.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 49727
   :PG.Title: Ralph Sinclair's Atonement
   :PG.Released: 2015-08-17
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Antony Sargent
   :DC.Title: Ralph Sinclair's Atonement
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1903
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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RALPH SINCLAIR'S ATONEMENT
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      Cover art

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   .. _`"I THINK YOU HAVE COME TO A VERY SENSIBLE CONCLUSION"`:

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      :alt: "I THINK YOU HAVE COME TO A VERY SENSIBLE CONCLUSION." (*See page* 239)

      "I THINK YOU HAVE COME TO A VERY SENSIBLE CONCLUSION." (*See page* `239`_)

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      RALPH SINCLAIR'S ATONEMENT

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      BY

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      ANTONY SARGENT

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      LONDON:
      ANDREW MELROSE
      16 PILGRIM STREET, \E.\C.
      1903

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   CONTENTS

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CHAP.

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I.  `A BOLT FROM THE BLUE`_
II.  `BROADSTONE`_
III.  `ANTWERP`_
IV.  `RAILTON HALL`_
V.  `VISIONS OF THE KLONDYKE`_
VI.  `THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS`_
VII.  `FAR WEST`_
VIII.  `MONTREAL`_
IX.  `RANGER'S RANCH`_
X.  `THE MISSING LINK`_
XI.  `MANITOBA`_
XII.  `A DREAM OF GOLD`_
XIII.  `BROADSTONE LIBERALS`_
XIV.  `CONVALESCENTS`_
XV.  `NAT LANGHAM'S`_
XVI.  `THE WARPLE BAND`_
XVII.  `A CONFESSION`_
XVIII.  `A SNAKE IN THE GRASS`_
XIX.  `HESITATING`_
XX.  `ON THE TRAIL`_
XXI.  `JESSIE RUSSELL`_
XXII.  `"DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN"`_
XXIII.  `THE STORY EVER NEW`_
XXIV.  `"TWICE BLESSED"`_
XXV.  `THE BROADSTONE DECISION`_
XXVI.  `MARY TRUMAN`_
XXVII.  `BRIGHTENED HOPES`_
XXVIII.  `CHARLES BARTON`_
XXIX.  `TO FRESH FIELDS`_
XXX.  `KINBRAE`_
XXXI.  `JOHN AND MARY`_
XXXII.  `PREPARATIONS`_
XXXIII.  `"TILL DEATH DO US PART"`_

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   LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

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`"I THINK YOU HAVE COME TO A VERY SENSIBLE
CONCLUSION"`_ . . . . . . *Frontispiece*

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`AT CARDS HE HAD LOST HEAVILY`_

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`THE ALARM WAS GIVEN, AND THE ENGINES WERE AT ONCE
SLOWED DOWN`_

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`"WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH
THAT LETTER REVEALS"`_

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`MARY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN, BUT MRS. RANGER
CHANCED TO BE STANDING AT THE DOOR`_

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.. _`A BOLT FROM THE BLUE`:

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   RALPH SINCLAIR'S ATONEMENT

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   CHAPTER I.

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   A BOLT FROM THE BLUE.

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"Better men fared thus before thee."—MATTHEW ARNOLD.

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"Is Mr. Houghton in?"

"Yes, sir.  Who shall I say has called?"

"Please say that Mr. Johnson, with a letter
of introduction from your works at Broadstone, would
like to see him."

The clerk addressed hastened away to an inner
office to convey the message to his principal, returning
shortly with a request, "Will you please to walk this
way."

The office into which he was conducted was a
portion of a large and very handsome showroom in
the West End of London, screened from general
observation by a wood-and-glass erection, which
formed a separate room, in which was seated the
manager of the firm of H. & E. Quinion, so well
known for their famous Metal Works in the Midlands,
but whose chief transactions were carried on by means
of their London and Sydney houses.

Mr. Houghton, who rose on the entry of his visitor,
was a tall portly specimen of the English gentleman.
The kindly expression of his countenance, and general
affable manners, were in marked contrast to the little
man who proceeded to introduce himself by presenting
the letter already referred to.  Apparently about
thirty-five years of age; dark complexion; with
deep-set ferret-like eyes, partially concealed by a pair
of pince-nez; dark-brown short-cropped hair, thin on
the top; clean shaven cheeks, but a heavy cavalry
moustache; and a stooping gait,—he had all the
appearance of one who had lived "fast," and missed
his mark in life's struggle for existence.

After a second perusal of the letter presented,—which,
to judge by the expression of his countenance,
had come upon him as a surprise, and did not seem
to please him,—he turned to his interviewer and
remarked, somewhat absently, as if he scarcely knew
what to say, "I think the best thing I can do is to
introduce you to the clerks and staff generally, for
which purpose, if you will excuse me for a few
moments, I will go and prepare them."

"Very well," was all the reply the other made, as
Mr. Houghton, without another word, left the office.

Calling a clerk named Kenway, who happened to be
passing, and who was distantly related to him, he
hastily directed him to summon the other clerks to
meet him at once in his office.  Full of curiosity, and
a-tiptoe with expectation as to what was impending,
there was soon assembled an anxious and eager group
of men, quietly canvassing the possibilities and
probabilities of the situation.

On the entrance of Mr. Houghton it was at once
seen that something unusual had occurred, as he
appeared to be very much agitated, and to have lost
command of that calmness and ease which it was his
general habit to assume.  With manifest anxiety to
get through an unpleasant task with the least possible
delay he advanced, and, leaning heavily upon his desk,
said—

"Gentlemen, I have had you called together thus
hurriedly, because I thought it only right that you
should hear the fact from my own lips that I am
intending shortly to resign my position here as
manager."

A half-suppressed murmur of regret went round
the assembled clerks, which was, however, allowed to
pass unnoticed, as, scarcely able to restrain the tears
which filled his eyes, and in an all but inaudible voice,
he continued—

"Yes; after serving the firm for upwards of fifty
years, it is with their approval that I shall in six
months retire, and endeavour to take life a little
easier.  I have to thank you all for the assistance
you have always rendered me; and, in bidding you
farewell, I propose to introduce you to my successor,
who is now here with a letter of introduction from
Broadstone."

Only half realising what they had just heard, one
or two managed to give expression to their sincere
regret at the intelligence so abruptly conveyed,
together with the earnest hope that he would long
live to enjoy the rest and ease he was looking forward
to, and had so well earned, when they were again
left alone to separate, and speculate upon what had
been so suddenly communicated.

On returning to the office in which he had left his
visitor, all traces of the emotion so recently evinced
had disappeared from Mr. Houghton's face, and he
proceeded to discuss the situation, and to unfold the
working of the business with his usual calmness and
clearness.

But the contemplated interview with the employés
of the establishment was for the present declined by
his visitor, under the pretence that, being so new to
everything and everybody, he was not quite prepared
for such an ordeal as that would seem to involve.
On taking his leave, soon after, it was with the
promise that he would pay a further visit very shortly.

The news, which spread throughout the "house,"
created no little consternation; whilst everywhere and
by everyone it was received with the most unqualified
expressions of regret, Mr. Houghton being a man
held in universal esteem by all who knew him.

As opportunity offered, throughout the remainder
of the day, little groups were to be observed in the
various departments, discussing the *pros* and *cons* of
an event which might mean so much to all in the
employ of the firm.

Roberts, who had been a servant for a long series
of years, and occupied a position second only to that
held by Mr. Houghton, was very decided in the
expression of his views in a conversation subsequently
held with Arnold, who regarded himself as an expert
in his own particular department.

"I don't believe," said Roberts, "that this so-called
retirement is the voluntary act of Mr. Houghton."

"How then," said Arnold, "do you consider it has
come about?"

"It appears to me to have been forced upon him."

"Don't you think he knew that Mr. Johnson was
coming?"

"No, I do not; that, I think, was as much a surprise
to himself as it was to us."

"Well," added Arnold, "if the emotion he manifested
may be taken as evidence, he seemed to be
quite unmanned, and very ill-prepared for what he
wished to say."

"Yes; and to my thinking," said Roberts, "no
clearer proof is needed than the fact of his resignation
being only made known to us when his successor was
in the house.  Had he been aware of what was
impending, I have no hesitation in saying he would
have prepared himself for the issue, and informed us
of it in a more leisurely and self-possessed manner."

"Rather rough treatment of a man who has been a
trusted and respected servant for over fifty years!"

"No doubt of it," continued Roberts.  "Of course, I
do not say but what it is quite possible that the heads
of the firm at Broadstone may have suggested to him
the desirability of thinking of retiring, after such a
lengthy innings, in order that some younger man
should be introduced, who might be expected to impart
a little fresh life and infuse more energy into the
business; but, as he did not readily take the hint, I
presume they have 'taken the bull by the horns,'
which causes their act to have the appearance of
somewhat unceremonious treatment."

In the warehouse, where the matter was very
keenly discussed, similar views prevailed; and it was
generally considered that Mr. Houghton was not
retiring willingly, that the so-called retirement was
too patent a sham to deceive anyone; and the verdict
was that it was a very shabby way of treating an old
and faithful servant; and that if the firm could behave
in such an inconsiderate way to one who had devoted
his life to the best interests of his employers' business,
the prospect was not a very encouraging one for
those who remained.

"The end justified the means" is much too
frequently, and too generally, the rule of conduct with
many large and wealthy firms, as it is with public
companies, who have not a soul to be *cursed* (another
word is more often used) or a body to be kicked.





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.. _`BROADSTONE`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   BROADSTONE.

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   "Preferment goes by letter and affection,
   Not by the old gradation, when each second
   Stood heir to the first."—*Othello*, Act I. sc. i.

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Politically, as well as commercially, the
town of Broadstone is "no mean city," and
for light and leading has long been running our
metropolitan capital very close.  Its members loom
large on the political horizon; whilst its industries
are not only marketable commodities in the remotest
regions of the world, but by their quality give the
name of the place to the trade it does, although not
often is it in most complimentary terms.

Its leading thoroughfares are broad and spacious,
while its streets appear to have been laid out on no
well-defined or pre-arranged plan, but to have
developed as circumstances seemed to render desirable.

The buildings have a twofold character; those
which are modern are handsome, and in many cases
have an imposing appearance.  This is especially the
case with its public buildings.  The more ancient, as
well as the poorer quarters of the city, are, for the
most part, plain brick-and-tile compounds, without
ornament or anything to recommend them save their
utility, and not even this always.

In the centre of one of its leading thoroughfares
stands the factory of H. & E. Quinion, a lofty
and rectangular pile of buildings of comparatively
modern construction, with little to attract the eye
from an architectural point of view; but, within, the
fittings and appointments are handsome, and, in some
instances, of a costly nature, yet strictly in keeping
with the character of the work to be seen.

On the day succeeding the events narrated in the
previous chapter, soon after the dinner-bell had been
rung,—which was the signal for all work to cease, as
well as for those who lived near enough to hasten
home to the midday meal, whilst others who elected
to do so could assemble in a common room set apart
for their special use,—a note was handed to the senior
partner, Mr. H. Quinion, as he was seated in a small
office in the centre of the works, informing him that
Arnold from the London office was below, and would
like to see him.

Surprised, and just a little annoyed at so unexpected
a visit, he gave orders for him to be shown upstairs.

Arnold was a man of a quiet and reserved
disposition, not regarded with much favour by his
fellow-clerks, nor made a confidant of by any one in
particular.  It was generally felt—perhaps without
sufficient reason—that he had long had his eyes upon
the manager's position in London as a post he might
one day be called upon to occupy.  But whenever the
subject was canvassed by the rest of the staff, it was
invariably with a considerable amount of scoffing and
ridicule at the idea of so unsuitable a man, in
everyone's estimation but that of himself, aspiring to so
responsible an appointment; and it was agreed the
firm would never be so blind to their own interest as
to cherish such an idea.  He had, however, schemed for
years to keep himself a prominent figure before the
heads of the firm.  He had "toadied" to little
weaknesses, and, in some few smaller and minor matters,
had succeeded in placing himself in front of others
who had been his seniors.  It may be imagined, therefore,
with what keen and bitter feelings of chagrin and
disappointment he regarded the events of the previous
day.  To find, from the appointment which had been
made, that all his plans and designs had miscarried,
was a collapse to his castle-building which he little
expected, and was scarcely prepared to sit down
quietly under; yet how to change the apparent current
of events was not so clear.  In this perplexity, as a
last resort, he resolved to interview the members of
the firm at Broadstone; and a brief note to
Mr. Houghton in London, informing him of his visit to the
works on a matter of importance, was the only intimation
given to account for his absence from business.

"Good-morning, Arnold,—an unexpected visit.
Anything wrong in London?" asked Mr. Quinion,
a little nervously, readjusting his spectacles, which
really needed no attention.

"No, sir; nothing," replied Arnold, who was slightly
flushed, probably on account of the nature of his
errand as much as the walk from the railway-station.

Taking a chair indicated to him, he at once
plunged into the subject of his visit by saying, "No
doubt, sir, you are surprised to see me down here, and
I feel it would have been more becoming had I
written first to inform you of my intention; but the
circumstances of yesterday came upon all of us so
sudden and unexpectedly, that it was not until late
last evening I formed the decision to make this hasty
and impromptu visit."

"Well, now that you have come, let me hear what
it is you have to say."

"I must confess, sir," said Arnold, "that the fact of
Mr. Houghton being allowed to retire is not to me so
much a matter of surprise as the person who has
been appointed to succeed him.  If I am rightly
informed, he is a man of no experience in your
business, and with no record to distinguish him as
one entitled to such a position.  Several of us in
London have been so many years in your employ,
that hopes were freely entertained that, whenever the
course of events should render a change necessary,
an opportunity would be afforded to one of us to
supply the vacancy.  I, for one, cherished the hope
that the experience and knowledge gained during
my period of service with you might have induced
you to offer me the position conferred upon Mr. Johnson."

"I am rather sorry to hear what you tell me," said
Mr. Quinion; "as I may candidly inform you that
the firm never had any intention of putting a member
of the present staff into the position you refer to;
and in asking you to regard this matter as now
closed, we shall be glad if you will take any
opportunity which may present itself to disabuse the
minds of your colleagues, as well as that of your
own, that a slight was intended to anyone by this
appointment.  On the other hand, it was feared that
to promote any member of the London staff would
probably give rise to more dissatisfaction, and create
a greater amount of friction, than the installation of
a perfect stranger is likely to do.  It is not intended
as a reflection upon anyone, but simply a matter of
expediency, and which, in the interest of all concerned,
we thought it wisest to adopt."

"I much regret to learn that that is your decision,
sir, as I did hope it might not yet be too late to induce
you to make some other arrangement."

"That is quite out of the question," replied
Mr. Quinion; "and I hope you will not only give
Mr. Johnson a hearty welcome, but at the same time
render him all the assistance which he will, of course,
very much need."

"So far as I am concerned you may certainly
reckon upon that, although I should like to have
seen a different state of things prevailing."

"I regret," added Mr. Quinion, "you should have
felt it needful to come down here on such an errand,
as it was scarcely likely we should have taken so
important a step without first giving it very careful
consideration."

"I trust you will forgive me if you think I have
acted indiscreetly," rejoined Arnold.

"Oh, say no more about it," was Mr. Quinion's
reply.  "When do you return to town?"

"By the next train, sir; at three-ten p.m."

"In that case you have no time to lose, so I will
not detain you any longer.  Good day."

And in less than half an hour Arnold was speeding
back to London, with no very comfortable feelings.
He had failed to produce the impression expected, or
to change the situation of affairs; and his future
course did not yet clearly shape itself to his mind.

Of course, the fact of his visit to Broadstone was
known in London, but every attempt to extract from
him the object of his journey failed.  To all and
sundry of his inquirers the uniform answer was—"Only
a little private business."





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.. _`ANTWERP`:

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   CHAPTER III.


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   THE QUAY AT ANTWERP.

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   "Blow, wind; swell, billow; and swim bark!
   The storm is up, and all is on the hazard."
   \                        *Julius Cæsar*, Act V. sc. i.

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A midsummer sun was already shining upon
the lazily flowing waters of the Scheldt, as the
Cathedral clock rang out the hour of six; and
the sweet-toned carillons, for which its tower is almost
world renowned, had not yet ceased their chimes as
the good ship *Kestrel*, which lay moored at the
quay-side, began to sound her most unmusical whistle,
preparatory to moving into midstream, outward bound
for the English coast.

The quaint old market-place,—close to the river,
and lying beneath the shadow of the Cathedral
walls,—surrounded with lofty houses of a style peculiar to
Flemish architecture, was at this hour a scene of busy
life.  From early dawn the peasants and small
farmers from the neighbouring villages continued to
flow in, bringing such marketable commodities as
were likely to find a ready sale.  Butter and cheese,
with pails of cream and masses of cheap vegetables,
rapidly changed hands, and were carried home in
baskets, or in small carts to which dogs were
harnessed, and which latter seemed in no way to dislike
the task they were put to, judging from the apparent
cheerful and eager way in which they went at the
work.

On the quay-side nearly as much life and activity
prevailed as in the market-place.  Porters were
hurrying to and fro across the gangways; final
additions were being hastily made to the cargo; the
passengers were crowding in; and, as the *Kestrel's*
warning bell rang, those who had come to see the
last of departing friends or relatives were hurried
ashore.

It is not a little peculiar that no matter what may
be the hour fixed for the departure of a train or vessel,
someone is sure to arrive at the last moment, when
the time is up for starting; and, on the occasion
we are describing, the proverbial late-comer was
not wanting, in the person of a man about thirty,
who just succeeded in reaching the last of the
gangways, which crew and landsmen had already
commenced to cast off, and made his way on board.

Freed from her moorings, with steam up, the
*Kestrel* gradually proceeded into midstream, where,
with tide and current in her favour, she soon began
to run rapidly down the broad brown Scheldt,
giving opportunity for but a passing glimpse of the
magnificent lines of quays which once engrossed
most of the commerce of the earth.

On leaving the city itself, the river scenery for
miles is dull and uninteresting to a degree.  Most
of the land on either shore, lying below high-water
mark, presents few features to attract the attention
of the observer.  Beyond an occasional house-top
or a church-steeple, there is nothing to relieve the
miles of flat lowlands which stretch away to the
horizon line, if we except the never-ending windmills
perched on the highest point of the banks to catch
the breeze.  When the broad lagoon-like piece of
water was reached, which marks the entry to the
river, and is carefully buoyed to indicate the course
of vessels entering or leaving port, the welcome sound
was heard of the steward's bell, announcing that
breakfast was ready; and in a few minutes no one
was to be seen upon deck save such of the crew as
were required for the working and safety of the
vessel.

A more than usual orderly company was seated at
the tables, which were soon being well served for the
apparently eagerly-anticipated morning meal; and
whilst conversation flowed freely, there was less of
that tendency to boisterous mirth which is often
so marked and objectionable a feature during short
sea-trips.

"A pleasant journey so far," remarked a lady to
the male companion at her side.

"Yes," was his reply; "and let us hope it will
continue."

"Have you any reason to doubt it?" was the
inquiry which followed.

"No; but the captain will perhaps be able to tell
us presently."

At the upper end of the same table, he who
had been the last to arrive on board was holding
an animated conversation with a fellow-passenger
on certain historical reminiscences of the city of
Antwerp.

"I must confess that it is with feelings of
considerable satisfaction and pride that I learned from
Motley, and others, the brave stand which the
doughty burghers made, three centuries ago, against
the violent persecutions of the Holy Inquisition which
had been set up by Charles V."

"Is it a fact that the Prince of Orange led what
was, for distinction, called an insurrection?"

"Yes; and I suppose rightly so-called, since,
without troubling to inquire into the mode by which its
subjugation had been brought about, the Netherlands,
which then included both Holland and Belgium, was
under the tender rule of Philip II. of Spain."

"The husband of our own Queen Mary, was he not?"

"The same," responded the previous speaker.  "And
by him the government had been placed in the hands
of the Duchess of Parma.  The Prince, who had been
sent to represent Philip, unable any longer to sustain
that role, threw off his allegiance to Spain; and, with
what has been described as 'the true spirit of a
Christian hero,' declared for the people who had
been confided to his care.  It would be too long a
story to recount all the events which led up to it, but
it is well worth your study when you have leisure, as
you will find how, by his wisdom and courage, he
succeeded in obtaining for them freedom from
foreign invasion, and the right of worship according
to the dictates of their own conscience, without the
loss of a single life."

"I say, skipper," called out a rosy-faced little man,
seated close beside the two who had been thus
conversing, "what sort of weather do you anticipate we
shall have in crossing the German Ocean?"

"I am afraid we shall have what you will, most of
you, consider a rough journey.  The glass has fallen
considerably within the last few hours; there is a
stiffish breeze from the north, which is blowing
against the tide, so that our course is not likely to
be one of the smoothest."

A few exchanged ominous glances; whilst others,
as soon as the meal was over, betook themselves to
the cabins or bunks, and made preparations for
bestowing themselves in such manner as seemed
most likely to minimise the sufferings in prospect.
Breakfast had not long been finished, when the bar
was crossed, and the pitch and roll of the vessel
began to make their influence felt.

It was high noon, and eight bells had just struck.
Black clouds hid the sun from view.  The wind was
blowing in gusts from the north, whilst the
white-crested waves were dashing and breaking over the
vessel as she laboured through the trough of the
billows, or mounted the crests of the foaming waves.
The deck was continually being swept by the
rolling seas, so that, with but few exceptions, all the
passengers were closely confined below; but the
exceptions seemed to be, like those stormy petrels
sailors tell us are to be met with in mid-ocean,
enjoying what they pleasantly described as "the
fun."

The good ship was just succeeding in again making
headway through the troubled waters, after clearing
herself of a huge wave which had seemed as if it
would engulf her, when a cry was heard from the
stern of the vessel, "Man overboard!"  The engines
were at once stopped, the vessel's head brought round
to windward, and, notwithstanding the nature of the
sea prevailing, everything got ready for lowering a
boat when the order should be given.

"Lower away, men!" came from the captain.  And
the next moment the ship's lifeboat was tossing on
the crest of the waves, but pulled by strong arms, with
a skilled hand at the helm.  The crew, and those on
deck who witnessed this scene, were full of eagerness
and anxiety as to the result.  It was, however, felt from
the first to be an almost hopeless quest; and so in
the end it proved, for after half an hour's vain search,
during which time it was with difficulty the rowers
kept their boat from being swamped, it was hoisted
in with its living freight, and the vessel again headed
for the English coast.

The intelligence of the disaster had rapidly spread
through the ship, and now the question on the lips
of everyone capable of attending to anything but
their own condition was, "Who is it?"  But this no
one seemed able at present to give a reliable answer to.

After a careful inquiry had been instituted amongst
the passengers, attention became concentrated upon
the last arrival on board.  The captain remembered
to have seen him in conversation with one of the
passengers during breakfast, and to have caught
occasional snatches of the topics under discussion;
but since then neither captain nor any of the
passengers remembered to have seen him, nor could
a careful examination of all on board succeed in
bringing him to light.  No one appeared to have
noticed him on deck, and yet his absence seemed
undoubtedly to point to the fact that he must be the
missing man; but who he was, and whether his death
was to be attributed to accident or design, none were
able to say.

Later in the day an overcoat was discovered
stowed away in one of the bunks, which none of
the passengers could identify as belonging to them.
On a careful scrutiny of the pockets, papers were
found which seemed to point more definitely to the
identity of the lost man.  When, therefore, the
*Kestrel* at length reached her moorings in the
Thames, and made her report to the proper authorities,
it was taken charge of by the local police, and the
matter was left with them to investigate.





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.. _`RAILTON HALL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   RAILTON HALL.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:
   Who cover faults, at last shame them derides."
   \                              *King Lear*, Act I. sc. i.

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"Come, Jennie, it's time you began to think
about retiring."

"Yes, mother; in a minute," responded
the young girl thus addressed.

"But do you know, child, that it is ten o'clock? an
hour that is quite too late for more minutes to be
allowed."

"I know, mother, but I do so want to finish what I
am reading."

"You have been intent on that book for the last
two hours," replied the mother,—"so intent, that you
have scarcely spoken a word since you commenced;
and if you sit at it much longer you will be ill
to-morrow, and unable to get up when the time comes.
So put it away, and go at once."

Thus fairly admonished, the girl addressed closed
her book, not without evident reluctance, and
prepared to obey her mother's injunction.

Mrs. Sinclair had been a widow about five years,
her husband having died, after a painful and lingering
illness, just as he had reached what is generally
looked upon as the prime of life.  Being well
provided for, as soon as affairs could be settled, and
her house and belongings disposed of, she left the
neighbourhood in which they had for years resided,—and,
with her two children, a girl and boy, now her
sole charge,—to take up her abode amidst her native
hills, a few miles outside the city of Aberdeen.

Her son Ralph had been given a position of some
promise in the firm of H. & E. Quinion,
Broadstone,—where his father had long held a high and
honourable post,—with the prospect of a junior
partnership in the course of a few years, in the event
of all things going on satisfactorily.

Jennie, who had not yet reached her sixteenth
year, was tall for her age, well proportioned, and,
although not what would generally be called handsome,
was an attractive girl.  And the bright, clear
grey eyes, beneath a more than usually broad and
expansive brow, indicated a degree of intelligence
which was not slow in displaying itself.

The house in which they dwelt was one of those
old-fashioned ones so often to be met with outside
our large towns and cities, possessing no apparent
design in its construction, through the numerous
additions and alterations from time to time made, to
suit the convenience or taste of successive tenants,
without any regard for harmony or unity.

Spacious and convenient, it was also rambling and
not handsome.  Surrounded by extensive grounds,
and well wooded, it was hidden from view of the
ordinary traveller, but well known to the residents
around,—who were frequent visitors at Railton Hall,—as
well as to cottars and villagers, with whom
Mrs. Sinclair kept up a close acquaintance.

"What time do you expect Ralph in the morning,
mother?" asked Jennie, as she prepared to retire for
the night.

"The train is due at Aberdeen at nine-forty-five,
and if it keeps time we may expect him here about
ten-fifteen," said her mother.  "I have ordered Donald
to have the trap ready to drive me to the station to
meet him at that hour; so we breakfast at eight-thirty."

"Very well, mother; then I will tell Alice to call
me at eight"; and with a good-night kiss the young
girl left the room.

Before following her daughter's example, Mrs. Sinclair
drew a letter from her pocket bearing a
foreign postmark, to read—not for the first
time—the intelligence which was already well impressed
upon her memory—


"DEAR MOTHER,—I leave Antwerp to-morrow
morning at six o'clock, and hope to return by the
night mail, due in Aberdeen at nine-forty-five the next
morning.  Your loving son, RALPH."


With fond anticipations of the morning, the anxious
mother retired to rest.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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The morning broke in the midst of a proverbial
Scotch mist, and everything presented a damp and
uncanny appearance, calculated to produce a
depressing influence upon minds expectant and anxious.

