced, "but he says he's aGrit and is going to vote for Hastings. I can't put a dint in him--hethinks I'm a Grit, too. He's only got one idea, but it's a solid one, and that is 'Vote for Hastings. '"

The Secretary yawned sleepily. "I'll not go near him. It's me forsleep. You can go and see if any of the other fellows want a job. They're all down at a ball at the station. Get one of those wakefulspirits to reason with John. "

The conspirator made his way stealthily to the station, from whencethere issued the sound of music and dancing. Not wishing to alarm theGrits, many of whom were joining in the festivities, and who would havebeen quick to suspect that something was on foot, if they saw himprowling around, he crept up to the window and waited until one of thefaithful came near. Gently tapping on the glass, he got the attentionof the editor, the very man he wanted, and, in pantomime, gave him tounderstand that his presence was requested. The editor, pleading aterrific headache, said good-night, or rather good-morning, to hishostess, and withdrew. From his fellow-worker who waited in the shadowof the trees outside, he learned that John Thomas had been secured inthe body but not in spirit. 

The newspaper man readily agreed to labor with the erring brother andhoped to be able to deliver his soul alive. 

Once again was John Thomas roused from his slumbers, and not by afamiliar voice this time, but by an unknown vision in evening dress. 

The editor was a convincing man in his way, whether upon the subject ofreciprocity or apostolic succession, but John was plainly bored fromthe beginning, and though he offered no resistance, his repeated "Iknow that!" "That's what I said!" were more disconcerting than the mostvigorous opposition. At daylight the editor left John, and he reallyhad the headache that he had feigned a few hours before. 

Then John Thomas tried to get a few winks of unmolested repose, but itwas election day, and the house was early astir. Loud voices soundedthrough the hall. Innumerable people, it seemed, mistook his room fortheir own. Jack rose at last, thoroughly indignant and disposed toquarrel. He had a blame good notion to vote for Brown after all, afterthe way he had been treated. 

When he had hastily dressed himself, discussing his grievances in aloud voice, he endeavored to leave the room, but found the doorsecurely locked. Then his anger knew no bounds. He lustily kicked onthe lower panel of the door and fairly shrieked his indignation andrage. 

The chambermaid, passing, remonstrated with him by beating on the otherside of the door. She was a pert young woman with a squeaky voice, andshe thought she knew what was wrong with the occupant of 17. She hadheard kicks on doors before. 

"Quiet down, you, mister, or you'll get yourself put in the cooler--that's the best place for noisy drunks. "

This, of course, annoyed the innocent man beyond measure, but she wasgone far down the hall before he could think of the retort suitable. 

When she finished her upstairs work and came downstairs to peel thepotatoes, she mentioned casually to the bartender that whoever he hadin number 17 was "smashin' things up pretty lively!"

The bartender went up and liberated the indignant voter, who by thistime had his mind made up to vote against both Brown and Hastings, andfurthermore to renounce politics in all its aspects for evermore. 

However, a good breakfast and the sincere apologies of the hotel peopledid much to restore his good humor. But a certain haziness grew in hismind as to who was who, and at times the disquieting thought skiddedthrough his murky brain that he might be in the enemy's camp for all heknew. Angus and Mrs. Angus had said, "Do what you think is right andvote for Hastings, " and that was plain and simple and easilyunderstood. But now things seemed to be all mixed up. 

The committee were ill at ease about him. The way he wagged his headand declared he knew what was what, you bet, was very disquieting, andthe horrible fear haunted them that they were perchance cherishing aserpent in their bosom. 

The Secretary had a proposal: "Take him out to Milt Kennedy's. Miltsaid he could work him. Take him out there! Milt said all he had to dowas to raise his eyes and John Thomas would vote right. "

The erstwhile Liberal again went on the road with John Thomas, todeliver him over to the authority of Milt Kennedy. If Milt could getresults by simply elevating his eyebrows, Milt was the man who wasneeded. 

Arriving at Milt's, he left the voter sitting in the buggy, while hewent in search of the one who could control John's erring judgment. 

While sitting there alone, another wandering thought zig-zagged throughJohn's brain. They were making a fool of him, some way! Well, he'd letthem see, b'gosh!

He jumped out of the buggy, and hastily climbed into the hay-mow. Itwas a safe and quiet spot, and was possessed of several convenienteye-holes through which he could watch with interest the search whichimmediately began. 