Mrs. Sinclair had spent a restless and uneasy night,
thinking of him she hoped so soon to clasp in a
motherly embrace.  Her son had been absent now
some months, travelling on the Continent, on business
for the firm by whom he was employed, and the
nearer the time of his return, the greater was the
mother's agitation and anxiety; so that it was only
by a supreme effort she was enabled to control her
feelings and maintain an outwardly calm appearance.
Breakfast was all too rapidly despatched for
full justice to have been done to it, and mother and
daughter mounted the trap, which Donald drove with
all needful speed to the station, where they found
they had still some time to wait.

The train was late in arriving, but when it drew
up at the platform eager and anxious glances were
directed on each passenger as he alighted.  They
failed, however, to discover the one they were in
search of; and when at length the platform was
deserted, they had reluctantly to admit that Ralph
had not travelled by that train, but what could have
prevented his doing so they were utterly at a loss
to conjecture.





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.. _`VISIONS OF THE KLONDYKE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center medium bold

   VISIONS OF THE KLONDYKE.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

"Much have I travelled in the realms of gold."—KEATS.

.. vspace:: 2

When Arnold reached home in the evening,
from Broadstone, he felt anything but
pleased on learning that visitors had arrived
and were awaiting his return.  Tired and disappointed,
he would have preferred being left to his own thoughts;
but this was a privilege which for the present, at least,
he found he had to forego.  The first greetings over,
his little wife informed him that his cousins from
Jersey had arrived about an hour before him.

"They are on their way to Liverpool, bound for
the Klondyke," she added.

"Where are they staying?" asked Arnold.

"I have not asked them that," she replied, "as I
wanted to hear what you thought about our trying
to accommodate them here for three nights, so as to
save them the expense of going to an hotel."

"But you know how very limited is the space at
our disposal, my dear!"

"True," said Mrs. Arnold; "but it is not for long,
and no doubt they will be much better pleased."

"Well, if you feel that you can manage it, and
they are willing to accept what accommodation we
have to offer, I shall be quite prepared to fall in with
whatever arrangement you like to make."

"Very well; then I have no doubt we shall be able
to settle matters to their satisfaction.  And now, dear,
you had better go and change your things, and make
yourself look spruce, and then join us in the drawing-room,
which will leave me at liberty to see to the supper."

Later in the evening, when the proposals of
Mrs. Arnold for the disposal and accommodation of the
cousins were laid before them, they were only too
pleased to avail themselves of the offered hospitality.

John and Charles Barton, whose ages were
respectively twenty-three and twenty-seven years, had
worked on a small farm which their father rented
until the old man died, which event happened three
or four years prior to the present period.  For the
past three years they had continued it on their own
account, but, failing to make it pay, they had sold
everything off and resolved to emigrate.  It was just
about this time that the Klondyke successes began
to be all the talk, and so taken were they with the
marvellous stories related of that region that they
determined to try their fortune on its inhospitable
shores.  Their purses were not too well lined, nor
their prospects sufficiently promising, to render them
independent of any little help or assistance they
might meet with from friends on their way.

"What port are you bound for, Jack?" inquired Arnold.

"We go to Montreal, and thence by Canadian and
Pacific line across the American Continent to San
Francisco."

"Isn't that the longest way there?" asked Arnold.

"That is so; but then it is by far the easier.  All
accounts are pretty unanimous in depicting not only
the danger but the difficulties of the so-called Chilcoot
Pass."

"But what about the White Pass?"

"That appears to be the worst of the three, since
it leads through a very rough country, over steep
hills, through swift streams, and over a pass which,
although said to be one thousand feet lower than the
Chilcoot, is declared by surveyors to be two hundred
feet higher.  And as it is longer and more difficult
we have thought it best to take the river route."

"What is the difference in the matter of time
over—say the Chilcoot route?"

"The time of starting may be somewhat later, as
we shall have to wait until it is known that the
navigation of the Yukon River is opened."

"What distance have you to travel on the Yukon?"

"To Dawson City is one thousand seven hundred
and fifty miles; and from San Francisco to Dawson
City, which is altogether about four thousand five
hundred and nine miles, the Steamship Companies
estimate the time needed for this journey at thirty
days, whilst through or over the passes it varies from
fifty to seventy days."

"Probably more often seventy than fifty days?"

"No doubt of it."

"And I suppose the river route has other
advantages besides?"

"Oh, decidedly!  Our luggage, for example, has
not to be carried, or packed, as it would have to be if
we went to Skagway, Dyea, or some one of the ports
leading to the passes."

"That, of course, is a consideration, as well as a
great saving in comfort and convenience."

"Exactly; for you must remember that with several
hundred pounds weight of goods on the beach, it would
be no very easy matter arranging and carrying out all
the details necessary for transferring them over the
mountains to the head-waters of the Yukon."

"No; I daresay you are right," added Arnold.

"Well, we have studied the matter, and, after careful
thought, have no doubt whatever that although it may
mean some delay at San Francisco or St. Michael's,
waiting for the opening of navigation, and the possibility
of arriving a little later at the 'diggings,' we
shall not be worn out and fagged as we should be if
we risked our goods and lives over the Chilcoot Pass."

"And you think you can stand the climate?"
asked Arnold.

"We intend to try," was Jack's response.  "Mr. Ogilvie,
who was commissioned by the Canadian
Government to make certain explorations on their
behalf in that region, and who spent some eleven
years off and on there, says, 'I know many
Englishmen from all parts of England who have been in
it, five, six, and even twelve years, without being
injured by the cold.  No one that I know of, taking
proper care of himself, has ever been hurt by the
rigour of the climate.'"

"All I can say is," wound up Arnold, "that I
sincerely hope you may find it to be the El Dorado
you are anticipating, and return home millionaires."

Three days later the cousins took their departure
for Liverpool, and in due course embarked on board
the outward-bound steamer for Montreal, full of
hopeful anticipations of that future in a new land
which imagination seldom fails to surround with a
halo of romance.





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.. _`THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   \                "Things outward
   Do draw the inward quality after them,
   To suffer all alike."
   \              *Antony and Cleopatra*, Act III. sc. xi.

.. vspace:: 2

To the outward observer the London business of
H. & E. Quinion was unchanged.  The carriages
of its wealthy patrons stood outside,
as for years had been the custom, whilst their titled
occupants paraded round the palatial show-rooms,
frequently with a desire to gratify the eye by a sight
of the many objects of artistic beauty to be seen,
rather than for the purpose of purchasing the wares
exhibited.  City men called on their way to business,
gave their orders, and, without unnecessary delay,
departed.  Ladies entered later in the day, with
little to do and plenty of time at their disposal,
taking up the time of the patient salesmen, wearying
them with needless questions, and compelling them
to pander to their little whims and fads.  But the
undercurrent of dissatisfaction and annoyance which
prevailed, together with the feeling of uncertainty and
unrest which had been created, were not matters of
concern for the general public, and therefore remained

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center

   "Unrevealed to mortal sense."

.. vspace:: 1

Yet they were influences which were working, and
working prejudicially, for all concerned.

Scarcely a month had elapsed since the announcement
of Mr. Houghton's retirement, when Roberts
was called into the manager's office, and informed
that the firm had resolved to dispense with his
services, and that the notice was to take effect in a
month from that day.  It was not without much
hesitancy, and a display of no little emotion, that
the venerable manager communicated this very
unwelcome piece of intelligence.  Its effect on Roberts
may be better imagined than described.  It was a
crisis which he had never for one moment anticipated;
and it filled him with astonishment and dismay.  As
soon as he had somewhat recovered from the shock
which it naturally gave him, his first inquiry was for
the reason of this; when he was informed that the
firm desired to make certain changes, in order to
reduce the expenses of the London establishment,
and that Gregory had also received a similar notice.

"But, sir," said Roberts, "what does the firm expect
I am going to do?"

"They don't say," was the reply of Mr. Houghton,
in a tone of helplessness.

"Well," added Roberts, "I should never have
expected such treatment from a firm standing so
high as this does in the opinion of all who have any
knowledge of it."

"And a few months ago I should have expressed
a similar opinion," said the manager; "but
circumstances have changed."

"Changed!  I should think they have!" exclaimed
Roberts.  "When a wealthy firm such as this is can
say to a man who has been in their employ upwards
of a quarter of a century—with whom they find no
fault, but simply to enable them to reduce
expenses—you are to leave us in a month! it is anything
but a fair or honourable way of treating a man at my
time of life."

"I deeply regret to be the bearer of such a message
to you," said Mr. Houghton, "and can only advise
you to write the firm, and fully express your views
and feelings on the subject."

Acting upon this advice, Roberts at once wrote a
long but respectful letter to the firm at Broadstone,
setting forth the hardship of the position in which
he was thus suddenly placed; the difficulty which a
man of his years would experience in obtaining
another situation; and suggesting that he be allowed
an interview with the firm at Broadstone before such
a drastic measure was put into force.

In course of post a reply was received declining
the suggested interview, on the ground that it would
be useless, since before arriving at their decision to
act as they had done every circumstance had been
fully considered; and whilst they recognised the
value of the services which had been rendered, and
had no fault to find with him, they must decline
to reconsider an act the consequences of which
had been well thought over before being made known.

This was cold comfort for a man in Roberts'
position.

The day his notice expired a cheque arrived, which
the manager handed him, with expressions of regret
that such a course had been found necessary.  The
cheque was equivalent to two months' salary.

Thus at the age of fifty, after spending the best
years of his life in the service of the firm, Roberts
found himself thrown upon the world, with no stain
upon his reputation, compelled to commence again
the battle of life, and to join the ranks of the large
army of the unemployed.

Such treatment is an evil of long standing, and is
a tyranny which the poor and defenceless have to
suffer from the wealthy.

"In the interest of the firm" was the only plea
which could be urged for the course pursued.  But
the happiness, the future, the health, nay the very
life, of the man concerned, were all nothing, and
might well be sacrificed to the grasping capitalist "*in
the interest of the firm*."





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.. _`FAR WEST`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   FAR WEST.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

"To the West, to the West, to the land of the free."—HENRY RUSSELL.

.. vspace:: 2

Some thirty miles or more from the banks of
the Qu'Appelle River, the scenery is wild and
romantic.  Winding creeks abound, into which
are projected rocky promontories; deep ravines,
formed by enormous boulders of red and grey granite,
the beds bestrewn with the bones and relics of the
former inhabitants of this vast country; stunted
poplars, or weedy willows, with a varied undergrowth
of wild fruit-bushes, contribute to form an impenetrable
undergrowth and an almost pathless bush.

Still farther inland, the "rolling prairie" meets the
traveller's view—a waving grassy expanse, which, when
set in motion by the wind, is like nothing so much
as the boundless ocean, of which nearly all writers
agree it most vividly reminds them.

Towards the close of a Canadian summer's day, a
solitary horseman might have been seen pursuing his
weary way along the banks of a winding creek some
few miles from the Qu'Appelle.  An Englishman, not
more than thirty years of age, well mounted; his cord
breeches and hunting-boots, and a rifle slung across
the shoulder, gave him an appearance of having some
acquaintance with a settler's wild life.

Human habitations were only to be met with at
long intervals, when occasionally a hunter's shanty
made itself visible amongst the trees.  Out on the
prairie were to be seen log-houses and shanties here
and there; and some twenty or thirty miles distant,
eastward, the indications of a little town, only just
faintly visible on the far horizon.

The jaded condition of both man and steed were
unmistakable signs of the many weary miles which
had been passed in the saddle, and it was with a
feeling of relief that he espied a substantial-looking
range of log buildings, marking out their owner as
a man of some means, who must have made his way,
and succeeded in overcoming the initial difficulties of
a settler's life.

The deserted look of the place was not, at first
sight, encouraging.  As, however, he drew in rein at
the door of the house, its owner—a man apparently
in the prime of life—advanced to meet him.  Dressed
in a suit of homespun garments, remarkable for their
ease and convenience rather than their elegance, his
good-humoured and good-tempered looking face
gave every indication of a hearty welcome awaiting
those who happened to be in need of it.

"Good evening, friend," said the settler, as the rider
jumped from his horse, retaining hold of the reins
with a loose hand.  "Here, Tom," he added, calling
to a stalwart-looking youth who had made his
appearance from a row of wooden shanties which
formed the stabling of the settlement, "take and put
up this gentleman's horse.  See that he has a good
rub down before feeding, for he looks pretty well done up."

"And so I should think he was," said his owner,
"since it is about seven hours since our last halt for
rest or refreshment of any kind."

"Come in, come in, my friend; and we will soon
see what the larder has to put before you."

"Well, if I may so far trespass upon Canadian
hospitality, I shall only be too glad to accept
anything you may be able to offer me."

"Rely upon it that Canadian hospitality will never
be backward in giving a right good hearty welcome
to travellers from the Old Country, whom fortune or
misfortune may bring to our shores."

"Your words," said the tired horseman, as he
followed his guide into the house, "have a true
British ring in them, which makes one feel at home
at once."

"Well, I don't want it ever to be said that James
Ranger was the man to turn away the stranger
needing help from his door."

Rough and unfinished in appearance as most of
the appointments about the place seemed, there was
yet that air of comfort and cleanliness which is the
marked characteristic of nearly all Canadian houses.
A living-room with a kitchen attached—the walls of
which had been rendered smooth with endless coats
of whitewash—formed the downstairs apartments.
In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, on
which a tidy white cloth was being spread by a
comely-looking, matronly woman well past forty.
A couple of cushioned rocking-chairs stood one on
each side of a capacious fireplace, and two or three
ordinary chairs, neatly cushioned, against the wall.
In one corner was a serviceable chest of drawers,
with a few books on the top; whilst in front of the
window was a small but substantial-looking table,
having all the appearance of being home-made, on
which a pot with a flower in it was standing.  The
floor was painted yellow, and partly covered with rag
carpets and rugs.

Seating himself, without waiting for any further
invitation, our traveller at once proceeded to divest
himself of his boots, preliminary to that rest and ease
so necessary after a hard day's ride.

Full justice having been done to the ample provisions
spread out before her tired guest, the two men
lighted their pipes, and, seating themselves in the rear
of the house, on a wooden bench running along the
full length of the wall, and commanding an extensive
view of the magnificent open country beyond, after
a few general observations, the old settler, whose
curiosity had been aroused by a few casual remarks
which had fallen from his guest, inquired—

"Well, my friend, I do not want to pry into your
secrets, but may I ask where you are bound for, and
what are your intentions in wandering so far away
out of the beaten track of ordinary civilised life?"

"Well, the fact is, I am a wanderer, with little
more to call my own than Jacob had when, with a
stone for his pillow, he slept peacefully in the open,
dreaming of the future and a land beyond.  Who I
am is of little consequence, since I have disgraced
my lineage, sullied a good name, and am now seeking
to hide my head somewhere—anywhere—so that I
may escape recognition, and if possible live out a life
which, opening with promise, is destined to close, as
that of all wastrels do, in sorrow and disgust!"

"Come, come, young man,—for you are yet young,—it
is neither good nor right that you should talk in
such a hopeless or despairing tone; whatever may
have been your past—and I do not seek to know it
beyond what you may be disposed willingly to
reveal—there is time yet before you in which wrong-doing
may perhaps be atoned for, and some effort made to
redeem the past."

"Ah, if you knew all, I am afraid you would be
less disposed to say so."

"Well, let's see now," said Ranger.  "What are your
plans?—if you have formed any."

"Plans I can scarcely be said to have made, unless
to wander aimlessly on until chance puts me on the
track of doing something for somebody, which will
bring me bread-and-cheese, can be called such.
Since landing at Montreal, where I bought my horse
and the few things you see I possess, and started off
into the interior, I have subsisted occasionally by a
few purchases, but mainly on the hospitality which
has been freely dispensed at the various farmhouses
or settlements I have passed through.  I shall
continue to pursue this course until chance throws
me into the way of some employment which I shall
be able to enter into."

"Not a very startling or encouraging prospect,"
was Ranger's comment; "but since time is not an
important object with you under such circumstances,
you may as well make a short stay here and have a
look round."

"With all my heart," replied the traveller, "if you
do not think I shall be in the way."

"No fear of that.  There is plenty of room out here.
We are not overburdened with inhabitants, and can
very well spare the trifle you will cost for living; so
we will consider that point settled, and we can return
to the subject after you have had a good night's rest."

As the evening closed in, the weary traveller was
glad to be shown to a comfortable bed, which the
kind-hearted hostess had been busily preparing for
him, and in less than ten minutes the sounds which
issued from his sleeping apartment proclaimed most
unmistakably that he was soundly sleeping.





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.. _`MONTREAL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MONTREAL.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "I hold the world but as the world...;
   A stage, where every man must play a part."
   \            *Merchant of Venice*, Act I. sc. i.

.. vspace:: 2

The Bartons in due course reached Montreal.
The passage across was uneventful, and
has been so often described that it needs no
record here.  On landing, they proceeded at once to
the ship's agent to whom they had been recommended,
and sought from him instructions and information
as to their future course.  This was readily
given.  And as they felt they could spare two or three
days to gaze upon the sights of this wonderful city,
after securing a lodging they took advantage of the
opportunity for doing so.

A traveller who visited the city fifty years ago
described it as being "one of the oldest settlements
on the North American Continent."  It stands upon
the site of an ancient Indian settlement, all traces of
which were soon obliterated by the progressive action
of the pale-faces.  At first named Mount Royal, in
honour of the King of France, after sixty or seventy
years' usage it appears to have been corrupted, or
changed, to Montreal, but by whom and under what
circumstances is not apparent.  The town extends
along the border of the St. Lawrence for some miles,
nearly midway between Quebec and Ottawa, and
the principal streets run almost parallel with the river.
The older parts of the town forcibly remind one of
some of the oldest cities in France, and are as
ill-conceived and badly arranged as many of the worst
streets of old London.  The more modern parts are
designed and built in the best of style, justifying its
being described as "a noble city of stone edifices,
rising from a crowded harbour to its mountain park."  This
mountain park is an adjunct such as no other
city on the Continent can boast of, "whilst its
shipping and business quarters give evidence of
wealth and commercial activity, which invest it with
more than a passing interest."

The two Bartons spent a good deal of time inspecting
the chief attractions of the city, until, tired
with their wanderings, as they passed through Notre
Dame Street they came to a narrow turning, down
which they were induced to venture on seeing a
small crowd about the centre.  On making their
way through, they found it to be one of those brawls
common enough in their own land, and which they
soon learned was not regarded as a strange thing
in these parts.  It was a fight between two men,
with an excited crowd of partisans egging them
on.  Presently the police arrived on the scene, when
an end was quickly put to the combative feelings of
the crowd, which was dispersed in very much the
fashion that similar crowds are dispersed in the Old
Country.

Retracing their steps, their attention was arrested
by an ordinary but respectable-looking refreshment
bar, which they entered.

A seafaring man was seated at one of the tables,
drinking whisky, and loudly declaiming against some
injustice—real or imaginary—he wanted his hearers
to believe he had suffered at the hands of the Customs'
authorities.  A group of interested listeners was
gathered about him, which our friends joined; but
after a while, not feeling interested in the subject he
was dilating upon, they separated themselves from
the group, and, selecting a table which was unoccupied,
ordered a modest meal, such as they believed their
means would admit of.

When the time to settle up arrived, what was their
dismay and horror to find that their pockets had
been emptied of all the money they possessed.

Calling the proprietor, they made known to him
their dilemma; but he refused to admit that they had
been robbed in his house, and as they could not
declare with any certainty that this was the case,
they were required to pay; but how to do this was
not so easy to determine.

A grinning crowd soon surrounded them, expressing
considerable doubts about the *bonâ fides* of
their representations.  They, however, succeeded in
convincing the landlord that they were what they
represented themselves to be by producing the railway
tickets, which they had fortunately taken for their
forward journey; and he, relying upon their promise
to forward the sum due out of the first money they
made, allowed them to depart after some little
haggling.

Their difficulties, however, were not yet over.  It
had been their intention to stay a few days longer in
Montreal, and they had accordingly engaged their
lodgings with that object in view.  This was now
rendered impossible.  They had left a deposit with
the lodging-house keeper, so that the only plan they
could think of was to interview her, make a clean
breast of their position, and, in the event of finding
her incredulous, forfeit the money in hand and start
at once to the West.

The day being well advanced, they returned to
the lodging-house where they had intended staying,
which was situate in one of the streets contiguous
to the harbour.

The landlady, a sharp-looking little woman,
incredulous at first as to the truth of their story,
explained that she had so frequently been done by
similar representations that they must not feel
surprised at her hesitating to accept their statement
as true.  Convinced at length, she agreed to allow
them to remain the night in return for the deposit, so
that they might be able to depart by the morning
train, outward bound at nine-five a.m.  This difficulty
overcome, it was not so clear to our two friends how
they were to subsist during the long journey which
lay before them.

From the police they obtained very little that
could be considered satisfactory.  The street they
described had an indifferent reputation, and the
restaurant at which they had stopped was frequently
being brought under their notice.  But the fact of
their having mingled in the row in the street rendered
it so extremely probable that the robbery took place
there, that they held out no hopes of their loss being
recovered.  Acting upon police advice, they resolved
to call upon the British Consul and acquaint him
with the destitute position in which this event had
placed them, in the hope that he might be willing to
render them a little assistance.

They had not far to go to reach that useful
official, into whose presence they were readily
admitted.

He was a tall, handsome-looking man, with a fine
military bearing, who had well passed the meridian
of life.  His face was a study which Lavater would
have revelled over; it had all the expression of
good-humour and a kindly disposition, so delightful to
meet with, yet accompanied with a pair of expressive
blue eyes which seemed to pierce the person they
were looking at.  He was certainly not the man to
be imposed upon, yet he was quite prepared to listen
and weigh a fairly good tale of trouble.

The story of the Bartons was very simple.  After
taking their tickets at Liverpool, they had the balance
out of one hundred pounds left.  They had not spent
much since reaching Montreal beyond the price of
their railway tickets, which had been taken to San
Francisco.  They had therefore more than half the
money they had begun with intact, when so
unfortunately deprived of the balance.

Their papers and railway tickets tended to confirm
these statements, whilst their manners and appearance
were sufficient to convince His Majesty's representative
their story was a true one.

"I believe all you tell me," said his Excellency,
"and am afraid the treatment you have received from
our countrymen will not lead you to form a too
favourable impression of them."

"On the contrary," spoke up the elder of the two
men, "we feel that there was a great want of thought
on our part in the matter, and the kindness we have
already met with convinces us that in this country,
as in England, the bad are always to be found mixed
up with the good."

"I am glad you take that sensible view of the
affair; and at the same time, whilst regretting that I
cannot make up your loss, which it would perhaps
not be wise for me to do, yet to convince you that, as
a people, we are not indisposed to extend a helping
hand to those who stand in need of it, I shall be
quite willing to make you a present of ten pounds,
trusting you will guard it with more care than that
which has gone."

"Your Excellency's offer is far more than we had
any right to anticipate, and overwhelms us with
gratitude.  It is a noble and generous act, for which
we cannot find words adequately to express our
feelings."

"Good day," added the Consul, as they were leaving;
"in the land you are going to I hope you will
find what you are in search of."

"And be assured, sir, you will have no reason to
regret your confidence in us, for the very first moneys
we succeed in making will be devoted to the return
of what we prefer to regard as a loan."

And it was with a feeling of proud satisfaction
that, in less than six months, the elder Barton found
himself in a position to remit the amount to his
Excellency, in a letter which expressed the gratitude
felt for the timely help so kindly and generously
afforded.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`RANGER'S RANCH`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   RANGER'S RANCH.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Thou, like a kind fellow, gave thyself away; and I thank thee."
   \                          *Henry IV.*, Part II. Act IV. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

Guide-books tell us that "the Dominion of
Canada is the largest of the British
possessions," and it is difficult to form a true
conception of the vast area comprised within the
limits of our North American Provinces.

No country has such grand possibilities before it,
and its progress of recent years has been remarkable.
All Canadians are proud of their country, and believe
in it.

But we are not at present concerned so much about
Canada in general, or as a whole, as we are with that
section which lies some few hundred miles west of
Winnipeg, in the district of Assiniboia.

It was here, in the lovely valley of the Qu'Appelle
River, that we left our weary traveller at Ranger's
Ranch, with a prospect of provisional entertainment,
until something suitable could be decided upon for
his future.

Having, as he explained, no definite plan of action
before him, he very readily fell in with a proposal
Ranger made, in the course of a few days, to stay
and assist on the farm, so as to ascertain to what
extent he was adapted for agricultural pursuits, and
whether it was a life he would be willing to settle
down to.

"What sort of climate have you here?" was one
of the earliest questions asked by Fellows, the name
he had expressed a wish to be known by.

"Much the same as prevails in the neighbouring
province of Manitoba," was Ranger's reply.  "The
summer months usually bright, clear, and very warm,
but nights cool."

"How is it later on?"

"The autumn months are the finest of the year."

"No rain?"

"Frequently the atmosphere is dry and free from
moisture for several weeks."

"Is your winter exceptionally hard?"

"For the matter of that," replied Ranger, "much
depends upon constitution.  Without doubt it is
cold, but there is usually very little wind, and almost
constant sunshine; there is no snowfall to any
great depth, and traffic is but slightly impeded.  In
fact, the general dryness of the air causes it to be
exceedingly bracing and healthy."

"I suppose you consider it superior to that of the
Old Country?"

"Decidedly I do!  Experience would tell me that,
but the testimony of our Officer of Health goes to
confirm it.  Listen to what he says," added Ranger,
as he took down a little book from the slender stock
on the shelf by his side: "'We are absolutely protected
by our climatic conditions from several of the most
dangerous and fatal diseases, whilst others, which are
common to all peoples on the face of the earth, are
comparatively rare.'"

"Your favourable description, added to my own
brief experience, so charms me, that I feel very much
like staying where I am," said Fellows.

"Well, friend, if you are really so minded I
daresay we can manage to fix you," was Ranger's
rejoinder.

"I am extremely grateful for your kind reception,
and courteous treatment, of a perfect stranger, as well
as for your further promise and all that it implies;
but unless I can be made of some use by you I shall
certainly object to becoming a burden here."

"We shall not let you be that," said Ranger.
"To-morrow morning I am going to drive into the
railway station, which is some fifteen miles out, on
the branch line of the C.P.R. running through the
valley.  You can go with me, as it will give you a
good opportunity of seeing a little more of the
surroundings, and perhaps enable you to judge of
what there is to be done."

Left to himself, with the afternoon before him,
Fellows strolled away to the top of a hill which
commanded an extensive view over the prairie-land
surrounding him on all sides, and there, seating
himself beneath a sheltering tree, his thoughts wandered
away to a distant home, where in imagination he saw
the features of those he loved, and who were seldom
absent from his mind.  A stranger might not have
been able to tell the current of thought engaging his
attention, but it would have been apparent to the
most casual observer, by the contracted brow and
the gloom on his countenance, that his reflections
were none of the pleasantest.

After a considerable lapse of time, his attention
was diverted by hearing distant sounds of voices
borne upon the still air, apparently proceeding from
a rough-looking timber construction, the abode of
some one of the many farm-hands engaged upon the
Ranch.

Built upon a spur of the hill, in a somewhat deep
indentation, it was a little distant from where he was
seated, but he soon became an attentive observer of
all that was passing.

A labouring-looking man came from the house
with a pail, and ran with all haste to a pond at a
short distance and commenced filling it, but before
he could return loud screams proceeded from the
interior, which caused Fellows to hasten down the
hill in order to ascertain the cause of the commotion.

Reaching the dwelling at the same time as did the
other with his pail of water, he found the living-room
in a blaze of fire, whilst screams were proceeding
from a room beyond, all communication with which
appeared to be cut off by the trend of the flames.
Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he hastily
dipped it in the pail the man was carrying, wrung it
out, tied it round his mouth, and then rushed swiftly
through the flames into the room where the sounds
of distress were to be heard.

On reaching the room, a task which was only
successfully accomplished with much difficulty, and
considerable painful cost, he beheld a female form
sink fainting to the ground, overcome, apparently, by
the heat and smoke, of which latter the apartment
was full.

To raise her from the floor was the work of an
instant; his next proceeding was to place her upon
a bed in the room, roll a blanket round her, and rush
through the smoke and flame to the outer room with
as much speed as the weight of the burden he bore
would permit.

The fiery marks on face and hands, which were
subsequently to be seen, bore eloquent testimony to
the severity of the ordeal he had passed through in
accomplishing the dangerous and difficult task so
bravely and fearlessly undertaken.

When the outbreak was observed from the other
stations on the Ranch, a number of willing hands
began to congregate with all haste, and with the
assistance of such appliances as were most readily
available a united effort was made to stem the
progress of the flames.  These, however, had by this
time obtained so firm a hold, that it was evident the
building, with its contents, was doomed.  In a short
while nothing remained of the humble dwelling but
a blackened and smouldering ruin.

The inanimate form of his daughter occupied all
the attention of Russell, the late occupier of the hut,
who, as soon as she could be restored to consciousness,
was found not to have suffered much harm, thanks
to the brave and timely efforts of Fellows on her
behalf.

He, however, had not escaped so freely, having
suffered considerably about the hands and face,
which had been exposed to the full force of the
flames as he twice made his way through them.

A cart was procured, in which he was at once
placed and driven back to Ranger's dwelling, to be
doctored with such native measures as Mrs. Ranger
was able hastily to command.

The cause of the fire, as the girl explained when
she was sufficiently recovered to do so, was one of
common occurrence.  Some light articles of clothing
had been hung in front of the fire to air, and whilst
Russell sat enjoying his after-dinner nap, she had
gone into the other room to attend to certain
domestic duties, and during this temporary absence
a spark must have set the things on fire, which was
only discovered when the outer room was in a blaze.

As the few things which Russell possessed were
all destroyed, arrangements had to be temporarily
made for the accommodation of himself and his
daughter in two of the other huts on the Ranch,
until his own could again be rebuilt.

Leaving instructions for all hands to turn to in the
morning, and help put up another dwelling for the
two who had been thus suddenly left houseless,
Ranger, who, as soon as informed of what was
happening, had lost no time in proceeding to the scene
of the fire, returned home to see how it fared with
Fellows, and to make preparations for his journey in
the morning, which would now have to be undertaken
without his companionship.

Fellows was in a high state of fever; whilst many
of the burns he had sustained were seen to be of
such a serious character that it was felt more skilled
assistance would have to be procured.  A messenger
was at once despatched into the town—distant some
fifteen miles—for the only medical man in the
neighbourhood.

It was shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon,
that, mounted on a good horse, the messenger set out
for M'Lean Station, in hopes of finding the doctor
and returning with him.  His way for the most part
was over rolling prairie, relieved by clumps of trees,
which are to be found on the borders of such lakes
and streams as are constantly to be met with; or
down amid the hollows, where grow the heavy
luxuriant grasses from which the farmer obtains his
supply of winter hay.

As the slanting rays of the westering sun were
sending up their brilliant points into the clear blue
vault above, Ranger's messenger drew rein before the
door of the doctor's dwelling, a very unpretentious,
one-storeyed detached villa—one of some half-dozen—standing
upon a hillside leading up to the station.

Dr. Fisherton was not at home; he had left in the
early morning for the Pleasant Hills, in response to
an imperative request from a Nat Langham, who
kept a store, and farmed a small holding at the foot
of the hills, and was not expected back till late.
There was no help for it but to wait.  So, stabling his
horse, he accompanied his negro attendant into the
servants' quarters, determined to make himself as
comfortable as possible for the time being.

After doing full justice to the meal which was
presently spread out before him, and which his long
ride had well prepared him for, he lighted his pipe
and seated himself at the window to wait for the
doctor's return.

Slowly the hours seemed to pass, until eleven
o'clock struck, without any signs of the doctor's
appearance.  At length the sound of a horse's feet
were heard approaching, and soon all doubt was put
at rest with the entry of the man so long expected.

The appearance of the doctor was that of a man in
the prime of life; tall, and with a good physique, and
a countenance calculated to impart confidence almost
at a glance.

On learning that a messenger was in waiting for
him, he, without standing on ceremony, immediately
made his way to where he was sitting and inquired
the nature of his business.

"There's been a fire, sir, this afternoon, at Farmer
Ranger's, and one of his men is very seriously
injured; in fact, when I left home he was in a high
state of fever, so that it was thought advisable to
send me, in order, if possible, to take you back at
once to him."

"Well, you see I was out and in the saddle early
this morning, and have only just returned after a
hard day's work.  What do you say to staying the
night, so that we may start together soon after
daylight in the morning?"

"It may sound a little inconsiderate, sir," responded
the man, "but if you could manage to come now, we
shall be able to reach the Ranch about two o'clock;
and my own opinion is, that it is a case where every
hour may be a matter of importance."

After reflecting for a few moments, during which
time he seemed to be turning the matter well over in
his mind, he announced his decision in a manner
which admitted of no appeal.

"I think it would be very unwise to start at such
an hour.  It is late; there is no moon; the track is
very uneven; and in the darkness it would not be
difficult to miss one's way.  Besides, the ground is
not free from loafers and tramps—to give them no
more desperate title—whom it would be dangerous to
meet at such a time.  We will bed you up for the
night, and start in the morning soon after the dawn;
and instead of reaching the farm at the unearthly
hour of two, get there between six and seven, a delay
of four or five hours, which, on the whole, I think will
be a far preferable arrangement."

The wisdom of the course recommended was too
evident to admit of dispute; therefore, after giving
orders for the morning, the doctor retired, and the
man was shown at once to his sleeping apartment,
and for a few brief hours sought a welcome rest.

The grey light of dawn was stealing rapidly up
from the east when the messenger, Burt, was
awakened by the negro attendant and told that it
was time to be up.  To arise and dress, for a man of
his habits, was not a work occupying much time;
in less than ten minutes he was seated in the kitchen,
doing ample justice to the well-spread table before
him.  And by the time the doctor was ready to
depart, Burt was in the saddle by his side, and
together they started on their ride to the Ranch.

The atmosphere being clear, the view up the
valley along which they journeyed was uninterrupted.
Where the river ran there was a thick and tangled
line of vegetation, but the absence of rain had reduced
it to the proportions of a very modest stream, flowing
sluggishly within narrow limits.  As they reached
higher ground they found it everywhere thickly
covered with the short crisp variety of grass known
as "buffalo grass," forming excellent pasture both in
winter and summer.

Familiarity may not always breed contempt,
because of the beauty of things with which long
association has rendered one familiar, nevertheless it
induces indifference.  And in the case of our two
friends—Fisherton and Burt—the scenes through
which they were passing had been so frequently
viewed by them, that it was with a species of
indifference they rapidly pushed on, intent upon
accomplishing their journey with as little delay as
possible.

Reaching the farm just as Ranger and his household
were about to sit down to breakfast, they were
fully prepared, after rising so early and their long
and rather exhausting ride, to join him at the
morning meal.

When seated at the breakfast-table, the doctor
inquired about the patient he had come to see, and
was informed that he had passed a very restless
night, with fitful intervals of sleep, and seemed to be
in great pain.

"When your messenger arrived, it happened,
unfortunately," said Dr. Fisherton, "that I was out.
A mounted messenger from the Pleasant Hills had
that morning arrived to say I was wanted at Nat
Langham's Store, where a free fight had resulted in
one man being shot dead and two others severely
wounded, and I was unable to get back until eleven
at night, when I found him waiting to bring me here."

"Ah, I see!" added Ranger; "and of course you
naturally felt it was too late to start out then to come
here."

"That is just it, my friend.  Your man wanted me
to do so; but I decided that, rather than arrive here
in the middle of the night, it would be better to take
a few hours' rest, start with the dawn, and get here,
as we have done, in broad daylight."

"Quite right, doctor; and when you have finished
breakfast, I will take you to the patient, and let you
see for yourself if you think the delay has done him
any harm."

"I trust not," was the doctor's only comment.

Breakfast over, the "gudewife" conducted the
doctor to the bedroom of the invalid, whilst Ranger
set about preparing for his journey into town.

After a careful examination of the injuries he had
received, the doctor pronounced them to be in no
sense dangerous, although serious.  The measures
which had been adopted to allay irritation and heal
the burns were highly approved; and, having dressed
the wounded parts and administered a cooling
draught, he took his departure, giving strict instructions
as to the course to be followed, with a view to
reduce the fever, and promising to return in three
days unless previously sent for, which he did not
apprehend would be necessary.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MISSING LINK`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER X.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MISSING LINK.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "'There is no God,' the foolish saith,—
   But none, 'There is no sorrow.'"—E. B. BROWNING.

.. vspace:: 2

On returning to the Hall, after her purposeless
journey to the railway-station to meet her
son Ralph, Mrs. Sinclair waited the whole of
that day, anxiously hoping that some intelligence
would be received to account for his non-arrival, but
neither letter nor message of any kind arrived.

After spending a restless night, and the morning
post bringing nothing to relieve the oppression which
was weighing upon her mind, she told her daughter
of her intention to drive into town and make inquiry
at the offices of the agents, to see if anything
could be learned about the passengers by the
*Kestrel*.

There she was informed of the vessel's safe arrival;
but that during the voyage, a passenger—supposed
to be Ralph Sinclair, from papers discovered in the
pocket of a coat believed to be his, as no one could be
found to claim it—had been lost in mid-ocean, and
that, although every effort was made at the time, they
had been unsuccessful in recovering the body.

The grief of both mother and daughter at this
intelligence was heartrending to witness, and may be
better imagined than described.

They returned home in a state well-nigh bordering
upon distraction, and for some hours were hopelessly
helpless with grief.  The news, brief though it was,
seemed too circumstantial to be doubted.

Later in the day, when slightly recovered from the
shock which the first intelligence of her loss had
caused, she resolved to write to the firm in whose
employ he was engaged, in the all but vain hope
they might know something with regard to his
movements which would throw doubt upon the
report to hand.  Having done this, it remained only
to wait two weary days before a reply could be
received.

Ralph had for some years been in the service of
H. & E. Quinion, at Broadstone, and held a
responsible position, which took him frequently to the
Continent and other parts in executing the orders of
the firm.

Early the next morning a telegram came to hand,
sent by the firm in question, saying, "Nothing known
of R. S. beyond what the papers say to-day.  Letter
follows."  The letter, which was received the next
morning, added little to what was already known, and
only contained the firm's expression of regret if the
news should turn out to be true.

Acting under advice, Mrs. Sinclair wrote the
owners of the *Kestrel*, asking them to forward her
such effects as were found upon their vessel which
were believed to belong to her son; and in the course
of a few days she received a parcel containing an
overcoat, with his pocket-book,—sad memorials of
one fondly loved but now lost for ever.

Some months later, she was rather astonished to
receive a visit from one of the members of the firm
who happened to be away up North on a holiday
tour; and to learn from him that it had been
discovered that the financial relations of her son
with them were anything but what they should be.
That, from inquiries they had felt it necessary to
make, he had not only been mixed up with a very
questionable class of companions, but had made free
use of the moneys of the firm which had passed
through his hands.  At cards, it would seem, he had
lost heavily, and had paid his debts with gold that
was not his own.

.. _`AT CARDS HE HAD LOST HEAVILY`:

.. figure:: images/img-069.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: AT CARDS HE HAD LOST HEAVILY.

   AT CARDS HE HAD LOST HEAVILY.

It may well be supposed this in no way tended to
lessen the grief experienced at the loss she had
sustained.  The thought that her son, whom she had
doted upon, and hoped would have been a comfort
in her declining years, should have disgraced his own
and his father's good name, was madness to her, and
for a time seemed likely to deprive her of her reason.

Her daughter Jennie was most assiduous in attending
on her mother during this trying period; and her
youth, coupled with a robust constitution, peculiarly
fitted her for this task.  For although feeling keenly
the disgrace which her brother's conduct had brought
upon the family, and the untimely end which had
apparently overtaken him, she did not give way or
break down after the manner of her mother, on whom
the infirmities of advancing years were beginning to
leave their mark.

By slow degrees she rallied, and was able again to
resume her place in the household, but the old spirit
had left her, so that she never seemed able to hold
herself up as in former days.

Her neighbours and friends evinced much sympathy
with her at her loss,—the true cause of the deep-seated
grief they witnessed they were kept in ignorance of.
The nights of agony spent in mourning over the
frailties and faults of her boy—her darling boy!—not
even her daughter knew anything about.  She could
not but note, however, how prematurely her mother
was ageing, and it was with a painful sense of what
might be before her that she contemplated, day after
day, the tottering form, which seemed as if bowed
down with the weight of years.

At Broadstone, the feeling of regret which at first
prevailed when the tidings of young Sinclair's
drowning was made known, had gradually given place to
anger and resentment, when it ultimately became the
topic of conversation that he had defrauded the firm
of between four and five thousand pounds.

True, they scarcely felt the loss of that sum, since
the amounts, as they were discovered, were simply
made a matter of bookkeeping, for which a few entries
in day book and ledger sufficed to transfer them to
profit and loss account, and the thing was done with,
so far as the business was concerned.  Nevertheless
the members of the firm had been disappointed by
one on whom they had implicitly relied, and whom
they had looked upon as the soul of honour.  And, as
time progressed, the reflex influence of this one man's
actions was seen and felt by all, in the inauguration
of a stricter discipline amongst the employés, and a
more elaborate and, as it was regarded, a better
system of account keeping being introduced, in order
to maintain a closer check upon those who had the
receiving and paying of money.

To the older men this was galling; but as younger
men entered upon their duties, with little if any
knowledge of what had preceded, they readily
accommodated themselves to what was to them the natural
order of things.

Perhaps it ought not to be wondered at if the firm
should endeavour to find reasons for dispensing with
the services of these older ones; and it might be that
some such influence had been working to cause the
changes which had been taking place of late.  Firms
do but consist of human beings, after all, although
they often seem to forget that those who serve them
are human beings likewise.

If the same even-handed justice prevailed when no
cloud flecked the horizon, as is meted out when
turmoil reigns, there might be less cause of complaint.
But with the cause the complaint must not be audible,
as that would be to still further wreck the position
and prospects of the unfortunate employé.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MANITOBA`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MANITOBA.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "I spake of most disastrous chances,
   Of moving accidents...
   Of hair-breadth scapes."—*Othello*, Act. I. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

After their unfortunate experience in the city
of Montreal, the Bartons lost no more time
in looking about, but proceeded by the first
outgoing train to the great North-West.  Finding,
however, before starting, that the money they now
possessed would not be sufficient to carry them
through and leave any cash in hand, they determined to
break their journey somewhere beyond Winnipeg, and
see if work could be found which would enable them
to replenish their exchequer before venturing farther.
Fortunately succeeding in effecting a change in
their through tickets for the less distant city of
Regina, they prepared to face a long day's ride.
Travelling on the Canadian Pacific Railway is a
luxurious procedure compared with that experienced
on English lines and in many Continental cities, whilst
the second-class corresponds with English first-class,
with the advantage of being transformable into
sleeping-cars at night.

The scenery from Montreal to the Pacific is some
of the noblest and most varied the traveller can
anywhere behold.

As he passes through the lovely Ottawa Valley,
Toronto, which is the capital city of the Dominion,
will be sure to attract attention; and, as he advances,
the interest will deepen as he passes through the
primeval forest, or past the primitive homes of frontier
settlers.

The rail carries him along the shore of Lake
Superior, the greatest fresh-water lake on the face of
the globe.  And, until Fort William is reached, some
very grand scenery is beheld.

Rock, stream, and lake succeed, or mingle with, each
other for the next three or four hundred miles, and
receives an added interest from the fact that, besides
being the route of the old fur-traders, it was also that
by which our "One General" conducted the Red
River Expedition of 1870.

The Red River Valley is now a populous settlement;
crossing which, Winnipeg is entered, and the
capital reached of the "world's great wheatfields of
the future."

The province of Manitoba "is the most eastern
division of the great prairie country," and its valleys
are everywhere famous for the quality of its wheat.
It is the older settled division of what was formerly
known as Rupert's Land; its climate is extremely
healthy, and is, in fact, looked upon as a health-resort
in other parts of Canada.

Important and attractive as Winnipeg undoubtedly
was, and influential as being the capital of the
province, it was not considered by the Bartons to be the
place most likely to meet their wants; hence their
determination to travel on in order to reach a more
agricultural station of the rural type, where they hoped
there might be a possibility of obtaining work.

Passing a number of small towns and thriving
settlements, where here and there might be found
traces of the all but extinct buffalo, and occasionally
catching a glimpse of an antelope, they had
commenced the descent into the valley of the Qu'Appelle,
and were rounding a rather sharp curve, when there
burst on the engine-driver's view a heavily laden
goods-train, in process of shunting, standing right
across the path of the on-coming train.  To shut off
steam and reverse the brakes was the work of a few
seconds; nevertheless the crash came, and at once a
scene of dire confusion ensued.  The driver lay dead
beneath his overturned engine; the stoker had jumped
off, and almost miraculously escaped with only a
severe shaking and some few bruises.  Two of the
forward carriages were telescoped; others were heaped
end-on companion carriages; two had been thrown over.

As soon as the uninjured portion of the passengers
could free themselves from the carriages which had
kept the rails, they set to work to rescue those who
were screaming for succour, or moaning with pain,
amidst the wreckage which plentifully bestrewed the
lines.

In the course of a little less than an hour fourteen
dead bodies were laid on the bank-side, and between
fifty and sixty more or less fearfully injured passengers
were extricated, of whom several, it was at once seen,
were fatally injured.

Wolseley Station was within about one hundred
yards of the accident, and thither the wounded were
conveyed with all speed, whilst telegraphic messages
were being rapidly sent up and down the line for
every available medical man to be despatched on
pilot engines, local trains, or in every possible way, to
meet the urgent need.

The Bartons, fortunately, were in the hinder part of
the train, and, with other passengers similarly
circumstanced, with the exception of a good shaking were
comparatively uninjured.  These proved most
indefatigable in helping the injured.

When tidings of the accident was wired to M'Lean
Station, it happened to be the day that Ranger had
gone over on business, and hearing the sad news he,
without loss of time, drove down the line to Wolseley
to see if he could be of any assistance; for, wherever
the news had spread, the farmers and labourers were
hastening in with all speed, knowing well that in
such a district, and at such a time, all the help
obtainable would be valuable.  On his arrival he
found the little station still in the greatest confusion,
there not having yet been sufficient time to obtain
the help needful to attend to the sufferers, let alone
clear the line.

The less seriously injured were being conveyed to
the nearest homesteads; whilst broken or damaged
limbs were receiving such "first aid" as the
appliances at hand and the intelligence of the rough but
kind-hearted on-lookers suggested best to be done,
until the surgeons summoned should arrive.

The dead had been carried into the goods-shed at
the station, and reverently laid out to await the
coroner's order for removal.

Presently, coming across the Bartons, he found
them endeavouring to restore to consciousness a
young woman apparently not more than twenty-five
years of age, who had both legs broken.

By this time several medical men had arrived,
including Dr. Fisherton, whom we last saw at
Ranger's Ranch; and these were speedily fully
occupied.  When his attention could be arrested,
Ranger secured his services for the young woman
the Bartons were attending, and in the course of a
short while they had the satisfaction of seeing her
restored to consciousness, her limbs set and bandaged,
and ready to be conveyed to some place for proper
nursing.

In a number of cases this proved to be no easy
task, since it involved being carried back to the
hospital at Winnipeg; Portage, and other smaller
towns, affording nothing like adequate accommodation
for the many sufferers.

Ranger's trap being a commodious one, he
expressed himself willing to take the young woman
with the broken limbs to be nursed at his homestead,
if the Bartons would ride with him and take all
possible care to keep her from being jolted; providing
Dr. Fisherton did not consider the journey too long
and dangerous.  Having given his consent to this
arrangement, they all four started for his home.
They necessarily had to proceed slowly, so that
consequently the Ranch was not reached until late in
the evening.

As soon as Mrs. Ranger learned what had happened,
and the fresh demand that was to be made upon her
domestic resources, she readily accommodated herself
to the situation, and had the patient put in a
comfortable bed.  The Bartons were provided with a
shake-down on the floor, after first being supplied with a
good supper.

Fellows, who when we last left him was in a state
of delirium from the effects of the fire, had not yet
returned to consciousness, although the virulence of
the fever had somewhat abated.

There seemed, therefore, little prospect of much
sleep for Mrs. Ranger that night, as the two
alternately required much of her attention.

In the course of the next day Dr. Fisherton rode
over to see the two patients, and to attend to their
dressings; and from him they learned that four more
of the injured had died, bringing up the number dead
to eighteen; and that the coroner had arranged to
hold his Court at M'Lean Station on the following
day, a jury having been summoned for that purpose.

The inquiry, which was held in the goods-shed,—a
sufficiently capacious building at M'Lean Station,—was
chiefly devoted to a formal identification of the
bodies, so as to render burial possible.

This, in all cases, was not an easy matter, but with
the assistance afforded from papers found upon the
deceased, and in one or two cases by the aid of
relations travelling with them who had been saved,
it was at length accomplished, and the coroner's
order issued, permitting the funerals to take place.

As to the cause of the mischief, the testimony was
not quite so clear; but the general opinion seemed to
be that it was due to an error of judgment on the
part of the signalman, in allowing the luggage train
to be shunting at a time when the passenger train
was so near due.

Eventually the Court stood adjourned for a week
to admit of further evidence being adduced.

At the end of that period, when the jury reassembled,
very little fresh light was thrown upon the
case by the additional evidence produced; and the
jury, whilst strongly condemning the carelessness of
the signalman, which had undoubtedly been the cause
of all the mischief, returned a verdict of accidental
death.

Subsequently, an official inquiry was held by the
C.P.R. Company, which ended in the signalman, who
was deemed to blame, being dismissed the service.

A heavy bill of indemnity ultimately had to be
faced, which the Company on the whole met and
liquidated in a fairly generous spirit.

Whilst the inquest was pending, the Bartons found
it impossible to leave the neighbourhood, as they
were required to give evidence.

During their enforced stay at Farmer Ranger's,
they had had frequent opportunities of canvassing
their plans for the future with him.

His opinion coincided with their own, that it would
be folly to attempt to penetrate into the Yukon with
no better provision for their needs than what they at
present possessed.

He therefore arranged to give them work in the
harvest-field at one dollar per day each, and their
board, until means could be found for procuring them
a small holding of their own, whilst acquiring the
means for their journey, if so desired, into the Yukon.

Their next proceeding was to write home and
inform Arnold of what had happened, and how they
were at present circumstanced; the conclusion at
which they had arrived being, that for the present
they must give up all thoughts of going farther, and
the realisation of their golden dreams would have to
be indefinitely postponed.

This decision, as may well be imagined, was not
arrived at without much discussion; and it was only
after long reflection that they came to the conclusion
to abandon the prospects they had in view.

It was a great blow to the sanguine hopes and
expectations they had been indulging; but it was a
condition of things they had been preparing themselves
for since leaving Montreal, the scene of their
misfortunes, which their own carelessness or thoughtlessness
had so largely, if not entirely, contributed to.

Charles, the younger of the two, did suggest the
thought of asking Arnold to advance them the money
needed for the completion of their journey as originally
mapped out; but the notion was one so repugnant to
the feelings of the elder brother, and so stoutly
resisted by him, that it was not pressed, and no hint
was given in the letter subsequently written that any
such desire prevailed.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DREAM OF GOLD`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DREAM OF GOLD.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   \        "...thou gaudy gold,
   Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee."
   \              *Merchant of Venice*, Act III. sc. ii.

.. vspace:: 2

Arnold's position was not one to be envied.
For a flagrant misdemeanour he had been
dismissed from Messrs. Quinion's London
establishment, where he had been employed for many
years.  But with a display of energy, for the
possession of which few had given him credit, he at once
commenced business on his own account as an agent.

The letter which came to hand from his cousin
Jack Barton, told of their adventures in Montreal,
their narrow escape from death at Manitoba, and
their determination for the present to make their stay
there, being under the necessity, through want of
means, to abandon for a time their journey to the
Klondyke.

Coming, as this letter did, at a time when his mind
was so much exercised by events at home and his
uncertain prospects for the future, it is not surprising
if it revived thoughts, and imparted some life and
vigour to aspirations and secretly cherished desires
for a participation in some of those visions of wealth
which from day to day the papers were revealing as
amongst the things possible to men of energy and
resource.

So much has been said and written, of late, as to
the enormous riches of such regions as the Kootney,
Cariboo, and the Klondyke, that, without disparaging
in the least other regions of the Dominion, it is not
surprising to find the eyes of thousands turned
wistfully in their direction.

It was only a few days prior to the receipt of his
cousin's letter that he had read in one of the papers
a statement made by an ex-Mayor of Ottawa, to the
effect "that the new Yukon goldfields were the
richest the world has ever seen."

True, that which followed was calculated
somewhat to damp the ardent enthusiast.

It was not pleasant to be told that "hundreds of
the people who are now going there will be starved
and frozen to death."

Some, however, would win success, and why not he?

What if he were to join his two cousins already
on the way, help them to complete their arrested
journey, and, by making one common cause, unite
their forces, and perhaps succeed in winning a success
eclipsing the dreams of the most avaricious!

It was a subject which he felt was one to be
thought over, and not hastily decided upon.

The next letter to his cousin was one in which,
with some amount of detail, he described the position
in which he had unexpectedly found himself placed,
and the thoughts, not yet matured, which he
entertained of joining them.  He closed his letter with
the expression of a desire to hear from them on the
subject.

The lapse of a month brought the expected reply,
strongly advising him to join them, and proposing
that if he did so, and found the means for all to go
forward, they would consent to his receiving a half
share of whatever was realised, they taking the
remaining half between them.