He saw the two men coming up to the barn, and as they passed almostbelow him, he heard Milt say, "Oh, sure, John Thomas will vote right--Ican run him all right!--he'll do as I say. Hello, John! Where is he?"

They went into the house--they searched the barn--they called, coaxed, entreated. They ran down to the road to see if he had started back totown; he was as much gone as if he had never been!

"Are you dead sure you brought him?" Milt asked at last in desperation, as he turned over a pile of sacks in the granary. 

"Gosh! ain't they lookin' some!" chuckled the elusive voter, as hewatched with delight their unsuccessful endeavors to locate him. "Butthere's lots of places yet that they hain't thought of; they hain'thalf looked for me yet. I may be in the well for all they know. " Thenhe began to sing to himself, "I know something I won't tell!"

It was not every day that John Thomas Green found himself the centre ofattraction, and he enjoyed the sensation. 

Having lost so much sleep the night before, a great drowsiness fell onJohn Thomas, and curling himself up in the hay, he sank into a sweet, sound sleep. 

While he lay there, safe from alarms, the neighborhood was shaken witha profound sensation. John Thomas was lost. Lost, and his vote lostwith him!

Milton Kennedy, who had to act as scrutineer at the poll in town, wasforced to leave home with the mystery unsolved. Before going, he'phoned to Billy Adams, one of the faithful, and in guarded speech, knowing that he was surrounded by a cloud of witnesses, broke the news!Billy Adams immediately left his stacking, and set off to find his lostcompatriot. 

Mrs. Alex Porter lived on the next farm to Billy Adams, and being alady of some leisure, she usually managed to get in on most of the'phone conversations. Billy Adams' calls were very seldom overlooked byher, for she was on the other side of politics, and it was always wellto know what was going on. Although she did not know all that was saidby the two men, she heard enough to assure her that crooked work wasgoing on. Mrs. Alex Porter declared she was not surprised. She threwher apron over her head and went to the field and told Alex. Alex wasnot surprised. In fact, it seems Alex had expected it!

They 'phoned in cipher to Angus, Mrs. Angus being a sister of Mrs. AlexPorter. Mrs. Angus told them to speak out plain, and say what theywanted to, even if all the Conservatives on the line were listening. Then Mrs. Porter said that John Thomas was lost over at Milt Kennedy's. They had probably drugged him or something. 

Then Angus's wife said he was safe enough. Billy Batters had come andgot him the night before. At the mention of Billy Batters there was asound of suppressed mirth all along the line. Mrs. Angus's sisterfairly shrieked. "Billy Batters! Don't you know he has turnedConservative!--he's working tooth and nail for Brown. " Mrs. Anguscalled Angus excitedly. Everybody talked at once; somebody laughed; oneor two swore. Mrs. Porter told Milt Kennedy's wife she'd caught hereavesdropping this time sure. She'd know her cackle any place, andMilt's wife told Mrs. Porter to shut up--she needn't talk abouteavesdroppers, --good land! and Mrs. Porter told Mrs. Milt she shouldtry something for that voice of hers, and recommended machine oil, andCentral rang in and told them they'd all have their 'phones taken outif they didn't stop quarreling; and John Thomas, in the hay-mow, slepton, as peacefully as an innocent babe!

In the committee rooms, Jack's disappearance was excitedly discussed. The Conservatives were not sure that Bill Batters was not giving themthe double cross--once a Grit, always a Grit! Angus was threatening tohave him arrested for abduction--he had beguiled John Thomas from thehome of his friends, and then carelessly lost him. 

William Batters realized that he had lost favor in both places, andanxiously longed for a sight of John Thomas's red face, vote or novote. 

At four o'clock John Thomas awoke much refreshed, but very hungry. Hewent into the house in search of something to eat. Milton and his wifehad gone into town many hours before, but he found what he wanted, andwas going back to the hay-mow to finish his sleep, just as Billy Adamswas going home after having cast his vote. 

Billy Adams seized him eagerly, and rapidly drove back to town. Jack'svote would yet be saved to the party!

It was with pardonable pride that Billy Adams reined in his foamingteam, and rushed John Thomas into the polling booth, where he wasgreeted with loud cheers. Nobody dare ask him where he had been--timewas too precious. Milton Kennedy, scrutineer, lifted his eyebrows asper agreement. Jack replied with a petulant shrug of his good shoulderand passed in to the inner chamber. 