The proposal seemed eminently fair, so that it only
remained for him to well consider the situation before
him, and whether the ways and means could be
procured for the undertaking.

His wife, who had not been informed of the plan
lie was contemplating, had yet to be won over to his
views.  This proved not so easy a matter as he had
dared to hope.

To the woman's mind the journey was fraught
with risks and dangers which far outweighed whatever
possibility might exist of realising the golden
dreams, which at present, at all events, were too far
distant for serious contemplation.

Furthermore, to say nothing of the toils and
hardships he would have to face, and which she was fain
to believe he was not man enough to endure, she
wanted to know how long he expected to be away,
and what he proposed for her and the children to do
until his return.

So far as his own powers of endurance were
concerned, he told her, he had no fears; and was prepared
to face all the terrors and hardships of the journey,
as well as the risks and dangers, in the search for
gold.

The question of her own and the children's
subsistence during his absence he confessed he had not
carefully gone into, as he first wanted to get at a
general expression of her views before considering
what really was the most difficult aspect of the
subject.

"I understand your mother is coming this afternoon;
so suppose we leave the matter as it stands at
present, that you may talk it over with her, hear
what she has to say, and then when I come home we
can go more fully into it together."

On his return in the evening, he was quickly
informed that the two women regarded the scheme
as being altogether a mad and impracticable proposal;
one which no sensible married man ought for a
moment to entertain.

Nor, if the truth were told, did Arnold himself
quite see how the thing could be accomplished.

The main difficulty was how to provide for his
family during an almost two years necessary absence.
His wife's mother could have rendered this part of
the task easy enough, had she been so disposed; but
since no such proposal came from her, he himself
was not willing to suggest it.

For the present, therefore, the idea was abandoned,
and in the course of a week or two he wrote his
cousins, stating fully the difficulties as they had
presented themselves, and explaining that the financial
bogey alone rendered it impossible for him to
undertake the exploit, and that it was with
infinite regret he had been compelled to that
conclusion.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BROADSTONE LIBERALS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BROADSTONE LIBERALS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Now, afore heaven, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne."
   \                      *Richard II.*, Act II. sc. i.

.. vspace:: 2

A parliamentary election was pending at
Broadstone, through the decease of one of its
sitting members.

The several election agents were busy marshalling
their forces, in readiness for what it was believed
would be a sharp contest.  Party clubs were rallying
their members, so that each club might bring forward
the strongest possible candidate it could find.  The
local press were putting out feelers as to this man
and that man's suitability, evidently with no very
definite notion as to which of those named the choice
was likely to fall upon.

Energetic correspondents were at work detailing to
an open-mouthed clientele that So-and-so was being
approached with a view to stand, only to furnish a
paragraph for the next day's issue to the effect
that the intelligence so reported was premature or
unfounded.

The Radical caucus at length brought out their man
in the person of Mr. E. Quinion, who was declared
to be the "Working-Man's Friend," the foe to all
tyranny and oppression, the advocate of Home Rule,
and the extension of the popular vote.  The
Conservative party showed themselves equally eager for
the political fray, declaring that their man was a
staunch supporter of the rights of labour, but a
determined opponent of Home Rule.

Canvassers began to be busy, meetings were
arranged for, and the leading men from the London
clubs were sent down to aid the cause of the
candidates by their floods of eloquence.

As much of the rank and file of each party as
could be usefully and judiciously employed was
freely pressed into service.  The Conservative agent
having by some means got wind of Roberts and
his grievance, invited him down to a meeting at
Broadstone of the working-men, where, with several
others, he was announced as a former employé of
the great house of H. & E. Quinion.

Not being a trained speaker, but a man nervous as
to his own capabilities, and without experience of an
election audience, he felt that he had undertaken a
risky business, and therefore it was with considerable
apprehension he ventured to face a somewhat noisy
assemblage, in a crowded hall, in a quarter of the
city tenanted chiefly by the working classes.

Commencing in a low key at first, he was very
soon met with exclamations from various parts of the
hall of "What is thee afraid of?" "Speak up, mon!"
"Hold thy head up!" which, instead of disconcerting,
seemed to kindle what little fire there was in him, so
that, in a voice which was heard at the other end of
the hall, he cried out—

"Men of Broadstone, listen to me!  The issue you
are called upon to decide is an all important one,
inasmuch as it affects not you only but the country
at large.  You have to decide which of two men
is the most fitting to represent your interests in the
Parliament of the nation.  And it is with regard to
one of these that I am chiefly concerned this evening.
Your Radical friends have brought forward one they
describe as 'The Working-Man's Friend'" (a voice,
"So he is!"—Loud cheers).  "Well, I shall be content
if you will decide that question when I have finished.
Nearly thirty years ago I entered the service in
London of the firm of which he is a member, serving
them faithfully and well, as letters in my possession
will show.  During that period they paid me well,
and treated me fairly, and to that extent I have no
fault to find with them.  Whilst in their service I
was the means of detecting successively six men who
were robbing them.  Two were at once sent away;
one fled, and was never again heard of; one died
whilst inquiry was pending; and the other two, at my
instigation, were forgiven and retained.

"But what happened to me?  At the end of nearly
thirty years, I was given a month's notice to leave,
and on inquiring the reason was told they had no
fault to find with me, but they wanted to make
certain changes which rendered this course necessary.

"Another man, who had served as long as I had
done, and with an equally clean bill of health, was
similarly treated.  And when the gentleman who
now wants to pose as the Working-Man's Friend was
spoken to, as to the injustice of retaining a man in
their employ who had been detected robbing them,
and sending away honest men, with no flaw in their
characters, at an age, and after such a lengthened
period of service, when it would be quite impossible
for them to obtain employment elsewhere,—I say,
when your Working-Man's Friend was told this, he
simply shrugged his shoulders and said 'he was sorry'!

"How did he manifest it?  I asked him to reinstate
me, but he declared that could not be done.  I
suggested that he ought to pension me!  But the
idea was not entertained.

"Two men in London were retained who were
known to be 'lushers,' and did eventually drink
themselves to death.  One was frequently so intoxicated
during business that he has been seen to sprawl his
length across the showroom, and to be picked up
almost helpless.  After receiving notice to leave he
managed to overcome the scruples of the firm, so
that he was eventually retained, and gradually lapsed
into his old ways, which ultimately were the death of
him.  This, I suppose, is what he calls being the
Working-Man's Friend!  I could mention other cases,
but it seems to me that these are—or ought to
be—enough to show that the man who wishes to be
thought your friend has such a doubtful record that
you will do well, before you decide to give him your
votes, to put a few questions to him concerning the
facts I have so imperfectly endeavoured to present to
your notice."

When Roberts sat down, after comparing and
commenting upon the political programme of the
two candidates, it was with a round of applause
uninterrupted by any opposing sound, and it was
soon evident that an impression had been produced
most unfavourable for the Radical candidate.

Much capital was subsequently made of the facts
and statements uttered by Roberts, and an unusual
amount of election literature was the outcome.

Efforts were made by the other side to deny the
facts as stated, but without success.

He was prevented by the circumstances of the
case from publishing the names of the individuals
referred to, but particulars of these were supplied
by him to the candidate, rendering it possible to
verify the truth or falsity of his statement.

His efforts during the progress of the election,
together with those of the party he was associated
with, resulted in the triumphant return of the Tory
candidate by a big majority, much to the chagrin
and bitter disappointment of Mr. Quinion and his
friends.

Privately, he was heard to say that had he
anticipated the advent of Roberts into the fray, he
would never have come forward to contest the seat,
and Roberts' coming was not made known until it
was too late for him to withdraw.

Flushed with the result of his efforts at Broadstone,
Roberts returned to town, hoping, although scarcely
expecting, that he might hear something from
Mr. Quinion with regard to the statements he had made
whilst on the stump.

He knew him to be a man who prided himself on
his public reputation for fair dealing, and as this had
been seriously impugned, he would not have been
surprised had he received such a communication.

But the Oracle remained dumb, and Roberts'
prospects did not improve; so that in a little while
it threatened to become a serious question in what
way he was to keep the wolf from the door.

He was told, however, on reliable authority, that
one of the members of the firm had been heard to say
he was very sorry they had been induced to make
the changes complained of—it was no doubt a mistake,
but it was too late now to rectify, as they dare not
contemplate recalling their acts or retracing their
steps.  For good or ill, a certain course had been
marked out, and it must be pursued.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONVALESCENTS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CONVALESCENTS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie,
   Which we ascribe to heaven."
   \          *All's Well that Ends Well*, Act I. sc. i.

.. vspace:: 2

During the months which had intervened
since we last followed the fortunes of our
friends at the Ranch, events had been
moving forward most favourably.

Fellows had so far recovered that he was now able
to resume work, and but for the scars of the burns
received, which were still visible on face and hands,
there was little outwardly to denote the terrible
sufferings he had gone through.

The young woman who had suffered so severely
in the fatal railway collision was just capable of
getting about, but the doctor said it would yet be
some time before she acquired the full use of her
limbs.

To lighten the arduous duties of Mrs. Ranger,
which the care and attention needed by the invalids
had necessarily thrown upon her, the services of
Russell's daughter, so opportunely rescued by Fellows,
were called in, and proved a most invaluable aid.

Miss Russell, to whom Sir Walter Scott's descriptive
line might well have been applied, "Sweet was
her blue eye's modest smile," was a remarkably
intelligent young woman, scarcely nineteen, who three
years before, on the death of her mother, had
emigrated with her father, and found employment at
Farmer Ranger's Ranch.  She was not regarded as
a field-hand, but employed in domestic and home
duties, which, properly attended to, were sufficient to
occupy the major portion of her time, leaving little
to be wasted in idleness.

A fresh hut or shanty had very speedily been raised
upon the site of the one destroyed by the fire, and
Russell had resumed his old habits.

The attention which her father's home required,
and the duties she was called upon to discharge at
the homestead, fully occupied all the hours of the
day at her disposal, besides making frequent inroads
upon those which should have been reserved for
repose.

Yet, notwithstanding these demands, she still found
it possible to have an occasional chat with Fellows,
a strong friendship having sprung up between the
two during the period of her attendance, whilst he
was being nursed back to convalescence, and which
promised to ripen into a closer attachment still.

A dwelling had been raised for the Bartons some
few yards from the homestead itself, in which they had
been comfortably installed, whilst awaiting the result
of their correspondence with Arnold in London.

When the letter from Arnold arrived, the contents
of which has already been indicated, it created a
profound feeling of disappointment and regret.

From the tenor of his previous communications
they had been led to hope for a very different result,
and in anticipation of a rather early forward
movement had allowed their imagination freer play than
was perhaps good for them.  The disappointment
was, therefore, all the keener when this letter reached
them, which at one blow shattered the structures
their fancy had been at such pains to elaborate.

After carefully considering their position, and the
funds still at their disposal, they held a consultation
with Ranger as to the course it would be best to
adopt.  That advice was readily given.

"A little capital," said he, "makes the start easier,
and saves valuable time.  But I have known many
men do without it.  Hundreds have arrived in these
parts without any capital whatever, and by first
working for wages have prospered and become
substantial farmers.  My advice to you, therefore,
would be, don't be in a hurry, but continue to keep
your eyes and ears open, and in the event of any
suitable homestead being obtainable, let me know,
and we may be able to so arrange matters as to
secure it for you.  And whatever you do, don't let
the Klondyke craze divert your mind from that which
is possible and within comparatively easy reach."

The two men thanked Ranger very heartily for his
advice, and promised to think over what he had said.

"I don't understand how Jim managed to make
such a fool of us as well as himself," remarked the
elder Barton, when, seated smoking their pipes at the
door of their hut, in the cool of the evening, they
discussed the events of the day.

"Nor I," said his brother.

"Very likely, however, his wife wouldn't hear of
his going away."

"That may have had a great deal to do with it."

"It's very disappointing, as it seems to me we
shall be forced to act upon Ranger's advice."

"Which, of course, means that we must give up all
idea of getting out to the Klondyke."

"Does that follow, Charley, as a matter of course?"

"I think so, Jack; for if we get settled here on our
own location, it will not be so easy to throw that up
and run off."

Farmer Ranger's education as a youth had been
sadly neglected, and in later years he missed much
of that enjoyment which is theirs who have a
well-trained or a stored mind.

As a boy he was sent to the village school, where
he was introduced into some of the mysteries of
the three "R's," but the death of his father, when he
was quite young, compelled his mother to send him
into the fields to maintain the home over their heads.
Subsequently, for a brief period, he went to the parish
school on Sunday, where, after the appointed lesson
in the Bible had been read, the remainder of the time
was usually given up to some goody-goody story,
which the children regarded as the most interesting
feature.

As may be judged, his secular and religious
knowledge were of a very limited character, and
when he left school it was with no very exalted
conceptions of the value of the education he had
received.

One habit, however, was formed by his attendance
at the parish school,—which grew with his growth,—and
that was the daily reading of the Bible.  Whatever
else was neglected, this he was never known to
omit.  He had never been in the habit of attending
church or chapel, and since his arrival in the regions
of the "Wild West" such a thing as a clergyman, or a
preacher of any description, was a rarity.  But he was
a man of good moral principles, one who never sought
to obtain the best of a bargain by any underhand
methods, ever ready to do unto others as he wished
others to do to him.

He loved his neighbour as himself, nor stayed to
inquire "Who is my neighbour?"  He had but to
be shown the need, to render all the help it was in his
power to give.

His wife, having been a farmer's daughter, had
proved herself in every way adapted for the kind of
life they had adopted.

"Well, so long as we continue to work for the
farmer, we had better be as economical as possible;
save all we can, and then, when the time or opportunity
arrives, and a suitable homestead is to be had,
we can determine whether to put what we possess
into it and settle down to a farmer's life, or if we
shall endeavour to make a push and get through to
the Yukon."

"Meanwhile, I don't think we could do better than
stay where we are and work for Ranger, who seems
a thoroughly honest fellow."

Ranger had been located at Qu'Appelle about
eight seasons.

Originally a farm-bailiff for a small landed proprietor
in North Devon, he had, together with his wife
and a son and daughter, determined to try his fortune
in the North-West of America.  After realising the
little property he possessed, he found that he had
in hard cash close upon one hundred and twenty
pounds.

Being attracted by the general features and local
surroundings of the lovely valley of the Qu'Appelle,
he was fortunately able, in those early days, to secure
a section of land owned by the railway company, not
very distant from the railway, by which means
increased facilities were afforded for marketing his
produce.

Commencing with what is known as a quarter
section—one hundred and sixty acres—he had
gradually increased his holding, until now he was the
proprietor of six hundred and forty acres of some of
the finest land to be found in America.

At no period over-burdened with serviceable and
experienced hands, he was generally open to avail
himself of a favourable offer of help when it
presented itself.

The Bartons, with their Old World experience,
were additions he was very ready to welcome, and to
find them suitable remunerative occupation.

Harvesting, which begins about the middle of
August and ends early in September, was nearly
over; and the young woman rescued from the
railway accident had made such good progress
towards convalescence that she was now able to get
about and make herself useful.

The farmer and his wife had frequently, of late,
taken the opportunity of discussing with her of an
evening, when the work of the day was over, the
future and its prospects, without being able to arrive
at any very satisfactory conclusion.

Her case was a peculiarly sad one.  When the
accident overtook her, of which she was so unfortunate
a sufferer, she was travelling in the company
of an uncle and his two sons, who contemplated
settling in the neighbouring province of Alberta.

She was anticipating being married shortly to one
of her cousins, in the event of everything turning out
favourable; but to her inexpressible grief she was
informed, as soon as recovery had sufficiently
advanced to render such a communication safe, that
all three had been killed; so that she was now alone,
in a strange land, without a friend save those who
had so kindly acted the part of "Good Samaritan."

Although for a time the consequences of such a
revelation seemed likely to be serious, youth and a
good constitution in the end triumphed, and she
began to regain a little of that buoyancy and activity
which those who had known her would have expected
her to display.

But the memory of those dear to her, of whom she
had been so suddenly and painfully bereaved, could
not be so easily effaced; and the languor of her
manners, and the melancholy expression which in
hours of idleness would steal over her, sufficiently
served to mark the influence which reflection was
bound to exert, and the grief too deep for utterance
which remained.

The railway company had arranged to make ample
provision for her, so that little concern was felt on
that score; but for the present it was undecided
what course it would be best for her to pursue.

In the unsettled, or only half settled, districts of
the great North-West, where woman, if not a minus
quantity, is very often in many parts a *rara avis*, the
advent of one is always regarded with marked
attention and considerable interest.

Under any circumstances Mary Truman would
have been a welcome guest at Farmer Ranger's,
whilst from the unfortunate nature of her surroundings
she was now made to feel doubly welcome.

To the elder Barton, it was very easy to be seen,
she had become an object of peculiar interest, but
her sorrow and suffering were yet of too recent a
date to admit of much safe speculation with regard
to the future.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NAT LANGHAM'S`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   NAT LANGHAM'S.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house."
   \                  *Merry Wives of Windsor*, Act III. sc. iv.

.. vspace:: 2

It is not so many years ago that the lands
through which the lines of the Great Trunk
Railway of Canada run, after leaving Winnipeg,
away up to Calgary in the "Rockies," were the
happy hunting-grounds of the Cree and Blackfeet
Indians.  Now the traveller sees little besides a
number of small towns and thriving settlements, all
along the line.

Occasionally a nondescript representative of the
almost extinct races may be observed, disillusioning
the mind of the beholder of whatever romantic
notions he may have imbibed from the pages of
Fenimore Cooper.  But away in the hills, or out on
the more distant prairies, where even if the pioneer
has ventured the settler has not yet attempted to
follow, encampments of these "children of nature"
still exist.

And it is only at extremely rare intervals that we
hear of them being upon the "war path."

Like the buffalo he was wont to hunt, or the
aboriginal Australian, the North-American Indian
promises soon to be but a figure of history.

Amongst the foot-hills of the "Rockies," as well as
in the glens and valleys amid the higher peaks, and
secluded amongst the hills and woods which abound
in the far interior, down through the provinces of
Alberta, Assiniboia, Saskatchewan, to Manitoba,
roving bands of lawless men are to be found, guided
occasionally by one or more of what are known as
"half-breeds" or native scouts, who, if not the last of
their race, are more frequently for some delinquency
the outcasts of their tribes.

The cattle-lifting frays of these bands of desperadoes
are dreaded events in the lives of the peaceably
disposed settlers, their tracks being generally marked
by the destruction and ruin of happy homesteads,
and the murder of their defenceless occupants.

Only recently a raid had been made on a settlement
at the foot of the Beaver Hills, some distance
to the north of Ranger's homestead, but sufficiently
near to set him on the alert, and give rise to some
anxiety for his own safety as well as the lives of the
many dependent upon him.

The mounted police—a thoroughly efficient and
well-organised body—had been scouring the country
in all directions, in hopes of striking the trail of this
band of marauders, but hitherto to little effect.

Nat Langham's Store, in the neighbourhood of the
Pleasant Hills, was a well-known place of resort for
the miners and lumber-men for miles round.  He
was said to have been a prize-fighter in his time, and
thither all the loafers and idlers and the ne'er-do-wells,
which ever hang on to the skirts of a community, were
in the habit of gathering.

Drinking, betting, and gambling were the order of
the day—and night too.  And many were the scenes
of riot and bloodshed which had been witnessed at
his store.

Being the only store where liquor could be obtained,
and play of a certain kind indulged in, it was freely
resorted to by most of that class whose tastes led
them in the direction of what was known as
conviviality and sport.

The police, when in search of information, or for
doubtful or dangerous characters, were frequent
visitors at his shanty.

The recent raid in the vicinity of the Beaver Hills
had woke up the slumbering zeal of the authorities
to increased activity and watchfulness, and their
attention of late to this particular locality had been
of a very marked character.

One of the most successful of the small but energetic
little band of the police stationed at Wolseley was a
man named "Puffey," from a habit he had acquired
of inflating his cheeks, until they stood up in hillocks
on each side of a little red snub nose, looking for all
the world like a well-rounded Burgundy bottle with
its red sealed cork flanked by the dark ruby of the
glass.

Although the butt of his companions, he was a
good-tempered little fellow, ever ready to render
effective aid when called upon, but whose kindness
of heart often threatened to override his judgment,
or to play havoc with the discretion which at times
it was needful to exercise.  He was a man in the
prime of life, not more than thirty-four or thirty-five
years of age; strong, wiry, and active, with a pair of
small, keen grey eyes, whose steady gaze were
capable of reading character, to the confusion of
many an ill-conditioned ruffian and the upsetting of
his well-considered plans.

Formerly a member of the detective force in
England, on migrating to the States, after a short
but not very successful career in New York, he had
crossed the border, and soon found ready employment
in the ranks of the mounted police, where his
reputation had been steadily growing for some years
past.

It was a dull chilly day towards the close of
September, as late one afternoon he dismounted at
the door of Langham's shanty, and giving his horse
into the charge of a slim youth, who had emerged
from the dwelling on hearing the sounds of an
approaching horseman, with the laconic remark of
"Stable him, my lad," entered through the
public-room, where Nat Langham was to be seen behind
a roughly constructed bar, possessing none of those
outward attractions which are found so alluring to
the denizens of our big cities and towns.

The conversation, which had been noisy and general,
was hushed as soon as it began to be whispered who
the new-comer was.

Casting a careless glance around, but a glance
which enabled him to rapidly survey the assembled
groups, with a nod to Langham he passed on into
a small room on the right of the bar, in which were
seated a few of the more select spirits of the
neighbourhood.

The men were engaged in the exciting game of
"Poker," and as they glanced up for a moment on
his entry, one of them shouted—

"Hullo, Puffey!  What's up?"

"Not much yet," the officer replied.

"Who do you want?" was the next inquiry.

"No one here."

"That's all right.  Have a drink?" was the prompt
rejoinder.

That he was well known might have been inferred
from the fact of all three offering him glasses.
Having drunk with them on the score of good fellowship,
and called for the glasses to be refilled, he sat
down at an unoccupied corner of the table, and
lighting a small briar pipe, which by its appearance
looked to have been in constant demand for some
time, he prepared to watch the game going on.

Two of the men were apparently stockmen, and
hailed from a Ranch a few miles distant; the other was
an engineer in the employ of the railway company.

"Puffey," or to give him his proper name as it
appeared on the books of the force, John Stone, sat
for some time apparently watching the play of the
three men, but in reality listening to the sounds
proceeding from the bar, which could be plainly
heard in the room in which they were seated.

Presently, arousing himself, and addressing the
players, he inquired—

"Seen anyone looking round lately, Sam?"

"A couple of trappers came over from Indian Head
two days ago."

"Where did they hail from?"

"The Wood Hills."

"What sort did they look?"

"One was a dark man, with great black eyes, a
large beard, and a nose like a Jew's; he was about
my own height, five foot ten or thereabouts.  His
companion was rather shorter, looked pale and
sickly, as if a meal or two would not be thrown
away upon him; and both were under forty years
old."

"Bravo, Sam! you'll make a good 'tec in time."

"Why, do you know them?" said Sam, with a
surprised look.

"Know them?  I should think I do!  Your
description fits the men I want to a T."

The three men stopped their game, whilst he who
had been addressed as Sam, and had saluted the
officer as "Puffey," inquired—

"Who are they?"

For answer, Stone asked, "Did you hear about the
murder at the Beaver Hills?"

"Yes; my mate was telling me all about it only
last night."

"Old Robson and his two sons made a plucky
stand, but the band was too strong for them."

"Were all three of them killed?"

"They set fire to the homestead, and when the
flames at length compelled them to fly they were
shot down like rabbits."

"What became of the two women?"

"They were fortunately away on a visit to a friend
at Wolseley, and did not return that night."

"They succeeded in driving away about forty head
of cattle, which have been traced into the
neighbourhood of the Touchwood Hills."

"But," said Sam, after a pause, "what has this to
do with the two men we were talking about?"

"Everything," responded Stone.  "Perhaps you
have heard of the Warple Band?"

"To be sure I have."

"Well, the Warple Band are believed to have been
for some time located in the 'Touchwood'; and now I
feel certain about it, for the description you gave
of the two men who were here answers exactly to
that which I have obtained of the two leaders, from
one of whom it gets its name."

"Do you think so?"

"I don't think at all about it—I'm certain!" added
Stone, as he brought his fist down on the table with
a thump.

"Well, what will be your next move then?"

"Ah! that remains to be seen," he added, with a
far-away look in his eyes.

"Well, certainly appearances are deceiving, for I
should never have taken the two fellows, who, as I
told you, looked like trappers, to be the desperate
characters you say they are."

"No; and yet they are wanted for some of the
foulest and darkest of crimes."

"What are you going to do to-night?" asked Sam.

"I shall return at once to Wolseley and report."

Calling to Langham, he bade that worthy have his
horse saddled and brought round at once; and,
having settled his score, bade good-night to the
friends he was leaving, and taking a good look round
the drinking-bar as he passed through, he mounted
his horse, and rode off into the fast gathering
darkness.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WARPLE BAND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE WARPLE BAND.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
   Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome."—
   \                    *Richard II.*, Act. II. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

In the course of the ensuing week the farmers
and ranchers for miles round had notice from
the police of the district of their intention to
raid the Touchwood Hills, in search of a nest of
robbers believed to be hiding there.

The settlers were directed to assemble at a point
named, at a certain hour, on a given day, with all
the able-bodied men they could muster capable of
bearing arms, and to be prepared for what might
probably prove a stiffish job.

Early in the morning of the day appointed, a
special train, which started from Winnipeg the
previous day, and calling at the various stations on
its way up had entrained detachments of mounted
police, reached M'Lean Station with a force of fifty
horsemen, which was at once sent forward across the
prairie to the place of rendezvous.

After advancing about ten miles, they halted on
the banks of a running stream, so as to give the
farmers who were expected to join them an
opportunity of coming on.

Some they found already at the place appointed,
and others, by twos and threes, kept dropping in,
until by noon they had assembled about one
hundred and twenty all told.

The farmers, with their men, were in many cases
as well mounted as the police; their uniform and
discipline differed, but in other respects they looked
equal to any amount of fatigue, and capable of
holding their own and rendering good service to the
force they were about to accompany.

Twenty-five of the police were sent on a little in
advance, followed by their ambulance waggons and
staff, under the command of Captain Lean; the
yeomanry—for such they might be termed—formed
the centre, followed by their waggons, which were
made to serve for ambulance purposes, and were
placed under the direction of Fellows from Ranger's
Ranch, who, by training and experience acquired as
an officer in a Volunteer corps in England, it was
considered, might safely be entrusted with that
important command.  The rear was brought up by
the remainder of the police; the whole force being
commanded by Major Scott, a man who had seen
much service in the "States," was well acquainted
with Indian tactics, and had frequently been
employed in border forays, and that guerilla style of
fighting, the men they were now in search of were
likely to indulge in.