The Conservatives were sure they had him. The Liberals were sure, too. Mrs. Angus was sure Jack would vote right after the way she hadreasoned with him and showed him!

When the ballots were counted, there were several spoiled ones, ofcourse. But there was one that was rather unique. After the name ofThomas Brown, there was written in lead pencil, "_None of yerbusiness_!" which might have indicated a preference for the other nameof John Hastings, only for the fact that opposite his name was the curtremark, "_None of yer business, either_!"

Some thought the ballot was John Thomas Green's. 

THE WAY OF THE WEST

(Reprinted by permission of _The Globe_, Toronto. )

Thomas Shouldice was displeased, sorely, bitterly displeased: in fact, he was downright mad, and being an Irish Orangeman, this means that hewas ready to fight. You can imagine just how bitterly Mr. Shouldice wasincensed when you hear that the Fourth of July had been celebrated withflourish of flags and blare of trumpets right under his very nose--inCanada--in British dominions!

The First of July, the day that should have been given up to "doin's, "including the race for the greased pig, the three-legged race, and aploughing match, had passed into obscurity, without so much as apie-social; and it had rained that day, too, in torrents, just as ifNature herself did not care enough about the First to try to keep it dry. 

The Fourth came in a glorious day, all sunshine and blue sky, withbirds singing in every poplar bluff, and it was given such acelebration as Thomas had never seen since the "Twelfth" had been heldin Souris. The American settlers who had been pouring into the Sourisvalley had--without so much as asking leave from the Government atOttawa, the school trustees, or the oldest settler, who was Thomashimself--gone ahead and celebrated. Every American family had broughttheir own flagpole, in "joints, " with them, and on the Fourth immensebanners of stars and stripes spread their folds in triumph on thebreeze. 

The celebration was held in a large grove just across the road fromThomas Shouldice's little house; and to his inflamed patriotism, everyfirecracker that split the air, every cheer that rent the heavens, every blare of their smashing band music, seemed a direct challenge toKing Edward himself, God bless him!

Mr. Shouldice worked all day at his hay-meadow, just to show them! Heworked hard, too, never deigning a glance at their "carryin's on, " justto let them know that he did not care two cents for their Fourth ofJuly. 

His first thought was to feign indifference, but when he saw theWilsons, the Wrays, the Henrys, Canadian-bred and born, driving over tothe enemy's camp, with their Sunday clothes on and big boxes ofprovisions on the "doggery" of their buckboards, his indifference fledand was replaced by profanity. It comforted him a little when hereflected that not an Orangeman had gone. They were loyal sons andtrue, every one of them. These other ignorant Canadians might forgetwhat they owed to the old flag, but the Orangemen--never. 

Thomas's rage against the Yankees was intensified when he saw FatherO'Flynn walking across the plover slough. Then he was sure that theAmericans and Catholics were in league against the British. 

A mighty thought was conceived that day in the brain of ThomasShouldice, late Worshipful Master of the Carleton Place Loyal OrangeLodge No. 23. They would celebrate the Twelfth, so they would; he'dlike to see who would stop them. Someone would stand up for the flagthat had braved a thousand years of battle and the breeze. He blew hisnose noisily on his red handkerchief when he thought of this. 

They would celebrate the Twelfth! They would "walk. " He would gather up"the boys" and get someone to make a speech. They would get a fiferfrom Brandon. It was the fife that could stir the heart in you! And thefifer would play "The Protestant Boys" and "Rise, Sons of William, Rise!" Anyone that tried to stop him would get a shirt full of sorebones!

Thomas went home full of the plan to get back at the invaders!Rummaging through his trunk, he found, carefully wrapped with chewingtobacco and ground cedar, to keep the moths away, the regalia that hehad worn, proudly and defiantly, once in Montreal, when the crowd thatobstructed the triumphal march of the Orange Young Britons had to bedispersed by the "melitia. " It was a glorious day, and one to beremembered with pride, for there had been shots fired and headssmashed. 

His man, a guileless young Englishman, came in from mowing, gailywhistling the refrain the Yankee band had been playing at intervals allafternoon. It was "Dixie Land, " and at first Thomas did not notice it. Rousing at last to the sinister significance of the tune, he orderedits cessation, in rosy-hued terms, and commended all such Yankee tunesand those that whistled them to that region where popular rumor has itthat pots boil with or without watching. 