Having accomplished another fifteen miles of their
journey, they halted at the edge of a wood and
prepared to make such dispositions for a night on
the plains as their resources would admit of, due
precautions being taken to guard against a night
surprise, which, however, did not take place.

They were stirring with sunrise; and after
watering and feeding their horses, and supplying
their own wants, they saddled up, and with military
precision were ready to start by eight o'clock, in the
same order as on the previous day.

No incident of importance occurred to mark their
progress, and as the second day began to close in
they reckoned to be within about ten miles of their
destination.

Arrived on the bank of a small river, which, besides
affording water for both man and beast, in other
respects seemed suitable for camping purposes, a
halt was sounded, fires lighted, and preparations
soon in progress for a good meal and a night's
repose.

Up to the present they had met with little
difficulty in following in the trail of the raiders, which
was well marked.

The Major's plan, as communicated to his lieutenants,
was, if the trail continued, to advance up to the
foothills of the Touchstone, and then, at suitable points to
be selected, plant small bodies of the force at his
disposal round the base of the hill, which at a fixed
hour were to advance up the slopes, passing over
intervening valleys or depressions, to the centre, where
the whole would be expected to assemble.

Before eight o'clock the next morning the little
force was on the move, silent, and alert for the
developments of the next few hours.

After the lapse of about three hours they came to
a spot covered with thick clumps of trees, bordering
a lake nearly a mile in extent from east to west.
The intervening spaces were uneven and billowy,
running into deep depressions covered with heavy
luxuriant grasses.  The hill they were making for
was plainly visible in the distance, and had been for
some time.

Major Scott, halting his force here, resolved to
await the return of a scout sent on in advance two
days previous, with orders to penetrate into the
recesses of the hill, and learn, if possible, the number
and location of the enemy.  Vedettes were assigned to
positions, and no precautions neglected which might
prevent a possible, yet not an expected, surprise.

Scarcely had these dispositions been arranged,
when the return of the scout was announced, and in
a few minutes, without much ceremony, he made his
way into the presence of the Major, who was seated
on an upturned camp-kettle.

"Well, sonny, what success?" he cried out.

"You shall hear, Major.  It was a dark night when
I reached the foot-hills, which, for my purpose, was
fortunate.  Making my way as cautiously as possible
through the pines and cedars, and the masses of
thickly-growing fern which are abundant there, in
a short while I found myself overlooking a
grass-covered glade of some extent, at the extremity of
which the face of the hill seemed to rise sheer and
steep for hundreds of feet.  Seated round a bivouac
fire, engaged in an animated conversation, were a
dozen men, with their blankets over their shoulders.
They were rough-bearded looking fellows with one
exception, and he had all the appearance of a
half-breed; and no doubt was, as I took him to be, the
guide of the band.  Their feet were encased in
moccasins, and provided with big rowelled spurs.
A similar number of horses were not far distant,
hobbled, Indian fashion, with strips of hide.

"From the conversation, which reached me but
indistinctly, I gathered that four of the band were
doing duty as sentries, making sixteen in all.  They
were all fully armed with pistols and knives and
Winchesters.  No signs of cattle were visible.  They
did not seem to be under any fear of a surprise; and
as there appeared to be little further to learn I
hastened back as rapidly as possible."

The band was smaller than the Major had
expected, he therefore resolved to move forward at
once.

Dividing his force into four sections, he directed
one to proceed to the west, and another to the east,
and each to penetrate the hill until they met.  A
third section was directed to skirt the hill until they
faced its northern side, and then, in like manner,
ascend, until they met the two flanking columns,
when they would unite and advance south until they
came across the band, or met his column, which
would move up in time to join them.

Whilst the three columns were making a detour
round the hill to reach the posts assigned, the Major
resolved to wait where he was at present, until
daylight was on the wane, to give time for each to be
well advanced before he attempted to move forward,
and so possibly the better escape detection by any
watchful eye which might be on the look-out for the
unexpected.

The day wore to its close.  The sky was obscured
with dense masses of heavy clouds, indicating a
coming storm.  The waning moon would not make
its appearance yet for some hours.  The occasional
rumble of distant thunder was to be heard, whilst
vivid flashes of lightning from time to time lit up the
wide expanse, only to render the succeeding darkness
the more intense.

Favoured by the elements, Major Scott cautiously
but steadily advanced his little force until they were
close up to the ascent of the hill, but well screened
by the wild luxuriance of the vegetation, the growth
of ages, as yet undisturbed by the demands or needs
of man, or the onward march of those civilising forces
which are ever working for the advancement of the race.

Pulling their blankets around them, his men
bivouacked where they had halted, to snatch a few
hours' repose, in order that they might be the better
prepared to face what was before them.

A little more than an hour had passed when the
distant sounds of rifle-firing came echoing down the
hill, which no sooner reached the slumbering groups
than Major Scott gave the signal, and his bugler
sounded the call to arms, and in a very brief space of
time his little party was up, saddled, and in motion
at a brisk trot.

Guided by the information which their scout had
brought them,—and who was now to the front, with
the Major, leading,—they soon reached the spot
described by him, where he had seen the band
encamped.

Save the dying embers of a solitary fire, the
darkness was too profound to render objects visible at a
distance.  Nor could they detect the sounds of any
life present, except those which came from their own
party.

As the men moved across the plain, the horse of
one stumbled over an object in the darkness, which
its rider, on dismounting, found was the body of a
man apparently lifeless, indicating that the firing
which had aroused them must have been in this
locality, and that the place could only recently have
been abandoned.

In a few moments their attention was arrested by
the sounds of approaching horsemen, and an occasional
shot being fired.

That familiarity with darkness which renders
objects at first all but invisible gradually distinguishable
through the gloom, had enabled Scott and his
contingent with some degree of certainty to fix their
surroundings, as well as to form a tolerable conception
of their position.

Directing a trooper to sound a bugle blast, it
was answered by one from the advancing party,
and in a short while they could distinguish the
figures of men and horses as they came round a
bend of the hill to the left of where they had
halted.

In answer to the Major's challenge, these forces
were soon discovered to be the two divisions which
had ascended to the hill on its eastern and western
slopes.

It appeared that, warned of the danger with which
they were threatened, the band had fled before
they could reach them, but from sheltered clefts in
the hills above they had kept up a desultory fire
upon their pursuers, without exposing themselves to
danger.

It would have been useless in the darkness to
endeavour to search for a concealed foe well
acquainted with the ground, to which they were
comparative strangers, exposing themselves to chance
shots which they might possibly be in no condition
to return.

They were compelled, however, to await the arrival of
the fourth division of their force, which, advancing by
the northern slope, owing to the longer distance to
be covered, might yet be some time before reaching
the appointed rendezvous.

An hour went by, when from the other side of the
hill there came faint sounds of a rifle discharge,
repeated at more frequent intervals.

Turning in the direction from which they proceeded,
and putting their horses to the trot, Major Scott's
division, reinforced by the other two bands, made
such haste as the nature of the ground to be traversed,
and the dim light to guide them, would permit, in
order to reach their comrades, who appeared to have
met with the band of outlaws.

Aided by rifts in the clouds overhead, through
which "the stars in their courses" occasionally
looked down, rendering objects slightly less obscure
than during the earlier hours of the night, they were
able to make fair progress.

But the country being so well covered with clumps
of pine and maple, spruce and cedar, and the dense
bush and scrub, with hundreds of interlacing creeping
plants making up a tangled mass difficult to penetrate,
speed had frequently to be slackened until a passage
could be found, or forced, through the obstructions
which nature with such prodigality and lavishness
had spread in their path.

Emerging at length on to a spacious plateau, they
found themselves facing a series of well-wooded
terraces, from which, however, they were separated
by a deep ravine, now dry, but in the rainy
season the source of drainage from the hills to
the plains.

As they came into the open they saw before them,
in the dim and uncertain light of early day, Red Dick
and his lawless band of followers spread out at the
edge of the plateau, taking pot-shots at their pursuers,
just discernible on the terraced slopes the other side
of the ravine.

Bold and reckless as Dick's band was reputed to
be, they felt that they were now in what might be
called "a tight fix."

With an impassable gorge in front, and a rapidly
advancing force in their rear, their only chance left
was to gain a narrow winding pathway in the face
of the hill which led down into the bed of the
ravine.

The alternative was to throw up the sponge and
to allow themselves to be taken prisoners, but as that
meant certain death, since their many crimes had long
since placed them beyond all claims to mercy, they
determined to make a virtue of necessity, and run.
Two were shot down in attempting to reach the
descending path; one missed his footing and was
dashed headlong to the bottom; whilst the fourth
was fatally wounded by a shot from the opposite
side of the ravine.

Parties of mounted men were at once despatched
to try and intercept the escape of the fugitives at
each end of the bed of the torrent.

They were successful to the extent of making two
captures, but when it was discovered that one of
these was no less a personage than the redoubtable
Red Dick himself, the entire party felt that all their
efforts had been well rewarded.

When the roll was called, five of the constabulary
were reported killed and eleven wounded; whilst of
the farmers one had been killed and seven wounded.

With the capture of the leader of this desperate
band, the chief object of the foray had been attained;
it was therefore considered useless to delay the
return in the hope of securing the remainder of the
outlaws.

The return was accomplished without incident, and
the two prisoners safely lodged at Regina, to await
instructions from Ottawa.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A CONFESSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A CONFESSION.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "My life upon her faith."—*Othello*, Act I. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

To the average man, woman is a riddle.  Her
ways are past finding out.

Without doubt, the noble deeds of women
are not always those which are blazoned forth to the
public eye in books and pamphlets, or by means of
the press.

The quiet, unobtrusive host of duties they perform
in the midst of unheard-of difficulties; their patient
endurance of suffering; the privations they are
willing to undergo for those they love; the obscurity
and loneliness in which much of their lives are passed,
yet the unmurmuring and ungrudging way in which
devoted service is given: all this is known to the few,
and has yet to be revealed.

It was probably due to one or more of these phases
or traits of character, which the illness of Fellows had
developed in Jessie Russell, that had caused the
feeling of friendship he imagined he entertained for
her to reveal itself to him as that of a much warmer
and tenderer attachment, which might more properly
be attributed to one of those well-directed shafts from
Cupid's artillery which the little god, with so much
precision, is so well able and so ready to
discharge.

Fellows was in love with Jessie Russell.  He had
to admit that to himself, and he was longing to
confess it to her.

But whenever the occasion presented itself—and
opportunities occurred in abundance—remorse
restrained him and kept him silent.  Dare he link her
future with one whose past was a record of shame
and crime?  If she cared for him—as he sometimes
flattered himself she did—need he trouble her with
that which could not possibly do her any good, and
might do much harm?

Whatever may have been the follies and sins of his
past life, his moral perceptions were still keen enough
to see that such a course of conduct would be most
dishonouring and dishonourable to the woman he
professed to have a supreme regard for.

Thoughts such as these naturally cast a shadow
over his life; he avoided the society of his fellows,
or, when circumstances compelled him to associate
with them, he was moody, taciturn, and reserved, so
that in the house or in the field his converse or
communications were of the briefest, and marked by
no feature to lead to its continuance.

His habits and general demeanour had not escaped
the notice of Mrs. Ranger, and, with that womanly
intuitiveness so characteristic of the sex, she had
not been long in divining the cause.

Taking advantage of an opportunity one evening
when alone together, and the work of the day was
over, she mentioned the subject to her husband.

"Have you noticed how quiet and reserved our
chap Fellows has been lately?"

"Yes, I have, Bess; it seems difficult to get a word
out of him."

"What do you suppose to be the cause?"

"Well, I have thought at times he was in love with
that girl of Russell's."

"And if he is, I can't see the reason for his going
about moping as he appears to be doing."

"Nor can I; although I know how hard it is to
understand the goings on of two people in love."

"I'm sure it's not because there is any difficulty on
her side.  She is quite as much in love with him as
ever he is with her.  It's a case where the man has
only got to ask to have."

"I wonder whether he has said anything yet to
Jessie on the subject?"

"Well, you need not wonder long, for I can tell you
that he has not."

"How do you know that, Bess?"

"Why, of course, from the girl herself.  Having
a women's natural curiosity, and exercising that
privilege which my age gives me, I asked her if there
was anything between them, and she assured me
there was not."

"Well then, I'll tell you what my opinion is, wife;
the chap has got something else on his mind which
troubles him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Little things I have noticed from time to time;
but more especially the few words dropped when he
first came here, to the effect that his had been a
wasted life.  He said, if I remember right, that he
had disgraced a good name, and now wanted to hide
and escape recognition."

"Have you ever tried to gain his confidence?"

"No, Bess, for I have always felt a delicacy
about it.  In my opinion, the confidence that is
worth the name, should be given willingly, and not
forced."

"A little encouragement might not be thrown
away,—natures, you know, are so different."

"Well, the very next opportunity that offers I will
endeavour to draw him out."

Not many days after this conversation had taken
place, Ranger was seated with Fellows, at the close
of the day's labour, outside the house, smoking their
pipes, which seemed to offer the opportunity the
former was waiting for.

Breaking the silence which had reigned for some
time, Ranger started by saying—

"Look here, Fellows, you have been here now
sufficiently long to know that I am not the sort of
chap that is anxious to pry into the private affairs of
other people, and therefore what I am about to say
is not with any desire to gratify an idle curiosity."

"That I am quite prepared to believe," he replied;
"and anything you want to know, which I am able
to tell, I shall be quite ready to do."

"Well then, to come to the point at once, from
your manner of late I should judge you have
something on your mind which is troubling you.  Am I
right?"

"Suppose I have!  What then?"

"Why, my boy, it will relieve your mind if you
feel you can tell me what is troubling you.  And who
knows but that I may be able to help you, as I shall
be willing to do if I can."

"Your kindness touches me, but I am afraid your
offer will not avail me much."

"The way to prove that will be by letting me
know your difficulty."

"My difficulty, farmer, is the story of my life,
which recent events have brought more prominently
before me.  For some time I have felt that I needed
a friend,—one in whom I could confide, and who
would be capable of advising me.

"Well, all I will say is, that if you feel you can do
so, you may trust me; and if I am not able to help
you, you will find that Ranger is not a man to betray
a trust reposed in him."

"I quite believe you, my friend; and as a proof of
the opinion I had formed of you, I may say I have
several times of late been on the point of opening my
mind to you, but something or other has occurred to
prevent my doing so."

After pausing awhile, he proceeded—

"When I came over to this country, I left, away up
in the north of England, a widowed mother and
sister with the full conviction that I had met my
death by drowning.  This is how it happened: I was
travelling for a well-known firm of manufacturers
in the Midlands, and had been absent on the
Continent for some months.  I had collected a lot of
money on their account, when I was tempted one
evening, with a so-called friend, to visit one of the
many gambling hells which abound in most Continental
cities.  I was persuaded to play, and under
the influence of the cursed drink, and the excitement
of the game,—in which I met with some success at
first,—I was led to plunge recklessly; until, when at
length I was induced to leave, I found that I had lost
heavily, and, what was worse, it was not my own
money I had lost.  In returning I had formed no
clear idea as to what I was to do about the money
lost, until, on board the boat I was travelling by, an
event occurred which in a moment shaped out my
course.

.. _`THE ALARM WAS GIVEN, AND THE ENGINES WERE AT ONCE SLOWED DOWN`:

.. figure:: images/img-125.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: THE ALARM WAS GIVEN, AND THE ENGINES WERE AT ONCE SLOWED DOWN.

   THE ALARM WAS GIVEN, AND THE ENGINES WERE AT ONCE SLOWED DOWN.

"During the passage, which was a rough one, a
man fell overboard.  The alarm was given, the
engines were at once slowed down, and a boat was
lowered, and for an hour every effort made to recover
him.  It was unavailing, as the body was not found.

"I had seen the man who was lost, and had been
led to notice him rather closely, from the fact of his
having taken up what I regarded as a dangerous
position, with such a sea as was then on, in the stern
of the vessel.  So that when, from the sheltered
position in which I was standing on the cabin stairs,
I saw him fall over, I blamed myself that I had not
warned him of the danger he was in.

"Whilst the attention of all on deck were engaged
with the efforts being made to recover the body, a
thought occurred to me which I at once proceeded to
give effect to.

"I hastened down below, sought out the bunk in
which I had seen the missing man during the
morning,—it was next but one to my own,—and, as I
remembered he was about my own age and size, I felt
little hesitation in changing my own clothes for such
of his as I found there, and with the result that, by
remaining silent as to what I knew, on my clothes
being found where his had been, and with papers in
the pockets proclaiming who they belonged to, it was
reported that I had been lost; whilst nothing, so far
as I was able to learn, appears to have ever been
said about the real man who was drowned, so that
he must have had very few friends to inquire after him.

"Having thus effaced myself, I resolved to expatriate
myself for fear of being discovered, and that
is how I come to be here."

"A very infamous ruse on your part," said Ranger,
who had listened with attention to all that Fellows
had been relating.  "Have you never written to let
your mother know that you were alive?"

"No; I have always felt that that would be too
risky a proceeding."

"Well, since this must have been a great trouble to
you, and a burden on your mind ever since you went
wrong, what circumstance has given rise to your
present anxiety?"

"You may well ask, since, but for what has lately
arisen, I should not have sought to inflict upon you
my life's sad story."

"Out with it then, man, and make an end of the
matter!"

"The simple fact is, I have formed what some would
consider, in my circumstances, a mad attachment to
Jessie Russell."

"No need to be ashamed of that, my boy!  She's
as fine a girl, and as good a girl, as can be found
anywhere this side of the Rockies!"

"That thought, if anything, only increases my
difficulty.  You see, at present she is quite ignorant
as to my past; and my fear is that if I tell her what
I feel she ought to know, she will be inclined to
despise me, and refuse to listen to me.  On the other
hand, if the goodness of her heart should prompt her
to overlook my past misdeeds, and to favourably
consider my suit, the knowledge of my past will only
serve to increase her anxiety on my account, and
burden her with a load of care which silence on my
part might materially lessen.  I cannot make up my
mind as to what to do."

Ranger refrained from giving any immediate reply,
and appeared for a time to be lost in thought.  After
considerable reflection he said—

"I have no hesitation about the advice I am going
to give.  There is undoubtedly much force in what
you urge, as to the advantages of concealing all that
relates to your past life; but I look upon it, that the
woman who is to be a man's wife ought to be one he
can trust.  They should both possess each other's
confidence.  There should, therefore, be no secrets
between them.  And especially to begin married life
it forms a bad precedent.

"Besides, we none of us know what the future may
turn up for any of us; and although what you have
told me seems hidden away secure enough at present,
it would be almost too much to say that no circumstance,
or combination of circumstances, could ever
bring the past to light.  And since it would be not
only very awkward, but might be the means of wrecking
your happiness, if anything should cause the past
to be revealed, I say, by all means risk the reception
it is likely to meet with, and tell Jessie all you have
told me.  She has a right to know the kind of man
who is asking her to marry him.  She deserves to
have every confidence placed in her; and, unless I am
very much mistaken in her character, she is not likely
to cause a man's past to be a bar to his future in the
matter contemplated, if she has any regard for him."

"I am neither surprised nor disconcerted at your
advice," was Fellows' rejoinder.  "It is, in fact, just
what I expected from you.  It is counsel which is
quite in accordance with my own feelings, and what
my conscience tells me is the correct course to pursue.
I feel strongly disposed to act upon it at once; but I
will just let the matter rest where it is at present,
whilst I think over what you have said."

"But there is still another bit of advice I should like
to add, if I may," said Ranger.

"I think I can guess what that is,—still you may
as well give it."

"Write at once home, and to your employers, a full
account of all you have told me."

"Why?  In order that a detective may be put upon
my track?"

"That was not my idea.  But if you fear such a
result, then why not write your mother, and get her
to call upon your firm with a statement from you, but
without naming your present place of abode, and leave
her to decide, after seeing them, whether it would be
wise to let them know where you are?"

"I am very much obliged to you, farmer; but as
what you have suggested will require very careful
thought, and very delicate handling, I will let that
stand over for further consideration.  It has waited
so long that no harm will be done by a still further
delay."

"Except so far as your mother is concerned,—you
do not know what state she may be in at present."

"Quite true!  Yet—  Well, I will think it over,
and let you know in a day or two."

It was with that understanding they separated.

But their rest would have been less easy had they
known that all which had passed between them that
night had been overheard, and was being treasured
up for future use.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A SNAKE IN THE GRASS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   \            "... Warily
   I stole into a neighbour thicket by,
   And overheard what you shall overhear."
   \            *Love's Labours Lost*, Act V. sc. ii.

.. vspace:: 2

Ranger's homestead had been erected on a
clearing, in the midst of what at one period
was a well-wooded stretch of country, thickly
overgrown with the pine, balsam, maple, and other
trees indigenous to the soil, interspersed with a rich
undergrowth of luxuriant vegetation, the alternate
growth and reproduction of ages.

The rear of this house, which all this wealth and
prodigality of nature's productions extended up to,
had been left untouched by the axe or saw of the
invader, except where a narrow path had been cleared
to admit of easy access to a patch of garden-ground
beyond.  Here and there a trailing creeper had been
captured, until it seemed to have become part and
parcel of the dwelling itself, so that at times it was
not easy to decide where the house ended and the
scrub or wood began.

If Ranger and his companion had been less intent
upon the subject of their conversation, their attention
might have been attracted by a suspicious movement,
which occasionally agitated the undergrowth not far
from where they were seated.  It passed, however,
unnoticed.

It was dark when they closed their conversation
and entered into the house.

When, however, all was quiet around, the figure of
a man might have been seen stealing stealthily away
from amidst the thick bush which lay within a few
feet of where the two men had been holding converse,
and making towards a log-shanty, dimly discernible
in the darkness on a piece of rising-ground beyond
the circle forming the enclosure of the homestead.

It was the abode of the Bartons; and Charles, the
younger of the two brothers, was the figure from the
wood now to be seen entering the door.

The room was unoccupied, John having been sent
on business to M'Lean Station, which would prevent
his return until next day.

Procuring a light, and seating himself at a table,
he seemed to be reflecting deeply.  His thoughts
were inspired by the conversation which had been
passing between Ranger and Fellows, and to which
it must be confessed he had been an attentive, because
an interested, listener.

It was while passing through the bush behind the
former's homestead, on his way home, at the close of
work for the day, that his attention had been arrested
by the mention of a name which caused him to stop,
and gradually but quietly to draw as close to the
speakers as he felt it would be safe to do.  On
discovering the nature of the conversation, he did not
hesitate remaining concealed, in such a position,
however, as would enable him to hear the whole of
what was passing.

Charles Barton, for some time a silent admirer of
Jessie Russell, had been only waiting a favourable
opportunity to declare his passion.

But Jessie was not a girl who would willingly
afford any young man the opportunity so desired, if
she had the slightest suspicion that it was being looked
for.  She was no prude, yet she was not a flirt; and
that, in an unsettled region where men were in
abundance, whilst the women were few and far
between, was saying a great deal in her favour.

She had not failed to notice that several times of
late Charles was to be seen lounging in the
neighbourhood of her father's shanty, and this had caused
her to still more carefully seclude herself from the
rough settler's gaze.

Charles was a man with big ideas, but a small soul.
The god he worshipped was *self*; and anything that
seemed to stand in the way of self must be made to
give place by fair means or foul.  Scruples he had
none, where *self* was in question.  He had learned
this evening, for the first time, of the additional
difficulty which lay in his path to Jessie Russell's
affections.  After long and careful reflection he made
up his mind how he would endeavour to get that
difficulty "entirely removed."

Having provided himself with pen and ink and
paper, he sat down at the table and began to write
rapidly.  At the end of about an hour he had
finished a letter, which lay folded, sealed, and
addressed in front of him.

It bore the inscription—

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   Messrs. \H. & \E. Quinion
     Broadstone
       England.

.. vspace:: 1

It contained a statement of the confession he had
that evening heard given by Fellows, with an
intimation of where he was now to be found in case the
firm felt any desire to possess that information.

After hinting at sources of further information, it
concluded with an urgent request that the writer's
name, which was communicated in strict confidence,
as a proof of *bonâ fides*, should be kept a profound
secret.

How to get this letter posted without its destination
becoming a topic for conversation, was the
difficulty which next presented itself.

For several days he was at a loss to know how to
overcome this obstacle to the success of his scheme.

On the fourth day after the events narrated, Ranger
announced his intention of riding over to Wolseley
Station on business which would detain him until the
evening of the next day.

It was too good an opportunity to be missed; so a
few hours after the farmer's departure, securing a
horse from amongst the many that are allowed free
range without detriment, it being only imported
horses of the better class which, as a rule, are stabled,
he soon had it saddled, and was off for "Indian
Head," where he expected to find a post-box
convenient, into which his letter might be dropped.

After a couple of hours' sharp ride, he entered the
little town, where, without much difficulty, he
discovered the object of his search.

Having accomplished his mission, and given his
horse breathing time, he set out on his return.  The
moon had not yet risen, but the stars shone out in a
clear sky; and objects were plainly visible on the
road to be traversed.

Mounting the crest of a hill, he was proceeding at
an easy trot to descend a winding pathway which
led on to the plains, when something—it was never
known what—caused the horse to swerve and stumble,
and the next minute, before its rider could recover
himself, he was pitched forward with the horse on
top of him.

Recovering his feet without much difficulty, the
horse stood for a few moments, and then, as if it had
taken in the situation, galloped off in the direction of
home.

Barton was stunned by the fall, and lay on the
road insensible.

Two hours passed before the man showed signs of
returning consciousness.  Then the keen wind which
blew across his face, as he lay extended on the
ground, caused a tremor to pass through his body,
and opening his eyes he endeavoured to sit up, but
at first the pain which the effort inflicted was so
great he lay for a time trying to collect thoughts
which were confused and scattered.  A second effort
was attended with more success, when he proceeded
to make a careful examination of his limbs, to
ascertain what, if any, injury had been sustained.

Satisfied with the result that no bones had been
broken, yet suffering intensely from a sprained ankle
and an injured knee-joint, which he found would
prevent him standing, let alone attempting to walk,
he realised that however desirous he might be of
making progress, there was nothing for it but to
remain where he was, with what fortitude he might
be able to summon to his support.

By dint of a little exertion he managed to crawl
on to the bank at the side of the track, and there,
against the trunk of a large oak, he prepared to make
the best of his position, in the hope that help of some
kind would sooner or later turn up.

He had lain there some time—dozing between
whiles—when he became conscious of sounds as of
the distant grind of heavy wheels, and the slow
measured tread of horses' feet.  Listening intently,
he soon made it out to be a waggon-team, which he
judged to be from some neighbouring homestead,
on its way to one of the stations,—M'Lean or Indian
Head,—and, as subsequently proved to be the case,
with produce to be railed on to Regina or Winnipeg.
When within range of his voice, Barton had little
difficulty in arresting the attention of the teamster,
who, stopping his horses and dropping the reins,
quickly dismounted, and, with lantern in hand made
his way to the side of the track from whence the
sounds proceeded.