Thomas Shouldice had lived by himself for a number of years. It wassupposed that he had a wife living somewhere in "the States, " whichterm to many Canadians indicates a shadowy region where bad boys, unfaithful wives and absconding embezzlers find refuge and dwell in dimsecurity. 

Thomas's devotion to the Orange Order was nothing short of a passion. He believed that but for its institution and perpetuation Protestantblood would flow like water. He always spoke of the "Stuarts" in anundertone, as if he were afraid they might even yet come back and make"rough house" for King Edward. 

There were only two Catholic families in the neighborhood, andpeaceable, friendly people they were, too; but Thomas believed theyshould be intimidated to prevent trouble. "The old spite is in them, "he told himself, "and nothing will show them where they stand like a'walk. '"

The next day Thomas left his haying and rounded up the faithful. Therewere seven members of the order in the community, all of whom werewilling to stand for their country's honor. There was James Shewfelt, who was a drummer, and could play the tunes without the fife at all. There was John Barker, who did a musical turn in the form of a twenty-three verse ballad beginning:

 "When Popery did flourish in Dear Ireland o'er the sea, There came a man from Amsterdam To set ould Ireland free! To set ould Ireland free, boys, To set ould Ireland free, -- There came a man from Amsterdam To set ould Ireland free!"

There was William Breeze, who was a little hard of hearing, but loyalto the core. He had seven boys in his family, so there was still hopefor the nation. There was Patrick Mooney, who should have been wearingthe other color if there is anything in a name. But there isn't. Therewas John Burns, who had been an engineer, but, having lost a foot, hadtaken to farming. He was the farthest advanced in the order next toThomas Shouldice, having served a term as District Grand Master, andwas well up in the Grand Black Chapter. These would form the nucleus ofthe procession. The seven little Breezes would be admitted to the ranksif their mother could find suitable decoration for them. Of course, theweather was warm and the subject of clothing was not so serious as itmight have been. 

Thomas drove nineteen miles to the nearest town to get a speaker and afifer. The fifer was found, and, quite fortunately, was open forengagement. The speaker was not so easily secured. Thomas went to theMethodist missionary. The missionary was quite a young man and had thereputation of being an orator. He listened gravely while his visitorunfolded his plan. 

"I'll tell you what to do, Mr. Shouldice, " he said, smiling, when theother had finished the recital of his country's wrongs. "Get FatherO'Flynn; he'll make you a speech that will do you all good. "

Thomas was too astonished for words. "But he's a Papist!" he sputteredat last. 

"Oh, pshaw! Oh, pshaw! Mr. Shouldice, " the young man exclaimed;"there's no division of creed west of Winnipeg. The little priest doesall my sick visiting north of the river, and I do his on the south. He's a good preacher, and the finest man at a deathbed I ever saw. "

"This is not a deathbed, though, as it happens, " Thomas replied, withdignity. 

The young minister threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "Can'ttell that until it is over--I've been at a few Orange walks down East, you know--took part in one myself once. "

"Did you walk?" Thomas asked, brightening. 

"No, I ran, " the minister said, smiling. 

"I thought you said you took part, " Thomas snorted, with displeasure. 

"So I did, but mine was a minor part. I stood behind the fence andhelped the Brennan boys and Patrick Costigan to peg at them!"

"Are ye a Protestant at all?" Thomas roared at him, now thoroughlyangry. 

"Yes, I am, " the minister said, slowly, "and I am something betterstill; I am a Christian and a Canadian. Are you?"

Thomas beat a hasty retreat. 

The Presbyterian minister was away from home, and the English Churchminister--who was also a young man lately arrived--said he would gogladly. 

The Twelfth of July was a beautiful day, clear, sparkling andcloudless. Little wayward breezes frolicked up and down the banks ofMoose Creek and rasped the surface of its placid pools, swollen stillfrom the heavy rains of the "First. " In the glittering sunshine theprairie lay a riot of color; the first wild roses now had faded to apastel pink, but on every bush there were plenty of new ones, deeplycrimson and odorous. Across the creek from Thomas Shouldice's littlehouse, Indian pipes and columbine reddened the edge of the poplargrove, from the lowest branches of which morning-glories, white andpink and purple, hung in graceful profusion. 

Before noon a wagon filled with people came thundering down the trail. As they came nearer Thomas was astonished to see that it was anAmerican family from the Chippen Hill district. 

"Picnic in these parts, ain't there?" the driver asked. 

Thomas was in a genial mood, occasioned by the day and the weather. 

"Orange walk and picnic!" he replied, waving his hand toward the bluff, where a few of the faithful were constructing a triumphal arch. 

"Something like a cake-walk, is it?" the man asked, looking puzzled. 

Mr. Shouldice stared at him incredulously. 

"Did ye never hear of Orangemen down yer way?" he said. 

"Never did, pard, " the man answered. "We've peanut men, and applewomen, and banana men, but we've never heard much about orange men. Butwe're right glad to come over and help the show along. Do you want anymoney for the races?"

"We didn't count on havin' races; we're havin' speeches and somesingin'. "

The Yankee laughed good-humoredly. 

"Well, friend, I pass there; but mother here is a W. C. T. U. -er from awayback. She'll knock the spots off the liquor business in fifteenminutes, if you'd like anything in that line. "

His wife interposed in her easy, drawling tones: "Now, Abe, you bestshet up and drive along. The kids are all hungry and want theirdinners. "

"We'll see you later, partner, " said the man as they drove away. 

Thomas Shouldice was mystified. "These Americans are a queer bunch, " hethought; "they're ignorant as all get out, but, gosh! they'refriendly. "

Over the hill to the south came other wagons filled with jollypicnickers, who soon had their pots boiling over quickly-constructedtripods. 

Thomas, who went over to welcome them, found that nearly all of themwere the very Americans whose unholy zeal for their own nationalholiday had so embittered his heart eight days before. 

They were full of enquiries as to the meaning of an Orange walk. Thomastried to explain, but, having only inflamed Twelfth of July oratory forthe source of his information, he found himself rather at a loss. Butthe Americans gathered that it was something he used to do "down East, "and they were sympathetic at once. 

"That's right, you bet, " one gray-haired man with a young faceexclaimed, getting rid of a bulky chew of tobacco that had slightlyimpeded his utterance. "There's nothin' like keepin' up oldinstitootions. "

By two o'clock fully one hundred people had gathered. 

Thomas was radiant. "Every wan is here now except that old Papist, O'Flynn, " he whispered to the drummer. "I hope he'll come, too, so Ido. It'll be a bitter pill for him to swallow. "

The drummer did not share the wish. He was thinking, uneasily, of thetime two years ago--the winter of the deep snow--when he and his familyhad been quarantined with smallpox, and of how Father O'Flynn had comemiles out of his way every week on his snowshoes to hand in a roll ofnewspapers he had gathered up, no one knows where, and a bag of candiesfor the little ones. He was thinking of how welcome the priest's littleround face had been to them all those long, tedious six weeks, and howcheery his voice sounded as he shouted, "Are ye needin' anything, Jimmy, avick? All right, I'll be back on Thursda', God willin'. Don'tbe frettin', now, man alive! Everybody has to have the smallpox. Sure, yer shaming the Catholics this year, Jimmy, keeping Lent so well. " Thedrummer was decidedly uneasy. 

There is an old saying about speaking of angels in which some peoplestill believe. Just at this moment Father O'Flynn came slowly over thehill. 

Father O'Flynn was a typical little Irish priest, good-natured, witty, emotional. Nearly every family north of the river had some cause forloving the little man. He was a tireless walker, making the round ofhis parish every week, no matter what the weather. He had a littlehouse built for him the year before at the Forks of the Assiniboine, where he had planted a garden, set out plants and flowers, and made ita little bower of beauty; but he had lived in it only one summer, foran impecunious English couple, who needed a roof to cover them ratherurgently, had taken possession of it during his absence, and the kind-hearted little father could not bring himself to ask them to vacate. When his friends remonstrated with him, he turned the conversation bytelling them of another and a better Man of whom it was written that He"had not where to lay His head. "

Father O'Flynn was greeted with delight, by the younger onesespecially. The seven little Breezes were very demonstrative, andThomas Shouldice resolved to warn their father against the priest'smalign influence. He recalled a sentence or two from "Maria Monk, "which said something like this: "Give us a child until he is ten yearsold, and let us teach him our doctrine, and he's ours for evermore. "

"Oh, they're deep ones, them Jesuits!"