The position of affairs was explained, when, calling
his companion to help him, they together lifted the
all but helpless man into as comfortable a position
as it was possible to make for him in the waggon, an
operation which was only accomplished with considerable
difficulty, seeing that nearly every inch of
space was well occupied with farm produce of a
marketable kind.

Indian Head—his destination—was reached as
daylight began to break, when, handing Barton over
for the time being to some of the railway officials, he
had just sufficient time left to get his load transferred
to one of the empty trucks in waiting, before the
whistle sounded and the heavily loaded train steamed
out of the station on its way to Regina, distant about
some forty miles farther.

Having successfully accomplished the object he
had in view, the waggoner—a farmer whose
homestead was but a few miles off the rail—next
proceeded to question Barton as to what was to be done
with him.

On learning that he was one of Ranger's men, and
that Ranger could probably be found at Wolseley,
having intended to stay the night there, he at once
decided to send on a wire in the hope of intercepting
him there and getting him to take Indian Head as
his route home in order to pick up Barton.

In the course of the morning a reply came to say
he would be there; and late in the afternoon Ranger
drove up, not a little surprised at discovering who it
was that was awaiting him, as well as the condition
he was in.

Having had the injured man transferred to his
own conveyance, he mounted and drove off.

On reaching home, he found an uneasy feeling had
been spreading at the prolonged absence of Barton,
especially when it got reported that a horse, saddled
and bridled, had been found grazing, which it was
believed must have been the one Barton had started
out upon the evening before, and which had apparently
returned riderless; but where his rider had been left,
no one had any means of telling, since it did not
appear to be known in which direction he had gone.

The farmer's return with the missing man at once
put an end to all doubts, and, with as little delay as
possible, he was conveyed to his own shanty, where
both his sprained ankle and damaged knee received the
attention needed, so that he was soon able to resume
his usual duties on the farm.

When Barton explained to Ranger the object of
his journey, which he did as they drove home, it was
one of such common occurrence that it left no
impression upon his mind as to there being anything
peculiar in it.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HESITATING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   HESITATING.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   \            "... At this hour
   Lie at my mercy all mine enemies."
   \                  *The Tempest*, Act IV. sc. i.

.. vspace:: 2

When, in due course, Barton's letter reached
Broadstone, the astonishment and surprise
it gave rise to was beyond all description.
The excitement it created in the breasts of the
partners was intense.  Old memories were aroused
with regard to incidents long since regarded as for
ever buried.

The circumstances under which they were now
revived seemed to possess more the character of
fiction than fact.  Yet the details given, and the
circumstantial nature of the narration, seemed to
preclude all possibility of doubt.

What ought to be the action of the firm in the
matter now?  This was the problem which faced
them, demanding a decision,—but a decision which
they found themselves unable to agree upon.

It was therefore wisely resolved to leave the matter
where it was at present, and to return to the subject
later on, after each had been able to think out what
was the best course to pursue.

A week went by, during which the solicitors to the
firm had been seen and consulted.  Their advice was
friendly, but cautious.  Whilst from a strictly legal
point of view it might be right to take steps to have
the culprit arrested and prosecuted, perfectly
legitimate reasons could be adduced for taking no notice
of the letter and refraining from any action in the
matter.

Their advice was to have inquiries made, through
their agents in Ontario, as to the truth of the
information forwarded, and the character of the writer of
the letter; as well as to learn, if possible, his object in
writing.  It was pointed out that this need not
involve any very great expense, and on the
information received they could then decide how to act.

They resolved to follow this advice, especially as
the further delay would afford additional opportunity
for reflection.

Acting upon instructions received, their solicitors
wrote their agents in Quebec, by the next outward
mail, giving a full account of their client's case, and
requesting them to obtain, through the agency of the
police—or by any other means, if considered more
desirable: The character of Ranger, his holding and
belongings, and his status in the country; whether
anyone known as Fellows—but whose real name was
Ralph Sinclair—was at present in his employ; the
date when he came there; where he came from;
what position he was filling; and the reputation he
was held in.

The same information as to a Charles Barton; and,
as this was the person sending certain information
with regard to the first named, to ascertain to what
extent they associated, and, if possible, the causes
which had induced him to reveal what he had done
about the man known as Fellows.

It was specially enjoined that the information was
to be obtained with the greatest caution, as on no
account must it leak out that these inquiries were
being made from England.

As the matter seemed to be one possessing features
of interest which might lead to important developments,
the agents lost no time in seeking an interview
with the chief of police; who, after a careful perusal
of the letter from their correspondents, promised he
would write for full information to their headquarters
staff at Regina, who would no doubt be able to get
what was wanted.

In the attitude taken up by the great firm of
Quinion towards their former employé, there was no
feeling of vindictiveness manifested.  They had, in
fact, never yet been known to prosecute a defaulting
servant, although many opportunities had offered for
so doing.  Their leniency towards men who had
been detected defrauding them had almost become
proverbial, so that they were beginning to look upon
it themselves as a matter of reproach.

The members of the firm were men of high
principle, anxious not only to stand well in the
public gaze, but desirous that their motives should be
beyond suspicion.  They were nominally religious
men, but making no very pronounced profession of
their opinions and beliefs.  Crooked and perverse as
the treatment of their London employés had been,
their conduct was so surrounded with sophisms for
arguments, that shadows had assumed substantial
form, and they seemed to have persuaded themselves,
if not others, that in all that they had done they had
been guided only by the highest principles of moral
rectitude, leaving nothing of which they need feel
ashamed.

Burns has very aptly said—

   |  "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
   |  To see oursel's as others see us!
   |  It wad frae monie a blunder free us
   |            And foolish notion."
   |

They had not lost sight of the mother of Sinclair,—or
Fellows, as we must continue to call him,—since
their first impulse was to acquaint her with what they
had heard.

Upon reflection, they felt it would be wiser to wait
until, with the fresh light which they hoped to receive
as the result of the inquiries set on foot, their mind
was better made up as to the course they ought to
pursue.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`ON THE TRAIL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   ON THE TRAIL.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Thou art a fellow of a good report,
   Thy life hath had some snatch of honour in it."
   \                    *Julius Cæsar*, Act V. sc. v.

.. vspace:: 2

Regina, which, prior to the advent of the Great
Trunk Line of the Canadian Pacific Railway,
was possessed of but a few straggling log-shanties—the
rough dwellings of settlers and squatters,
the early pioneers in the great North-West of those
civilising forces which are marching with so much
rapidity across the face of the American Continent—is
not only the principal town, but has the honour of
being the capital of the province and the seat of the
legislature.

Yet, rejoicing in a population of not more than
some two thousand, it is making such rapid advances
as bids fair to raise it, in a very little while, to a
position of importance and pre-eminence.

The mounted police have here their headquarters,
and it was therefore in the order of things official, as
well as natural, that the inquiry set on foot at Quebec
should be forwarded to this little but important
centre for further elucidation.

To John Stone, or "Puffey," as the name by which
he is best known, was entrusted the task of obtaining
the required information.

The work, although of an eminently peaceful
character, was beset with no ordinary difficulties, from
the secrecy with which the information had to be
obtained.

Taking Nat Langham's Store on his route, he soon
found himself in the midst of a company of the
roughest and lowest of the labouring-class population
of the district.  Smoking, drinking, gambling, and
betting, were the usual order of proceedings; occasionally
varied by a free fight, in which the use of knives
and firearms were not unknown.

Beyond a few brief glances from carelessly turned
heads—the usual greeting to a fresh-comer—but little
notice was taken of his advent into their midst.
Calling for a liquor, and lighting his pipe, he joined a
group at one of the tables, where play was in progress,
and soon became an apparently interested spectator.

Presently one of the players, turning to Stone,
asked—

"What are they going to do with Red Dick, Puffey?"

"Oh, he is of too much importance to be dealt with
by the authorities hereabouts."

"What! do they intend sending him up to Quebec?"

"Yes," replied Puffey; "and there he'll stand a
very poor chance."

After a pause, "What do you know about him?"
inquired Puffey.

"I don't know the fellow, and don't want to," was
the rejoinder.  "I only felt interested because I was
with the force when he was caught."

"Oh, I see! you were one of the volunteer force
that aided the police."

"That's so, sonny."

"What was the name of him who took command
of the volunteer force?  Do you remember him?"

"Yes, very well.  It was a chap named Fellows, at
Ranger's."

"Not been hereabouts long, has he?" inquired
Puffey indifferently.

"Not above six or seven months, I believe," was
the reply.

"Came from England, I think we were told?"

"Yes."

"He seemed to understand his business very well.
Know much about him?"

"I only know that he is said to be on friendly
terms with Ranger, and is believed to be rather
sweet on one of the women on his station."

"Is that so?" added Puffey.  "Then the fellow
hasn't lost much time."

"Well, I can't say for certain," continued the
speaker, "as I work on a neighbouring farm; but I
heard one of my mates talking a while ago about him."

Puffey felt that here, at all events, was a source from
whence some useful information might in all
probability be gathered, but he was anxious not to appear
too eager, for fear of exciting unnecessary inquiry.

Allowing the conversation to drop, he sat and
watched the players until the one he had held
converse with gave signs of intending departure.

Rising from his seat, Puffey sauntered out of the
store, and lounged about for a while until he saw the
other come out, when, accosting him, he said—

"Look here, mate, I should like to have a word or
two with you, if you can spare a few moments."

"All right, Puffey," replied the fellow; "say on."

"You were speaking of a girl on Ranger's farm
that the chap Fellows was supposed to be sweet on.
Now, as there is one on the same farm that I have
had my eye upon for some time, you'll understand
the interest I may appear to be taking in this matter.
I should like to know the name of the girl referred
to, if you can tell me?"

"Oh! is that how the wind blows?" laughed the
other.

"Well, I don't want you to go blabbing about the
matter; we've all got soft moments in our lives."

"Never fear, my boy!  Jack Hart's not the chap to
spoil sport."

"Call it sport if you like, but tell me who is the
girl this Fellows is after?"

"Her name is Jess Russell.  She is the daughter
of one of Ranger's men; and they do say as fine a
looking specimen of the sex as is to be found in the
North-West."

"That's not the one I was thinking about.  I don't
know her; but beauty though she maybe, I'll back
my girl to go one better."

"Poor old Puffey!  Hit at last!  I shouldn't have
thought it of you."

"Well, it's not a case yet; so mind what I've said,
that 'mum's' the word."

"Right you are!  Nor is it a clear case yet with
that Fellows, as it is said a chap named Barton
has been noticed sneaking round after the same girl."

"Oh," was Puffey's comment; "then there's
likely to be ructions there before long, if that's the
case."

"Just as likely as not," was the reply.  "Well,
good-night, Puffey.  I must be going."

"So long, old chap," was his parting salute, as
Puffey mounted his horse and rode away, feeling that
he had learned one thing from what he had heard,
and that was the cause which had led up to Barton's
letter.

The next day Puffey, pursuing his quest, ventured
to ride boldly up to Ranger's homestead and inquire
for Fellows by name.  He was told he was at work
in the fields, but on receiving directions where he was
to be found, and how he might know him, he resolved
to go in search of Fellows, first stating, in order to
allay any fears as to his motives, that he was
commissioned by his officer personally to thank him for
the part he had taken in the recent raid.

After a rather extended search, he at length came
across his man, out on a distant part of the prairie
cutting corn.

Some astonishment was naturally manifested at
the sight of a member of the mounted police inquiring
for one of the workers on the farm.

There are certain people who are seldom regarded
as welcome visitors.  A man never hears that a
policeman is inquiring for him without a feeling of
uneasiness beginning to steal over him, he could not
perhaps tell why, although all the time perfectly
conscious that there was no need to be at all
apprehensive as to his object.

With Fellows it was different, since, although he
had no reason to think that his secret had been
discovered, there was his own consciousness of guilt,
ever present, and ready to start into activity at the
first symptoms of coming danger.

Puffey—like the keen observer he was reputed to
be—did not fail to note the start which Fellows gave
when he heard his name inquired for.

His sunburnt countenance did not, however, betray
his momentary agitation.  Recovering his self-control,
he advanced at once to the constable, and looking
steadily in his face, in a clear voice, unmarked by the
least tremor, exclaimed—

"My name is Fellows.  What do you want with me?"

"You see who I am, Mr. Fellows; not always the
most welcome of visitors?"

"That's true, sir, no doubt; but I have no reason to
regard you as unwelcome."

"Nor will you," added Puffey, "when you learn the
object of my visit."

The men who were working with Fellows had
ceased their labours, and were crowding round to
hear what the detective had to say.

"I am commissioned by the Major," said Puffey,
"who commanded the force which recently made
that successful raid, ending in the capture of Red
Dick, to return you his thanks for the very valuable
aid rendered him on that occasion, in the promptness
with which his orders were carried out, and for the
precision with which the duties you undertook were
discharged.  He fully recognises that the success of
that enterprise was in no small measure due to the
alertness and cohesion of your force, as well as to
the able way in which that force was handled by you."

"Many of these men," replied Fellows, "standing
round me, were present on the occasion referred to,
and in their name, as well as my own, you may tell
the Major that, whilst warmly thanking him for the
flattering words addressed to us, we were all only too
pleased to serve with so brave a force as the men he
brought to lead us."

"That ends my mission with you," said Puffey.
"Not a very terrifying one, you must admit."

Presently he added, as if a new idea had suddenly
struck him, "Are you satisfied with your present
occupation?"

"Yes; don't I look as if I was?" he asked.

"It was only a passing thought, which that
moment occurred to me; you are just the sort of
chap we could very well do with in our force.
Would you care to join us?"

"No such idea has ever entered my head, and I
don't feel as if I should much care for the life."

"Well, I've no authority to ask you, but you might
think it over."

"No harm in my doing that," he replied.

"How old are you, if it is not a rude question to
ask?" said the constable.

"Just turned twenty-nine."

"English, I judge?"

"Yes."

"Been long in the Colony?"

"Only about seven months."

"Any trade or profession?"

"Was a commercial in the Old Country."

"Married or single?"

"Single."

"Hope to remain so?"

"That depends on circumstances."

"You'll excuse my being so inquisitive, but I
wished to make sure you were qualified for the post
I just now suggested to you; and from all you tell
me, I have no reason to doubt but our people would
only be too pleased to accept you if you choose to
apply."

"Thanks; I'll think about it."

"A question sure to be asked, and therefore one I
may as well put: Any special reason for changing a
commercial life for an agricultural one?"

"N—o; except that I was not getting on as well
as I should have liked, and so determined to make
an entire change."

Puffey noticed that this last answer was not given
quite so promptly as the replies to his other questions
had been, from which fact he was not slow to draw
his own conclusions.

It suited his purpose to induce the belief in Fellows'
mind, that the mounted police presented a good
opening for the employment of his abilities; but
that it was an opinion likely to find support in
official quarters, should application be made for an
appointment, was a matter of no moment to him
whatever.

Quitting the track, by which the small towns along
the line of the railway were usually reached, he
started to return by a cross-cut over the open prairie
with which he was familiar, in the hope that by so
doing he might possibly come across farm-hands
from whom something further could be learned.

He had not proceeded far, before he saw three men
seated beneath the shade of a sheltering clump of
trees bordering a small stream not above three to
four feet deep, and therefore easily fordable.  The
spot selected was a small hollow, thickly covered
with that short crisp variety of grass known as
"buffalo grass," on which they were now resting
after partaking of the usual midday meal.

Riding up to where they were seated, he saluted
them with—

"Good-day, comrades!  Do you remember me?"

"No fear, Puffey, after once seen."

"You were with us at the capture of Red Dick, I think?"

"Two of us were."

"Ah, I have just been over and seen Fellows, to
thank him, and all who were with him, for the
excellent help rendered to the police on that
occasion."

"What will be done with the prisoner?"

"That will be decided at Quebec."

"Have they sent him there?"

"Yes."

"Then he has not much chance left."

"Well, we shall see."

"You say you saw Fellows?" the men inquired.

"Yes; he's a smart chap, and I have been trying to
persuade him to join our force."

"What next?  Is he inclined to do it?"

"I can't say yet.  He has promised to think the
matter over, which is all I could expect at first."

"And I hope it will end there; he's too good a pal
to lose."

"Do you know much about him then?  Has he
been here long?"

"Not many months, but he is good company,
plenty to talk about, and inclined to be sociable."

"Does he bear a good character?"

"We know nothing about him before he came here,
but we have never heard a word against him since he
has been amongst us."

Evidently there was nothing to be gained by
pursuing this conversation, so shortly after he wished
them "Good day," and rode off.

On the whole, he felt satisfied with the result of his
inquiries.  He had not added much that was new,
but what he had heard tended to confirm that which
was already known.

He would like to have scraped together a little
more knowledge of Barton, but he had been afraid to
inquire, there being no good opening given him to
do so.





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.. _`JESSIE RUSSELL`:

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   CHAPTER XXI.


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   JESSIE RUSSELL.

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   "It is my lady; O, it is my love!
   O, that she knew she were!"
   \        *Romeo and Juliet*, Act II. sc. ii.

.. vspace:: 2

"Now, Jess, buck up, my girl!  I've brought
a companion home with me to-night to
have a bit of supper and a smoke, so look alive."

"All right, dad!  Don't make a fuss about such a
trifle," was the response.

"Come along, Fellows; don't stand outside like
that, man alive!  Come in, and make yourself at
home."

The frugal board was soon spread with the customary
evening meal, which Russell and his daughter
were in the habit of partaking alone, but which on
the evening in question he had invited Fellows to join
them in.

When this was finished, the table cleared, and the
pipes lighted, the woman's fingers found full
employment upon garments which needed repairing, whilst
the men occupied their time in discussing the events
of the day, only occasionally allowing those of the
larger outer world to engage their attention, since
those were matters about which they heard at very
irregular intervals.

Fellows had not yet found that convenient
opportunity he had given Ranger to understand he was
waiting for, that he might make Jessie the confidante
of his most cherished desires.

And now, with the father present, he did not feel
that this was an opportune moment.

"Puffey was telling me yesterday about the proposal
he had made to you of joining their force.  Do
you intend giving that proposal any serious
consideration?"

"Well, I scarcely know," laughingly replied
Fellows.

"But you don't mean to say the prospect it holds
out is better than the one before you here?"

"No, I don't think it is.  The only charm about
it is the excitement it offers."

"There may be some attraction in that to a single
man, with youth and health in front of him; but the
advance is slow and uncertain, and the life somewhat
precarious."

"Surely you are not thinking of leaving us so
soon?" chimed in Jessie, with just a shade of
eagerness in her tone.

"I can hardly say that," said Fellows thoughtfully.
"But the life here is so dull and monotonous, I must
have a change of some sort.  I want excitement.  I
feel at times as if I should go mad!"

"Isn't there any of the men you can make
companions of, to spend an occasional evening
with?"

"Well, I am afraid not; they don't seem quite my
style."

"What about the Bartons?  I should have thought
that one or both of those would have just been about
your mark."

"I don't dislike the elder of the two men," said
Fellows, "but I can't say I like the younger one."

"Now you mention him," replied Russell, "he
certainly does not impress one very favourably.  He
never has much to say for himself, and seldom joins
in our conversation."

"Women are stupid creatures, you'll say, and jump
to all manner of ridiculous conclusions," said Jessie;
"but for all that I must say I don't like him.  There's
something about the man's look and manner which
makes me feel queer whenever I see him."

Fellows looked up with a smile, as he said, "I don't
think women such stupid creatures; they have a sort
of power, which we men do not appear to possess,
called intuition, which enables them to form
conclusions a great deal more rapidly than the members of
the opposite sex; and, what is more to the point,
their rapidly formed conclusions are less frequently
wrong than are the more laboured ones which we
indulge ourselves in delivering, often with a great
assumption of authority, more impressive than the
argument or its conclusion."

"Wisely spoken, Sir Oracle!" exclaimed Russell,
as he clapped his hands together by way of indicating
his approval; whilst Jessie's eyes sparkled as she
listened to his defence of her sex.

"But we are getting off the track," remarked
Fellows.  "We were talking about what I was likely
to be doing; and on that point, I will frankly confess,
I have not yet made up my mind."

"Then don't be in any hurry to do that which may
involve a life-long repentance," said Russell.

"Changing the subject," remarked Fellows, "what's
your opinion of Barton's project?"

"What? as to going to the Yukon?"

"Yes."

"Why, I think if they are wise they'll stay where
they are."

"But it appears to be a wonderful country; and has
the greatest seal and salmon fisheries, with cod-banks
that beat those of Newfoundland."

"That may be all very true," responded Russell,
"if fishing be the object in view; but a man has got
to stand the climate."

"No doubt that's a difficulty."

"I should rather think so, if what I read is true,
that the ground in certain parts is frozen to a depth
of two hundred feet."

"The search for gold must be hard work under
such conditions."

"The rapid changes, too, must be awfully trying,"
added Russell.  "Some days it is so warm that one
may fairly roast, whilst the next day you would be
looking for your overcoat."

"All which goes to show that only the sound and
healthy should risk the dangers which undoubtedly
will have to be faced."

"Men born in southern latitudes are said to have
become insane through the long darkness which
prevails."

"Well," said Fellows, "although it is true that
hundreds have been driven back, unable to endure the
hardships of the place, whilst as many more have
been starved or frozen to death, yet I should not at
all mind risking my chance if I saw any way of
getting there."

"Of course, how to get out is the difficulty; the
expenses are so great that a little fortune is needed
to begin with."

"Provided the necessary capital can be found, next
to good health, what is most needed is a good
equipment.  The mounted police who have been sent there
are all right, because they have been well provided by
the Government with food and clothing.  Women and
children stand the climate; and all reliable testimony
is to the effect that the climatic drawbacks are trivial
to those who are well equipped."

"It appears to me," said Russell, "that for the
inexperienced, and those who know little or nothing of
roughing it, to venture into such a region as the
Yukon is known to be at its best is the extreme of
folly.  Under the most favourable conditions it offers
so many hardships, that those who have not what the
Yanks call 'grit,' and endurance, should keep out of it."

"I quite agree with all you say," replied Fellows.
"Yet I think," he added, "that much of the mischief
and hardships we hear about have been due to the
mode of travelling and the routes taken."

"Which, then, do you regard as the better way
to go?"

"Certainly not through the passes over the mountains,
in which so many hundreds are said to have
met their deaths."

"How then would you propose getting there?"

"By what is now known as the 'All-Water-Route,'
up the Yukon River to Dawson City."

"But isn't that a long and tedious way, which, if
commenced when navigation opens, is completed
so near the end of the season that you have
practically no time left for operations that year?"

"I think that was so," said Fellows, "when the
rush first began, but the conditions have now been
rendered far more favourable."

"Is that so?" asked Russell.

"The agents say that through the passes it takes
from forty to seventy days to get from San Francisco
to Dawson City; but by the 'All-Water-Route,'
although you have to start later from the same
port, the time taken need never exceed about four
weeks; so that with more comfort and convenience,
at the cost of less time, you really reach Dawson
City sooner than by means of what may be termed
the overland route."

"Well, when I've got a couple of hundred pounds
to spare I may think more seriously about the
desirability of running the risk, but at present I
have not the means, and therefore, however great the
facilities, it's no use my thinking much about it."

"That would be my difficulty likewise," said Fellows;
"and it is one, too, which it will take the Bartons some
time to overcome, I'm thinking."

"My opinion," said Jessie, "is, that if the majority
of men who are never satisfied with what they have,
but who are ever ready to run after the latest craze,
would develop the same amount of energy in trying
to improve their position amid existing circumstances
as they do when they find themselves in the midst
of fresh scenes, with new surroundings, there would
be less dissatisfaction and more success in life at
home than is usually considered possible."

"Quite true, Miss Russell," replied Fellows; "and
I suppose it must be put down as a man's weakness."

"Still, if a weakness, not one that is, or should be
regarded as, wholly incurable."

"Yet 'What will Mrs. Grundy say?' is an influence
quite as strong in operating upon men as upon
women."

"What a misfortune!  It seems a sad admission to
have to make."

"It is, however, unfortunately too true, since the
opinions which others form of us enter very largely
into the rule of conduct regulating our daily life.  It
is seldom until old age begins to overtake us, that
men assume that independence of the world's frowns
and sneers which alone enables them to act and speak
upon sound principles, regardless of consequences."

The time had passed so pleasantly and rapidly that
they were not a little surprised to find it was long
past the usual hour for retiring.

After a hasty "Good-night," Fellows went home,
well pleased with what he had seen and heard, and
more than ever determined to make an opportunity,
at no distant date, for a confidential talk with Jessie
Russell.





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.. _`"DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN"`:

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   CHAPTER XXII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN."

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Alive again? then show me where he is."
   \                    *Henry VI.*, Part II. Act III. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Sinclair had been slowly, yet gradually,
recovering from the long illness which
had followed upon the news of her son's
death, and the terrible revelations with respect to his
conduct preceding.

The habits of her small household had of late been
considerably disarranged, so that since her illness she
had become accustomed to having her morning meal
served in her bedroom.  As the season advanced, her
indisposition to struggle against the growing love for
this indulgence became more marked, until it had
almost become a recognised habit which it would
have been difficult to overcome.

Autumn tints had already begun to tinge with
their brilliant hues the lovely summer foliage, which
the rough winds were rapidly stripping from twigs
and branches, exposing them to all the effects of dews
and damps, the chills and frosts of northern skies.

It was a chill October morning, and the sun had
not yet attained sufficient power to dispel the mist
which hung over the face of nature, as the result of
the heavy dew which had fallen.

Jennie, after visiting her mother as usual, had
descended to see that her breakfast was sent upstairs
at the accustomed hour.  A letter addressed to her
mother was lying on the table in the hall, which she
was surprised to find bore the Canadian postmark.
The handwriting did not suggest the writer, so,
curbing her curiosity, and carrying it with her, she
placed it upon the tray which the maid was already
waiting to take up to Mrs. Sinclair's room.

Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed when her
mother's bell was rung so violently that Jennie
determined to answer it herself.

On entering her bedroom she saw that her mother
had fainted.

The breakfast had not been touched, but tightly
grasped in her clenched hands was an open letter—the
one which had that morning been received.

By the application of a few simple restoratives,
with which her daughter seemed perfectly familiar,
consciousness soon began to return.

As she opened her eyes, what was Jennie's astonishment
to hear her exclaim, "My boy! my boy!  Where
is Ralph?"

The letter which had been held so tenaciously now
lay upon the bed, as it had fallen from her nerveless
hand.  Picking it hastily up, the daughter looked to
see who it was from, and with a surprise which was
almost overwhelming, saw the well-known signature
of her brother Ralph at the end.

A flood of tears relieved the elder woman, in the
midst of which she exclaimed, "Read it, Jennie!—The
letter!"

In a state of excitement almost beyond description
she proceeded to do so.  It was a long letter, and
took her some time to get through.  It was indeed
from her brother—the brother they had long mourned
as dead, but who, it appeared, was alive and well in
a distant land.