Father O'Flynn was just in time for the "walk. "

"Do you know what an Orange walk is, father?" one of the American womenasked, really looking for information. 

"Yes, daughter, yes, " the little priest answered, a shadow coming intohis merry grey eyes. He gave her an evasive reply, and then murmured tohimself, as he picked a handful of orange lilies: "It is an institutionof the Evil One to sow discord among brothers. "

The walk began. 

First came the fife and drum, skirling out an Orange tune, at which thelittle priest winced visibly. Then followed Thomas Shouldice, in theguise of King William. He was mounted on his own old, spavined greymare, that had performed this honorable office many times in her youth. But now she seemed lacking in the pride that befits the part. Thomashimself was gay with ribbons and a short red coat, whose gilt braid wassadly tarnished. One of the Yankees had kindly loaned a mottled buggy-robe for the saddle-cloth. 

Behind Thomas marched the twenty-three-verse soloist and the otherfaithful few, followed by the seven Breeze boys, gay with yellowstreamers made from the wrapping of a ham. 

The Yankees grouped about were sorry to see so few in the procession. They had brought along three or four of their band instruments tofurnish music if it were needed. As the end of the procession passedthem, two of the smaller boys swung in behind the last two Breezes. 

It was an inspiration. Instantly the whole company stepped into line--two by two, men, women, and children, waving their bunches of lilies!

Thomas, from his point of vantage, could see the whole companyfollowing his lead, and his heart swelled with pride. Under the archthe procession swept, stepping to the music, the significance of whichmost of the company did not even guess at--good-natured, neighborly, filled with the spirit of the West, that ever seeks to help along. 

Everyone, even Father O'Flynn, was happier than James Shewfelt, thedrummer. 

The fifer paused, preparatory to changing the tune. It was thedrummer's opportunity. "Onward, Christian Soldiers, " he sang, tappingthe rhythm on the drum. The fifer caught the strain. Not a voice wassilent, and unconsciously hand clasped hand, and the soft afternoon airreverberated with the swelling cadence:

"We are not divided, All one body we. "

When the verse was done the fifer led off into another and another. Thelittle priest's face glowed with pleasure. "It is the Spirit of theLord, " he whispered to himself, as he marched to the rhythm, his handclosely held by the smallest Breeze boy, whose yellow streamers andprofuse decoration of orange lilies were at strange variance with hiscompanion's priestly robes. But on this day nothing was at variance. The spirit of the West was upon them, unifying, mellowing, harmonizingall conflicting emotions--the spirit of the West that calls on meneverywhere to be brothers and lend a hand. 

The Church of England minister did make a speech, but not the one hehad intended. Instead of denominationalism, he spoke of brotherhood;instead of religious intolerance, he spoke of religious liberty;instead of the Prince of Orange, who crossed the Boyne to givereligious freedom to Ireland, he told of the Prince of Peace, who diedon the cross to save the souls of men of every nation and kindred andtribe. 

In the hush that followed Father O'Flynn stepped forward and said hethanked the brother who had planned this meeting; he was glad, he said, for such an opportunity for friends and neighbors to meet; he spoke ofthe glorious heritage that all had in this great new country, and howall must stand together as brothers. All prejudices of race and creedand doctrine die before the wonderful power of loving service. "TheWest, " he said, "is the home of loving hearts and neighborly kindness, where all men's good is each man's care. For myself, " he went on, "Ihave but one wish, and that is to be the servant of all, to be theambassador of Him who went about doing good, and to teach the people tolove honor and virtue, and each other. " Then, raising his hands, he ledthe company in that prayer that comes ever to the lips of man when allother prayers seem vain--that prayer that we can all fall back on inour sore need:

"Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom come. "

Two hours later a tired but happy and united company sat down to supperon the grass. At the head of the table sat Thomas Shouldice, radiatinggood-will. A huge white pitcher of steaming golden coffee was in hishand. He poured a cup of it brimming full, and handed it to the littlepriest, who sat near him. "Have some coffee, father?" he said. 

Where could such a scene as this be enacted--a Twelfth of Julycelebration where a Roman Catholic priest was the principal speaker, where the company dispersed with the singing of "God Save the King, "led by an American band?

Nowhere, but in the Northwest of Canada, that illimitable land, withits great sunlit spaces, where the west wind, bearing on its bosom thespices of a million flowers, woos the heart of man with a magic spelland makes him kind and neighborly and brotherly!