Acting upon the advice which Ranger had given
him, he had written a full confession of his conduct,
omitting nothing, and not attempting to excuse
himself in the least degree, nor to say anything
which would tend to palliate the acts of which he
had been guilty.  He did not fail to express how
keen and bitter was the regret he felt at the sorrow he
had caused the fond mother whose love for her boy
he was deeply sensible of, and could never by any
possibility hope to repay.  He was unwilling to
return home and take the consequence of his acts,
not so much because he dreaded the punishment, as
that he was fearful of the additional suffering it would
entail upon those he still so much loved.  He therefore
concluded by requesting his mother to see his
late employers, let them see all he had written, but
to conceal from them the place where he was living.

By the time Jennie had finished reading the
contents of the letter, both women had obtained
sufficient control over their emotions as to be able
to hold converse together.

"My poor deluded boy!" was one of the many
exclamations of a similar character with which the
mother continually sought to relieve her overburdened
mind.

"Poor boy! what he must have suffered!  Now
mind, Jennie! not a word of this to anyone, but
ascertain at once the time of the trains to Broadstone,
that I may arrange the most convenient one to travel
by; and I must get you to go with me."

"But I think, mother, it would be better to wait
a day or two until you have got over the shock the
letter has given you, or you will not be in a fit
condition to see the people at Broadstone."

"Well, see how the trains serve first, and after I
am up I shall be better able to talk about when we
may start."

Having rung for the maid, and instructed her to
send for a time-table, she proceeded to assist her
mother to dress.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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The next morning, soon after seven o'clock,
Mrs. Sinclair and her daughter started by an early train,
due at Broadstone—a station on the main line—shortly
before eight o'clock in the evening, which
was duly reached, after a fatiguing journey, only
some half-hour late.

A telegram, despatched at starting, had secured
them apartments at the railway hotel; to these, on
their arrival, they at once retired, and, after partaking
of an early supper, sought that rest they each so
much stood in need of.

The wind, which had been blowing in fitful gusts
throughout the journey, grew in intensity as the day
wore to its close, and as the night advanced it
increased to the force of a hurricane.  The poorer
class of inhabitants trembled for the security of their
little dwellings, not usually constructed in the most
substantial manner.  And as it swept round corners,
or drove through old chimney-stacks, dislodging
insecure pots on its way, the whistle became a roar
as it rushed down the chimneys, or beat with fury
against window-panes, which every now and then
seemed on the point of yielding to the vehemence of
the gale; many were the would-be sleepers whose
nerves were kept on the rack, unable to rest amid
the strife of elements which prevailed.

As the morning dawned the wind dropped, and
rain fell in torrents.

The two ladies, in their strange apartments, with
such a raging storm outside, passed a very restless
and almost sleepless night, so that they felt but little
refreshed when the time for rising arrived.

Breakfast over, and as the rain continued to descend
in torrents without any apparent indications of its
early cessation, although the distance to be traversed
was trivial, they ordered a cab to be at the door by
eleven o'clock, in which they duly made their
appearance at the offices of the factory in Broadstone.

Finding the partners were to be seen, they sent
up their cards, and, instructing the cabman to wait,
were ushered into the private office of the firm, where
the two gentlemen were seated.

After greeting them with that warmth and friendliness
which is a marked feature in the character of
the natives of the Midlands, and which also, from the
long-standing friendship existing, might naturally have
been anticipated, they sought to know the nature of
the special business to which they felt so unexpected
a visit was due.

Speaking with much emotion, and not without a
strong effort to control her feelings, Mrs. Sinclair,
whose pallid features bore vivid traces of
unmistakable suffering, said—

"I yesterday received a letter which, when I show
you, will, I expect, be as much a surprise to you as
it was to myself and daughter."

Pausing for a few moments, as she searched in her
pocket for the letter referred to, she added, as soon
as the important document was brought to light,
"If you will kindly read this, it will fully explain the
object of my visit much better than I should be able
to do."

Taking the letter which was offered them, they
sought and obtained permission to retire into an
inner room, where it might be perused without fear
of interruption.

On their return, after the lapse of some ten minutes,
the younger of the two men remarked;—

"No doubt, Mrs. Sinclair, you were greatly
surprised at the news which this letter brought?"

"So much so, sir, that I fainted; and it was
some time before I was fully able to recover
myself."

"I can well believe it.  But you will, no doubt, be
still more astonished when I tell you that we are
already in full possession of all which that letter
reveals, and a little more."

.. _`"WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT LETTER REVEALS"`:

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   :align: center
   :alt: "WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT LETTER REVEALS."

   "WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT LETTER REVEALS."

"You certainly do surprise me, sir, since I cannot
see how you could have obtained the information,
which my son alone was in possession of, since he
begs in that letter that it may be communicated
privately and confidentially to you."

"As a proof, we can tell you his address when
he wrote was at Ranger's Ranch, M'Lean Station,
Assiniboia, North-West Canada."

"You will have noticed the address at the top of
his letter has been cut away; this I did at his request,
that you might not at present be informed as to
where he is to be found."

"Yes; and we could not help smiling as we observed
what had been done."

"But," said Mrs. Sinclair, much agitated, "may I
ask how you obtained your information?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Quinion.  "It is now six or
seven weeks ago since we received a letter from a
person in Canada, who, although giving us his name,
has requested that it may not be made known,
conveying just such information as the letter you now
bring contains."

"Then it would be useless to ask you for the name
of your informant?" said Mrs. Sinclair.

"Well, without the writer's permission it would
scarcely be honourable on our part to do so."

"Does he state how he came by the knowledge of
what he writes you?" inquired the mother.

"Yes; he states that it was a confession he
overheard your son make, but to whom, or under what
circumstances, is not mentioned."

"Does he give any reason for writing to you as he
has done?"

"All he says on that point is, that he thought it
right to do so, in case we should like to know."

"It cannot be regarded as a friendly act,"
Mrs. Sinclair, after some hesitation, found herself able to
say.

"No; that is how we regarded it," said Mr. Quinion
quietly.

"May I ask," inquired the mother, with some
anxiety, "if you have taken any action in the
matter?"

"Well, this is what we have done: through our
solicitors here, we instructed agents in Canada to
inquire fully into the truth of all the letter contains;
to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the person
referred to is the one in whom we have any interest; the
character of the person who has written to us, and
the motives which would probably cause him to act
as he has done.  We are expecting by every mail to
receive this agent's report, as by it we propose being
guided in the course we ought to adopt."

"Oh, my dear friends!  I do hope," said Mrs. Sinclair
in anguished tones, "you will not think of
having my poor boy prosecuted?"

"That is a matter, Mrs. Sinclair, on which we have
arrived at no decision at present," was Mr. Quinion's
reply.

"Oh, but is it not possible to let matters remain
as they are, without reference to the report you speak
of?"

"We do not say that we shall take any action
upon it; at the same time, as men of business, as
well as in consideration of what is due to society, we
shall wait at least this report we are expecting."

"But can't you, gentlemen, for the sake of the long
and honourable career of his father, as well as for my
sake, and that of my daughter, give up all idea of
having him arrested?  It would be the death of me,
I know; and I feel sure you have no wish to see
that take place."

"In that you only do us justice, Mrs. Sinclair;
and if it be at all possible, you may rely upon our
sparing your feelings, as we have no vindictive aims
to gratify."

"If it is the amount my misguided boy has robbed
you of which is the difficulty, and its payment will
prevent the prospect of harm coming to him, I will
willingly realise everything I possess, even if it
beggars me, in order that my son may be saved!"

"Don't for a moment think of it, my dear madam;
for under no circumstances should we accept the
payment you speak of, as that would be to compound
a felony.  We either prosecute or pardon."

"Oh, let me, let me prevail upon you to decide
now, at once!" reiterated Mrs. Sinclair.

"Pray do not say anything more, Mrs. Sinclair,
but leave the matter where it is; and trust us, that in
whatever we decide we shall endeavour to do that
which is right and best for all parties."

It being clear that nothing further was to be
gained at present, the ladies rose and took their
leave, after receiving an assurance that on the arrival
of the report for which they were waiting, they
would, without loss of time, let them know their
decision.

Returning to their hotel, they ordered luncheon,
and announced their intention of departing by the
afternoon train, which would enable them to arrive
home by breakfast-time the next morning.

On reaching home, the mother's first concern was
to ascertain the date of the next Canadian mail out,
which she learned was two days hence.

Her next act was to write a very long and loving
letter to her boy, giving a full account of her visit to
Broadstone and its result.  And whilst it was full of
sorrow and regret for the past, there was not a word
of upbraiding, but expressions of gratitude and joy
for the welcome news which had practically given
back to her a son previously mourned as dead.

In addition to stating the surprise she experienced
on learning that his late employers were in full
possession of the information she had come to
impart, she could not refrain from adding, that as there
was still doubt as to what their intentions might be,
on receiving the report for which they were waiting,
she must urge him to think very seriously of the
desirability of getting clear away from his present
station before it might be too late to do so.





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.. _`THE STORY EVER NEW`:

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   CHAPTER XXIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE STORY EVER NEW.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Let her speak of me before her father."—*Othello*, Act I. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

"Good afternoon, Miss Russell," was the greeting
which Jessie received one Sunday afternoon,
as, on rounding a bend of the hill, on
the other side of which was Ranger's homestead, she
was suddenly brought face to face with Fellows, who
was rapidly advancing along the track which led to
her father's log dwelling.

The air was laden with the refreshing, invigorating
scent of the pines from the wood towards which she
was wending, but the rapidly falling leaves, and the
changing hues of autumn, were everywhere giving
indications that summer was nearly over, and that
Mother Nature would soon be arrayed in more
sober attire, befitting the wintry season of chill and
gloom.

Jessie was accustomed to ramble on a Sunday
afternoon, when the midday meal had been
despatched, whilst her father indulged himself with his
pipe, or sat and dozed in a chair at the door of his
little shanty, which overlooked the small patch of
garden in front.

"I was on my way to call upon you," added Fellows,
"so that I am very glad to have met you."

"Father is all alone at home," said Jessie, as the
colour mounted to her cheeks.

"If my company is not likely to prove irksome,"
he added, "I should much prefer a walk with you."

"Rather an unusual request," added Jess, "but I
suppose I ought not to object."

After proceeding in silence for some moments,
Fellows said, "I have been wanting to have a quiet
talk with you, Miss Russell, for some time, and now
the opportunity presents itself I scarcely know how to
begin."

Jessie, whose face had suddenly become the colour
of scarlet, could find no words with which to help
him; therefore, after a brief pause, he proceeded to
tell her of the feelings he entertained towards her,
and the hope he cherished that she might be disposed
to give his suit a little favourable consideration.

Whatever writers of romance may say to the
contrary, out of an extreme desire to invest their
heroines with qualities and attributes which, as a rule,
ordinary mortals do not possess, it is seldom that a
declaration such as Jessie heard this afternoon can
be truthfully said to be altogether unexpected.  Words
may never pass to convey the intelligence, nevertheless
there is a subtle magnetism in the language of
the eye which telegraphs to the loved one, more
vividly and more surely than words could express,
the feelings with which each regards the other.  So
that generally, long before the declaration is made
which is supposed to reveal the feelings with which
the man regards the woman, she has discovered it
all, and been waiting, expecting the inevitable to
happen.

Except during his long illness, when Jessie had
carefully and faithfully nursed him back to
convalescence,—an illness, be it remembered, which had
been brought about by his self-denying efforts on
her behalf, in rescuing her from a position of
considerable danger,—she had had but few opportunities
of seeing him, or being thrown into his society.  Few
and brief, however, as many of those interviews had
proved, they had not been without leaving their
effects behind.  The eyes as they had looked into
each other's faces, or caught stolen glances which
were thought to be unobserved, had given rise to
thoughts and feelings too subtle for words to express,
and too sacred even for themselves to admit, during
that process of introspection which from time to time
went on.

Jessie, therefore, whilst perfectly conscious in her
own heart that the young fellow now by her side
was entertaining feelings for her which might
eventually find expression in words, was quite
unprepared for the meeting this afternoon, and for what
was in truth the sudden declaration of his affection
for her.

Jessie, it may be added, was a woman possessing a
fair amount of common-sense, yet of an ardent and
enthusiastic temperament,—capable of loving
intensely an object worthy of her affections.

The period which had elapsed since attaining
womanhood had been so brief, that she was not yet
quit of many of the high ideals and romantic notions
with which lovers are wont to invest the heroes or
heroines they are in search of; but her rough
prairie-training, added to the common-sense shrewdness of
her character, had enabled her to see that marriage
ought not to be regarded as such a thing of chance
as to be left dependent upon the fancied love, growing
out of the attractions of a pretty form or a lovely
face, calculated as they are to bewitch and bewilder
the first enamoured noodle that casts his glances
upon them.

It was, therefore, in tones of some hesitation that
she expressed the opinion that they had scarcely
known each other long enough, or seen sufficient of
one another, to be able to judge as to their suitability
for such an important arrangement.

"I was fully prepared for something like that,
Jessie—if I may call you that?" said Fellows.

"Well then, don't you think it would be better for
me to defer any answer at present?" she naïvely
asked.

"I don't think so, my dear—and yet——"  After
some hesitation he added, "How can I venture to tell
you all that is on my mind? and yet I feel it would not
be fair on my part to win, perhaps, your consent to
my suit, without first placing you in full possession of
the facts in my past life, which may seriously affect
your decision."

"But if the opinion I have been led to form of you
be a correct one, it cannot be anything of which you
need be ashamed or afraid to tell me."

"Ah, Jessie!" he exclaimed in mournful tones, "I
am afraid you have estimated me too highly."

"Tell me, then," she added somewhat eagerly, her
moistening eyes betraying only too plainly the
anxiety she felt, yet was loath to reveal.

Thus encouraged, Fellows at once confided to her
the story of his past life, which was much to the
same effect as had been narrated to Ranger, and
overheard by Barton, from the place where he lay
concealed.

In addition to what he had revealed to Ranger, he
was now able to add, that, acting upon the advice
then given, he had since written home to inform
his mother that he was still alive, and how he had
instructed her to act.

It would be difficult to describe the feeling paramount
in Jessie's breast, on hearing the singular and
startling confession which Fellows had made.

She felt quite unequal to the task of analysing the
causes which gave rise to the emotions agitating her.
They were of too conflicting a character to warrant
a prompt decision on the important question which
had been urged upon her.

Like the true woman that she was, there was a
thrill of ecstatic pleasure running through every nerve
when she fully realised that she was the possessor of
a man's true love, and that man one upon whom she
had been only too disposed to allow her affections to
gather strength and to centre.

Her first impulse inclined her to utter a responsive
"Yes" to the impassioned appeal which was addressed
to her.  The revulsion, however, which followed the
second revelation, was one more of sorrow and regret,
which left her in a state of mind she was not able to
explain to her own satisfaction, nor one which qualified
her to give an answer to Fellows.

"Well, Jessie," said Fellows, after waiting some
time, "what interpretation am I to put upon your
silence?"

"Oh, Mr. Fellows, I wish you would not press me
now for a reply!"

"If that is your wish, it shall be my law, and I will
wait," he replied.

"You may suppose, from my hesitation, that the
avowal you have made is not one of which I entirely
disapprove.  It is a manly confession, to which any
free woman is always proud to listen, even when it
may not meet with acceptance.  But what you have
added is of such a nature, and of so much importance,
that I feel it would be only right, before coming to
any decision, to hear what father has to say about it,
and what he would advise me to do."

"Perhaps you are right, my lass; in fact, I know you
are.  Therefore by all means consult your father and
be guided by him.  But don't forget me at the same
time, and that on your answer will depend my future
as well as my stay here."

With a very warm and sympathetic hand-clasp,
which the lovers (if they may be so termed) felt it
would at present be unwise to exceed, they separated,
after arranging to meet on the next Sunday, under
similar circumstances, should nothing transpire to put
a stop to such an arrangement.

It was with mixed feelings of elation and anxiety
that Fellows returned to the Ranch.

There was much satisfaction at the thought that
he was, without doubt, the possessor of the love of a
true woman, for notwithstanding the cautious nature
of her reply, it was sufficiently obvious the regard she
entertained for him.  At the same time there was
cause for anxiety to a man in his position as to the
advice her father might offer, and which he felt,
whatever it might be, she would be strongly disposed
to act upon.

But a week must elapse before he could be put in
possession of her decision.  No doubt an embarrassing,
but not a novel one, and therefore one which he
must be prepared to endure.





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.. _`"TWICE BLESSED"`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   "TWICE BLESSED."

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   \          "A maiden never bold;
   Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
   Blush'd at herself."—*Othello*, Act I. sc. iii.

.. vspace:: 2

Four days after his interview and confession to
Jessie, Fellows received the letter his mother
had written on her return from Broadstone,
acquainting him with all the circumstances attending
that interview, and of her surprise at learning that
they were already in possession of all the facts
connected with his escape, as well as the knowledge of
where he was at present to be found.

Who could have been the writer of the letter sent
to the firm he was entirely at a loss to conjecture.
The facts of his life had been revealed to no one but
Ranger until Sunday last, when he had taken Jessie
into his confidence.

He could not bring himself to believe in the
possibility of Ranger having betrayed the trust he had
been led to repose in him.  He would see Ranger at
once and hear what light he could throw upon what
seemed so mysterious.

On acquainting him with the intelligence received
from home, he expressed astonishment in no measured
language, for he did not fail to perceive the suspicion
which would naturally arise in Fellows' mind, that, in
some way or other, it was due to him the information
had leaked out, so as to enable it to be conveyed to
Broadstone.

It was hardly necessary for him to assure Fellows
that no word had been breathed to a soul of what
had been told him.  The man honestly believed him.
There was, however, still the fact to be
explained—how had it become known?

The only possible solution seemed to be that
someone must have overheard their conversation, but
who that someone could be they were unable to form
any conception.

Another circumstance stated in Mrs. Sinclair's
letter, calculated to give rise to uneasiness, was that
an agent in Quebec had been instructed to make
inquiry concerning the facts which the writer of the
letter had professed to reveal.  Through what channels
was that inquiry likely to be made?  Someone
would probably be deputed to do this on the spot.

It at once occurred to Fellows that "Puffey's"
recent visit was associated with that quest.

It explained, too, the man's apparent anxiety that
he should become a candidate for admission to the
ranks of the police, as without some such plausible
excuse he could not have questioned him in the way
he did.

On that assumption, his past career was already
known to the police.  And whatever the decision of the
firm might ultimately be, he would in all probability
be shadowed by them until it was made known.

They would not yet be able to prevent him leaving
the country, if he was so disposed; but his progress
from place to place would no doubt be noted, so
that, in the event of being eventually wanted, they
would know where they could place their hands upon
him.  How to act, or what to do under the
circumstances, he felt at some loss to decide.

Sunday was again close at hand, when he had
arranged to meet Jessie, in order to learn her decision,
which was to determine his future.

He would await that interview, and at the same
time acquaint her with this new factor, so suddenly
and unexpectedly imported into his life.

Meanwhile, how had it fared with Charles Barton
since the day he had written and posted the letter
which had set in motion the causes that had given
rise to all this uneasy feeling?

He could not account for having received no reply
to the letter he had sent.  That it would have been
acknowledged was the least he expected.  That this
had not been done was at once a surprise, and a
cause of anxiety as to what it might ultimately lead
to, which laid a considerable tax upon his nervous
powers, never remarkable for their strength.

In his associations with the men on the farm, his
disposition and manners had always presented a
marked contrast to those which his elder brother
displayed.  Whilst James was genial, candid, open,
and free, ready at conversation, and willing to join
the rest of the men in any little arrangement for the
general good, or an evening's amusement, Charles
was gloomy, taciturn, and close.  He held himself
aloof from the rest, as though he thought himself a
superior, and was never known to take part in any
amusement such as was occasionally indulged in.
And it had not failed to be noted, and commented
upon, that of late these habits had become even
more marked than they were at the first.

His brother would frequently rally him, when they
were alone together, as to the cause of his
misanthropical behaviour, without effect; nor, however
lively he might be himself, nor whatever humour he
was able to impart to the topics of conversation
introduced, it was rare that he succeeded in creating
anything beyond the ghost of a smile, or drawing
out more than some monosyllabic reply.

James, with that easy, good-natured disposition
which was characteristic of the man, attributed much
of this to his habits as a boy, which manhood had
only served to develop; to the death of their father,
the break-up of the home, and the disappointment
which, up to the present, had attended all the glowing
visions they had formed of the fortune to be won in
the Land of Gold.

Charles had kept as observant an eye as it was
possible to do, without exciting unnecessary
attention, on the movements of Jessie Russell, but
had been unable to discover anything to cause him
further uneasiness with regard to the apparent
progress of Fellows' suit.

He had been hoping, too, that the result of his
letter to England might be to cause the removal of
his rival altogether from the present scene of his
influence; and this had induced him to refrain from
seeking that interview with Jessie which he was so
anxious to bring about, until, as he regarded it, the
coast was clear for the unimpeded prosecution of his
designs.

In the event of that reply being much longer
delayed, and no action apparent, he felt that it
would not be wise to delay his intended interview
indefinitely.

Happening one evening to be in the neighbourhood
of her dwelling, he decided to extend his
ramble, on the chance that he might meet with her.
She was seated on a bench at the door, busily plying
her needle, mending a jacket belonging to her father.
"Good evening, Miss Russell," he exclaimed a little
nervously, as he advanced with some trepidation to
where she was seated.  "Is your father at home?"

"He has not returned from the field yet," she
replied.  "Do you want to see him?"

"No—that is—not particularly," he replied, with a
confused look.  Then suddenly, as if recollecting
himself, he added, "I have been thinking, my dear
Miss Russell, how much happier I should be with a
good wife to look after me, and care for all my wants;
and I have seen no woman I should so much like to
make my wife as—you!  And what I want to ask is,
whether you are willing to accept me for a husband?
I am a plain man, with very little polish on me, and
know very little of the arts by which a girl's love is
usually won; but if you will consent to be my wife, I
think I can promise to make you a good husband, and
I don't think you will ever have any cause to regret it."

Rough and ill-considered as such a proposal may
seem to have been, when presented in so plain and
unadorned a manner, it was given utterance to in a
speech longer than ever he had been known to
indulge in, and there was an apparent ring of honesty
and truthfulness about it which, notwithstanding all
its deficiencies, struck Jessie as being real.
Therefore, although her feeling for the man was one of
repulsion, which somehow she was unable to
overcome, she repressed the strong impulse which at
first manifested itself, to laugh at him, and ridicule
the idea, by quietly, but firmly, replying that under
no circumstances could she be induced to entertain
the idea for a moment.

"May I ask why?" stammered out Charles.

"Well," she replied, "I have no present desire to
get married."

"Don't you like me well enough?" he asked.

"Not well enough to marry you," was her prompt
and candid reply.

"Perhaps you like someone better?" he added.

"And if I did, would there be anything very
surprising in that?" she replied.

"No," he managed to get out after a pause;
adding, "especially if it is the one I imagine it is."

"I don't see what right you have to imagine
anything at all about it," was Jessie's spirited reply.

"The right is that which belongs to every man or
woman to warn another of a danger."

"I don't understand you, sir."

"If you are thinking of the man I suppose you
are——"

"Sir!" she exclaimed with some vehemence,
interrupting him, "your language is insulting, and
if my father were here you would not dare address
me in the manner you are doing."

"At the risk of what you may think of it, I will
still say," he went on, "that the man I refer to is a
worthless, dishonest scoundrel, not fit to be the
companion of any honest woman."

"I know nothing about the person, nor who it is
you are referring to, nor do I wish to know; but this
you may as well know, that I am quite capable of
defending my own honour as to the company I may
be disposed to keep, and any defence I may require
beyond that my father is able and ready to afford
me.  Good evening, sir!" saying which, she rose,
entered the house, and, closing the door, left Barton
much chagrined at the reception he had received,
and the complete failure of his fondly cherished
scheme.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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As soon as dinner was over at the homestead,
Sunday saw Fellows eagerly wending his way to the
place at which he had appointed to meet Jessie a
week ago.

It was late in September,—harvesting was over
generally through the entire length of the great
North-West,—but the glory of the summer had not
yet departed.  The air was dry and invigorating, and
not without its effect upon Fellows, which, coupled
with the object he had in view, imparted a buoyancy
to his spirits he had for days past been a stranger to,
and gave an elasticity to his step which enabled
him to accomplish his short journey in a much briefer
space of time than he had reckoned upon.

He was first at the trysting-place, but he had not
been long in waiting when he saw Jessie coming
down the trail, a picture of sunny beauty, which the
eye of the beholder could rest upon without any
feeling of weariness.

Advancing at once to meet her, and noting with
satisfaction the good-tempered and winsome smile
pervading her rosy cheeks, he augured a favourable
response to his suit.

Unable to restrain his impatience, he seized both
her hands, exclaiming, "Dearest Jessie! am I right in
concluding from your manner towards me, that you
do not bring an unfavourable reply?"

"You are presuming, I think, sir," she answered,
half averting her head, and shaking her shoulders as
she did so.

"Don't say that, dear," he replied.

"What would you have me say then?" she retorted,
with an arch twinkle in her eye.

"Say?" he exclaimed eagerly; "why, say that
you will be mine, and make me the happiest man
existing!"

"Heigh-ho! well, if wilful man must have his own
way, I suppose I had better repeat my lesson according
to your dictation."

"Oh, you dear, delightful treasure of a woman!" he
murmured, as he folded her unresisting form in his
strong arms, and kissed her passionately.

After a few moments spent in silent contemplation—moments
too sacred for words—Fellows said, "And
you do this, Jessie, knowing full well all I am and
have been?"

"Yes, Ralph," she replied, looking him fully in
the face, with an expression of calm trustfulness and
confidence beaming in her large grey eyes.

"Did you tell your father—all?" he asked.

"That you may rest assured I did," was her reply.

"What did he say when he heard of my disgraceful
conduct?"

"Naturally he was very sorry to hear it; at the
same time he said he thought that a man's past
ought not to be regarded as a perpetual barrier to
his future upward progress."

"Your father is a kind-hearted man, and I esteem
him for his charitable views."

"That's what poor dear mother used to say," she
replied.

"Then he had no objection to urge against me?"

"None!" she added; "he gave me his full
consent to do whatever my own heart dictated as
right."

"God bless you, Jessie!  The aim of my life shall
be that you may never have a moment's pang of
regret for the choice you have this day made."

"Had I feared that, I would never have given you
the answer I have," was her confident reply.

Much of the conversation which followed was of
that tender and confidential nature, so manifestly not
intended for the too inquisitive public ear, that we
refrain from repeating it, leaving it to the imagination
of the more experienced to supply many of the
missing links.

Before separating, he told her of the letter received
from home, which had given him so great a surprise,
and how much he was at a loss to conceive who could
have been the spy and informer.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jessie, as she gave a start.

"What is the matter, dear?" exclaimed Fellows.

"Only a thought that flashed across my mind at
what you were saying."

"Tell me, dearest, what it is?"

"It is a matter of such trivial importance, and one
which I regarded as so personal to myself, that I
should not have said anything about it but for the fact
you have just mentioned."

"You need not hesitate, Jessie, to tell me anything,
as whatever concerns you will not be regarded as
trivial by me."

"Well then," she replied, with downcast eyes, "I
had a visit this week from Mr. Barton; and I suppose
you'll never guess the object of that visit?"

"Which one?" he inquired.

"Charles," she replied.

"Then I'll not try guessing, dear, since it is so
difficult, but leave you to tell me."

"Well then, without repeating all he said, as no
doubt I should fail to do him justice, he told me very
bluntly that he wanted a wife, and asked me to
consent to have him for a husband.  Of course, as
you may well imagine, I declined that honour.  He
did not take my reply kindly, at which I was not
altogether surprised, as I suppose no man, if he is in
earnest (and I have no reason to doubt but that he
was), would be likely to do.  But after questioning
and cross-examining me as to who I was preferring
before him, he concluded that he thought he knew
who the person was.  It was then he said——"

Jessie paused, evidently reluctant to proceed.

"What did he say?" inquired Fellows eagerly.

"I don't feel as if I can tell you," she replied.

"Don't hesitate, dear," he said encouragingly.

"He never mentioned your name, but I felt all the
time he was referring to you."

"Never mind, darling, you have gone too far now
not to tell me all."

"Well, he said the man he referred to was a worthless,
dishonest scoundrel, not fit to be the companion
of any honest woman."

"And you had sufficient confidence in me not to
be influenced by that statement?"

"Can you doubt it," she replied, "after what has
passed to-day?"

"Not for one moment, dearest," he hastened to reply.

"You will easily see my reason for not intending
to tell you this."

"I do, Jessie; and honour you, my love, all the
more for your consideration."

"But the thought that flashed into my mind, when
you told me of how your secret had somehow got
known, was, could Barton in any way have become
the possessor of that information, and in a fit of
jealousy written the letter to England?"

"Such a thing may have been possible, but I
scarcely like to regard it as probable," was Fellows'
candid rejoinder.

Presently he added, "But say nothing about this
to anyone, Jessie, at present, as it is a circumstance
which will bear thinking about, and I will turn it over
in my mind and see what is to be made out of it."

And with this understanding they parted.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE BROADSTONE DECISION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXV.


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE BROADSTONE DECISION.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Let's make the best of it."—*Coriolanus*, Act V. sc. v.

.. vspace:: 2

Nearly two months had elapsed since the
date when the agents in Quebec were
instructed to make certain inquiries on behalf
of Messrs. Quinion of Broadstone, when one morning,
according to appointment, their solicitors called and
were shown into the private offices of the firm.

The solicitors were present, in the person of a
dapper little bald-headed man of about fifty, wearing
coloured glasses which concealed a pair of restless
grey eyes, that allowed nothing to escape their
observation.

Laying his hat upon a chair, he took from a small
valise he was carrying a bulky-looking document
tied with the inevitable piece of red tape, which he
declared was the report of their agent, come to hand
the day preceding.  After carefully untying and
spreading the folio sheets in front of him, he, at the
bidding of the two partners, who were seated at the
table facing him, commenced to read their contents.

Divested of the legal phraseology in which they
were cast, and omitting the redundancy of expression
so dear to the man of law, yet so bewildering to the
average man of common-sense, the purport of what
he read was to the effect—

That the inquiry having been intrusted to the
local police, they had placed the matter in the hands
of one of the most trusted and skilful members of
the force, who, from inquiries made on the spot, and
information received through a variety of sources,
was now fully able to confirm the statements made
in the letter received from their correspondent.

The motive prompting that letter, so far as the
agent had been able to learn, was one of jealousy,
the two men, Barton, and Fellows otherwise Sinclair,
appearing to be rivals for the possession of a certain
young woman employed on the same farm.  And it
was conjectured that Barton hoped, through the law
being set in motion, to accomplish the arrest of
Fellows, so that by his removal from Canada and
the scene of his present influence the other might be
left in unimpeded possession of the ground, to be able
to press his suit with the greater probability of success.

"That, gentlemen, is our report; and it shows, I
think," said the lawyer, "that we have done our best
to get all the information for you that was possible."

"Quite so," nervously responded the elder of the
two men, who never spoke without conveying the
impression that, whilst desirous of making his
presence felt, he was terribly apprehensive lest he
should say anything which might be construed in a
sense other than was intended.

"But," added Mr. E. Quinion in a rough, hard, and
curt tone, "beyond generally confirming what the
letter told us, it adds very little to our knowledge."

"No," replied the elder of the two men.  "Perhaps
not, perhaps not.  It at least gives a motive for that
letter."

"Which, after all," said the other, "is not of so much
importance to us."

"Well, that I am not so sure about; the motive is,
or seems to be so to me, a most unworthy one, which,
if possible, we should do our utmost to discourage."

"Suppose we drop this consideration for the
present," said the younger man, "and consider what
are perhaps the more important features of the case.
Sinclair, in the first place, betrays the trust we had
reposed in him, through the influence of the company
he got into,—spends money which he had no right
to, and so defrauds the firm of a very large sum.
Being unable, and afraid, to face the consequences, he
bolts, but succeeds in covering his escape by a ruse,
which enabled him to take advantage of an accident
occurring in the nick of time, of which he was prompt
to avail himself.  He deserves very little
consideration from us, I think."

"All you say is quite true," was the other's reply,
"but I don't want to forget the fact that his father
for years held a very responsible and honourable
position in this firm, and died respected by all who
knew him."

"You think, then, that his good deeds should be
capable of hiding a multitude of his son's sins," was
the smiling comment of the younger man.

Taking no apparent notice of the remark, the other
continued, "Then there is his mother,—a lady for
whom I have the very highest esteem,—who has
always been regarded as a friend, and is at present
in a rather delicate state of health.  I feel much
sympathy for her, and would be disposed to strain a
good many points before venturing to do anything
which would add to her grief."

"Yes, I feel that as much as you do," replied the
younger man; "but it must not be forgotten, with
every desire to be merciful, we have a duty which as
citizens we owe to the community, and that obligations
are placed upon us by the laws which govern
us which cannot always be safely set aside."

"True; but there is no law which prevents a man
forgiving another a trespass, rather the contrary."

"Nor should we forget what is, after all, a most
important consideration for us," said the other, "the
mistaken interpretation which may be given to any
act of leniency on our part, and the impression likely
to be produced by it on those at present in our
employ."

"You are quite right there.  It certainly is a most
important point for our consideration.  But, coming
back to the point from which we started, the motive
of the man who has written to us, which is most
unworthy, and one I don't at all like to encourage;
that it is a matter which we have long ago wiped
out of our books; for the sake of his dead father's
memory, and of the mother whom we have promised
to consider as much as possible, I am decidedly of
opinion we can very well let the transaction remain
as at present, and take no steps to have the man
arrested."

"Very well," said the younger man, after a little
hesitation.  "I'm not quite sure we are doing our
duty, but, on the principle that one ought always to
give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt, as I am
in some little doubt myself, let Sinclair have the
benefit of it, and I will agree with you that nothing
further be done."

"That being settled, I think it will be best for you,
Mr. Gaze, to have the briefest possible letter written
to Mr. Barton, thanking him for his communication,
the contents of which have been duly noted, but that
no action is contemplated thereon."

The lawyer having taken his leave, a letter was
sent to Mrs. Sinclair acquainting her with the
decision at which they had arrived, and expressing the
pleasure they felt at having been able so far to fall
in with her wishes.

When this letter reached Railton Hall, the joy it
occasioned none but a mother in similar
circumstances can fully realise.

The transition from fear to hope, and again from
hope to despair, had been terribly trying to a constitution
never strong, and already much enfeebled by the
trials it had been called upon to endure.

The tidings which had so unexpectedly reached
her, that the son, so long mourned as dead (under
circumstances which seemed to leave no room for
reasonable doubt of its correctness), was still alive,
had filled her with a new-born hope of yet once
again looking upon those well-remembered
features,—features which bore the unmistakable image of her
dead husband,—giving rise to ideals and imaginings
which the depths had apparently overwhelmed and
shut out from all possibility of realisation.

But such hopes and such visions had been shattered
and dispelled as quickly as they had arisen by her
visit to Broadstone, and the possible consequences
which might result from the intelligence which was
there being awaited from the North-West.  Woman-like,
she had anticipated the worst, and had even
allowed her dire apprehensions to manifest their
existence in the letter she had written Ralph.  She
advised—almost entreated—him to escape from
Ranger's whilst there was time, lest the officers of
justice should be set upon his track, before such a
course became impossible.

Once again, however, was hope rekindled in her
breast, when the letter arrived which conveyed the
welcome intelligence that the firm had abandoned
all thoughts of having her son arrested.

Again the reaction from the gloom of despair to
the joys of hope was almost more than the poor
mother could endure.  Scientists tell us that joy
never kills.  It may be true.  At all events its
effects are not always as salutary as one could
desire, and in Mrs. Sinclair's case it was some time
before she could command sufficient strength of will,
or obtain the control of her nervous system, to
render her capable of dictating a letter to Jennie
for her brother, to inform him of the gratifying
news.

Her anxiety now was, lest, acting upon the advice
given in her previous letter, he should have put into
practice the course she had thought it so desirable to
urge upon him.  It was possible a telegram might
reach him in time to arrest his departure; she could
scarcely hope to forestall her letter, which had
probably already been received and its advice acted
upon.

Jennie was, however, instructed to lose no time in
sending a "wire" to Ranger's, which ran—"Stay—All
right," in the hope that it might produce the
effect desired.

The letter which followed was such as only a mother
might be expected under the circumstances to write,
and was filled with anxious inquiries as to his future
intentions.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MARY TRUMAN`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   MARY TRUMAN.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "... He beheld a vision, and adored the thing he saw."
   \                                      WORDSWORTH.

.. vspace:: 2

Mary Truman, the young woman so
suddenly deprived of her only relations by
the unfortunate accident on the railway near
to M'Lean Station, and whose prospects had been so
terribly blighted, had not been an idle spectator at
the Ranch of the events which have been transpiring.

With no fixed or clearly defined duties to perform,
since her future was still undecided, she was yet able
to find occupation in the house and its belongings
of a character sufficient to prevent her from having
many idle moments.

Naturally of a cheerful disposition, she was wont
to be considered the embodiment of good humour
"in the old house at home."

A pair of laughing blue eyes, a little "tip-tilted"
nose, a *petite* figure, and a mass of rich, wavy auburn
hair, added to a saucy expression of countenance,
made up an *ensemble* that her all too sensitive, and
it may be sensible, cousin had found it impossible to
resist.

Her parents were originally in a small way of
business at Exeter, but having the misfortune to
lose her mother some three weeks after her birth,
the father, within a week following the funeral,
disappeared, and nothing had been seen or heard
of him since.

His brother, who farmed a few acres of land just
outside the city, when appealed to, at once came
forward, and agreed to adopt the little waif rather
than it should be taken charge of by the Union.

When the business was sold, and the debts paid,
there remained nearly one hundred pounds, which
the uncle very considerately, and with no thought
of self, caused to be invested for the child.

At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering
illness, and in process of time, as the years rolled on,
little Mary, besides being the life of the household,
became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of all
the domestic life and arrangements of the place.

When, therefore, the lease of John Truman's
holding expired, and it became a necessity to seek
another dwelling, they determined to try their fortunes
in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that
Mary should form one of the party.

She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning.
The pure dry air,—so notable a feature of the
Dominion,—the sunshiny days, and the abundant
opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with
rare constitutional endowments, contributed in no
ordinary degree to that recovery which was every
day becoming more manifest.

With the restoration to health there was a
corresponding improvement in spirits, as the buoyancy
and elasticity of youth asserted their influence, and
she began to throw off much of that gloom and
depression, so unnatural to the young, and quite
foreign to Mary's nature, but which the tragic events
with which the swift current of her life had been so
suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for.

The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although
a silent spectator of the change that was taking
place.

He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest,
her growing health; but it was with even more satisfaction
that he marked the improvement in her spirits,
as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with
some degree of assurance, he might hope to be able
to express to her in words the feelings which he had
allowed himself to cherish towards her.

Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and
comparatively lonely.  Visitors were rare, and the
settlers, with their own people, were thrown much
together, not only during the hours of labour, but for
that companionship which human nature naturally
looks for.

The frequent opportunities which such occasions
offered for little delicate attentions, kind inquiries,
and the like, John was not slow in taking advantage
of, nor in noting their effect.

The encouragement which such attentions received
was not much; nor could it be regarded as a very
safe foundation on which to build hope for the future,
yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so
doing.

So when, one evening after the work of the day
was over, as the twilight was deepening, and Mary
was standing at the entrance to the dairy, watching
the stars as they one by one made themselves visible,
Barton's approach was all unnoticed until he was
close upon her.

"What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed.

"Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss
what to say.

"It's a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it,"
she added, with a little less asperity in her tones, as
if to make amends for the sharpness of her previous
retort.

"Haven't seen many better," replied Barton.

"You'd scarcely guess how my thought was then
running?"

"If you tell me, I shall know without the trouble."

"I was back in my childhood, and thinking of that
sweet little couplet auntie used to repeat so often—

   |  'Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
   |  How I wonder what you are.'"
   |

"I am sorry that I so rudely broke in upon your
reflections.  I always turn to the memory of my
childhood's happy days with pleasure and satisfaction."

"Bless me, how extremely sentimental we are
getting!  But I must be going——"

"Stay a moment, Mary, I would like to have
a word or two with you, if you can spare a few
moments?"

"What impudence, sir!"

"In what way, may I ask?"

"Since when, and by what right, have you taken
to address me by my Christian name?" she inquired,
with a good-humoured smile.

"It was a liberty, I must confess, but one which I
hope my explanation will lead you to pardon."

"Well, if it's going to take long I am afraid I
shall not be able to stop and listen."

"I daresay I can manage it in a few words,
although it's a subject I have had no previous
experience of.  Until I saw you, Mary,—for so I must
call you until forbidden to do so,—I never set eyes
upon the woman I could say I truly loved.  But, from
the day you first made your appearance amongst
us, the feeling has been growing, until I now fully
realise you are that other half I need to make my
life complete."

"What a very pretty speech.  I suppose I ought to
feel flattered.  For a novice—professing no experience—I
think I may say you have accomplished the task
charmingly," was Mary's laughing reply.

"Be serious, Mary, there's a dear girl; for it's a
serious matter to me."

"Oh well, Mr. Longface, then I'll try.  To speak
candidly, I've not thought about the matter, and
don't want to.  So there, you have an answer."

"But not a final answer, I hope?" he added.

"Yes; why not?" she naïvely asked.

"I'd rather you'd say you'll think it over, if what I
have said has caused you surprise."

"Surprise?  I should think it has!  Do you
suppose for a moment I was waiting for you to come
and tell me what you have?"

"No, Mary," he replied, feeling a little abashed at
the thought that he had committed himself by his
answer.

"Well then, sir, you had better be content with
the answer I have given."

"If you give me credit for sincerity, do you think
it possible I can be content with such a reply?" he
asked, gazing steadfastly into her half-averted eyes,
at the same time attempting to take her hand.

"You are too forward, sir," she exclaimed, as she
snatched her hand away.

"Well, take time to think about it, Mary; only
give me some little hope.",

"As you please, sir, for I must be going."

"When may I come for my answer—to-morrow?

"Oh, la, no!" she replied; "I shall not be able to
make up my mind in that time—that is, if you want
a different reply to the one I've given?"

"A week then?" he asked.

"Dear me, how pressing you are!  Say a month,"
she added.

"Don't be so cruel, Mary," he pleaded.  "Surely a
week is long enough?"

"Well, I'll try what can be done in a week.  But
mind, I make no promise."

"Good-night, my love!  God bless you, and bring
you to a right decision," was his reply, as she
disappeared into the house.

The stars were twinkling overhead as he made his
way to his little shanty, feeling he scarcely knew
how, yet strongly tempted to believe that behind
the affected gaiety and levity which had been
displayed throughout his interview, there was flowing
an under-current which might possibly bring him to
the haven of his hopes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BRIGHTENED HOPES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   BRIGHTENED HOPES.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "Enough, if something from our hands hath power
   To live, and act, and serve the future hour."
   \                                  WORDSWORTH.

.. vspace:: 2

When the telegram arrived, which Mrs. Sinclair
had sent in the hope that it might
be in time to stay her son from hasty
action, there was much rejoicing at the Ranch by all
concerned.  A load of care and anxiety seemed at
once to be lifted, and the course which Fellows had
announced his intention of pursuing felt to be fully
justified.

All obstacles to future movements being thus
removed, it remained to be determined what those
movements should be.

If the telegram from his mother conveyed the
meaning which he hoped it did, then the way was
open for his return to England without any fear of
the consequences which might have been expected
to attend his so doing.

But what were the prospects which returning held
out to him?  He had lost his reputation.  Under
the most favourable conditions he could never expect
to be able again to show his face at Broadstone.  To
be a burden on his doting mother for the remainder
of her life was not to be thought of.

He had not been long enough with Ranger to enable
him to add much to the little he brought with him
on his arrival.  Then, added to these reasons, there was
the thought of Jessie,—a new factor which had now
entered into his life since his arrival at the Ranch,
and one which he was not prepared under any
circumstances to ignore.

He was willing to be guided by the next letter
from home, which the telegram was intended to
prepare him for; but in any event he saw, or thought
he saw, that it was clearly his best course to stay
where he was, and as soon as possible procure a
homestead of his own.

Later in the day, when discussing the matter with
Ranger, the farmer could not help admitting that it
seemed about the only possible thing for him to do.

"And I suppose," said the farmer, "you'll be
wanting to make a home of your own as soon as
you can, to take Jessie to—eh?"

"That is my next ambition," he replied.

"And a proper one too," was Ranger's rejoinder.
"We must see what can be done to get you one."

"Thank you," replied Fellows, "but it need not be
hurried over."

"That may be, but if an opportunity offers no time
should be lost, as they are soon snapped up."

"Inquiry can be made of the agent when you are
next in town to learn what he has on hand."

"I saw to-day, when I was at M'Lean, a holding
was for sale which would be likely to fit very well."

"Where was it?" asked Fellows.

"Close to Kinbrae, about eight miles from the
Crescent Lake."

"Did you take notice of the particulars concerning
it?" said Fellows.

"No, I did not; except that the owner is returning
to the Old Country, and wants to sell."

"Well, it might be worth while to inquire about it."

"Yes, I'll do so," replied Ranger.

When the work of the day was over, Fellows lost
no time in visiting Jessie at her father's shanty to
acquaint her with the receipt of his telegram, in order
to relieve her of all fears with regard to the possibility
of his being arrested.

The way in which this was likely to affect his
future was a question very naturally presenting
itself.

"I suppose you will want to return home?" she
asked, with just a suspicion of anxiety in her voice.

"No, I think not, Jessie."

"But if your mother desires it?"

"I shall wait and see what she says, but I don't
think it will make much difference."

Jessie coloured slightly as she asked, "Why not,
Ralph?"

"For two reasons, Jessie," he added.  "First, there's
your dear little self, whom I could not think of leaving
even for mother, much as I should like to see her;
then, if I returned I do not know what I should do;
and as I have no desire to be a burden to those at
home, I have very nearly decided to stay where I am
at present."

Not quite knowing how to reply, or what argument
to urge against two such weighty reasons, Jessie,
as most sensible women would have done under like
circumstances, held her tongue without venturing to
look up.

Fellows was first to break the silence by saying,
"Ranger, who has been more like a father to me
than a master, is going to inquire about a homestead,
and should the one in view be suitable in every way,
I hope soon to be the possessor of a home, to which
I shall ask you to accompany me, Jessie."

"But what about father, Ralph?  Have you thought
of him?"

"Yes, Jess, I have; and my idea is, if he and you
are willing, that he should form one of our party,—an
arrangement which would give rise to no separation,
and he would be very useful."

The conversation having arrived at this point,
the entry of Russell himself was looked upon as
rather opportune than otherwise, as Fellows at once
acquainted him with the subject which was engaging
their attention, adding, "Supposing the farmer raises
no objection to your going, would you be willing to
transfer your services to me and take the management
of my farm?"

"Well," he replied, "your proposal is a bit sudden,
and I scarcely know what to say about it; but I
suppose you don't want a reply at once?"

"Oh no, for I haven't got the farm yet!  You had
better think about it."

"I'll promise to do that."

"You are perhaps aware that I have very little
knowledge of farming beyond what I have picked
up during the short time I have been with Ranger,
and therefore I shall be obliged to have someone to
help me."

"All right, Fellows.  So far as I can see at present,
I may as well be with you as any other man; more
especially as Jess and I will still be near each other."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHARLES BARTON`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXVIII.


.. class:: center medium bold

   CHARLES BARTON.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "... While thou art one with me,
   I seem no longer like a lonely man."—TENNYSON.

.. vspace:: 2

Although the autumn was rapidly advancing,
and the foliage was fast fleeing from the
trees, which lifted sparsely-leaved branches
to the Chinook winds which came blowing in
fresh from the Pacific, the days were not yet
cold.

The Canadians consider autumn the finest season
of the year, for then the air is bracing and free
from moisture, often for weeks at a time.  But
the nights are cold,—even in summer they are
cool,—so that fires are an early necessity for
comfort.

The day of Ranger's visit to M'Lean Station had
been singularly fine and sunny, but as the sun went
down the wind began to rise, and the air felt cold
and chill.

The hardy, stalwart frame of Ranger, however, was
not only weather-beaten, but seemed as if it was
weather-proof, so that disregarding Mrs. Ranger's
cosy-looking fireside, which might have been
considered invitingly tempting to a tired man when the
work of the day was over, as soon as the usual
evening meal was finished he rose, and, buttoning his
jacket, announced his intention of going over to
Bartons' cabin to have a talk with Charles.

A ten minutes' walk along a devious track brought
him near to a little stream, fed from one of the
neighbouring hills, beside which the shanty had been
pitched.

The Bartons were at home, as a matter of course,
there being nothing and nobody to attract them out
in such a place after dark.

The elder Barton was engaged reading the immortal
allegory of John Bunyan, with which he seemed
deeply interested; Charles was quite as much interested,
studying a report of some late doings in the
Klondyke.

Ranger's entry was a great surprise to both
men.  They had never before known him to pay a
visit, and at such an hour; it was therefore with
unfeigned concern they inquired if anything was
the matter.

Avoiding a direct answer to the question, he told
them, as he seated himself, "I wanted to have a talk
with Charles, and I thought we could get on better
now than out in the fields by day."

"Your appearance took us so by surprise," replied
John, "that——"

"Oh yes, I quite understand," said Ranger.  "Well,
to shorten matters as much as possible, I have come
to ask Charles what made him write that letter to
England about Fellows, which he did some weeks ago?"

"What letter?" he asked, turning a fierce look upon
the farmer.

"You know the letter I mean well enough."

"No, I don't," he replied, as his eyes fell beneath
the steady gaze of Ranger.

"Do you mean to say you did not write to
the firm of Quinion, at Broadstone in England,
telling them that Fellows was here if they wanted
him?"

"How could I do that, when I don't know anything
about him?"

"Don't question me, but look straight in my face
and say, if you can, 'I did not write it.'"

"I don't know what right you have to talk to me
in this manner, Mr. Ranger."

"You are only trying to evade my question, that
you know well."

"I can only say, I don't know what you are talking
about."

"Then it would be very easy for you to say, 'I
never wrote such a letter,' if you did not."

"I don't recognise your right to ask me such a
question, and therefore I don't choose to answer."

Ranger felt he was getting roused by the man's
prevaricating manner and his attempt at bounce,—for
it appeared to him to be nothing else,—but by a strong
effort he managed to control himself sufficiently to
say—

"Will you tell me whether you have written a
letter to Quinion, Broadstone, any time within the
last six weeks?"

After waiting a few seconds for the reply which
Charles—who sat with his eyes intently gazing into
the fire—did not attempt to give, John chimed in
with, "Why not say at once, Charles, if you know
anything about the matter?"

"I have," he exclaimed after a pause; but the tone
in which this was uttered was not one calculated to
carry conviction with it.

"You darn'd skunk!" shouted the farmer in
wrathful tones; "so you refuse to reply, do you?"

"I refuse to give you any other reply than what
you have got."

"Then take this from me," said Ranger, in somewhat
softer tones, but yet with a display of a
considerable amount of excitement, "the first thing,
to-morrow morning, you pack, and be off from here as
quick as you can, for I will not allow such a miserable
sneaking hound to remain here in my employ a day
longer than I can help."

"You mean it?" said Charles.

"Mean it?  I should think I do!  Don't you doubt
it for one minute," he added, as he brought his fist
down with an impressive thump on the table, making
the jugs standing on it to quiver.

"This is rather sudden, farmer," broke in John.
"What's he going to do when he leaves here?"

"I don't know, and I was going to add, I don't
care, but I won't say that; still, that is for him to
decide."

"You have used some strong language to my
brother, Mr. Ranger; but what it's all about I am
quite in ignorance of."

"That I quite believe, John," added Ranger in
quieter tones; "that's why I've not included you in
anything I've said."

"Can I say or do anything to smooth matters?  Tell
me what it's all about."

"Ask that coward, he knows well enough, and
perhaps will tell you when I'm gone."

"But would it not be better for you to tell me
yourself?"

"Don't you interfere, Jack," exclaimed Charles, "as
after what that blackguard——"

"Repeat that word, you cur," shouted the farmer
angrily, as he advanced upon Charles, "and I'll
shake the life out of you!  Repeat it, I say, if you
dare!"

"I was about to say, when I was stopped, that I
should not think of staying now under any
circumstances."

"No fear that such a sneak as you have shown
yourself to be would be asked."

"I think," broke in John, "it would be as well,
Mr. Ranger, if you were now to give me some idea what
it all means."

"Well, I'll tell you, John.  About two months ago
I had a private conversation with Fellows, as we were
one evening seated outside the homestead.  He and
I were supposed to be the only two persons present;
but there was another listening, concealed in the
bushes, who not only overheard all that was said, but
sent a report of our conversation at once to
Mr. Quinion, at Broadstone in England."

"How have you learned this?" asked John.

"From Fellows' mother; who upon calling at
Broadstone, by her son's request, to acquaint them
with incidents known only to myself and him,
was surprised to find they were already in
possession of the information she had come to bring
them."

"Did they say how they had obtained their information?"

"From a correspondent in Canada, who desired
that his name might not be made known."

"Well, farmer, how do you fix my brother with the
writing of that letter?"

"That's my matter," replied Ranger.  "You ask
that pale-faced hound over there, and let him deny
doing so, if he can, without prevaricating."

It must be admitted that Ranger was playing
"high."  He was by no means certain of the
ground he had taken up.  But, feeling pretty
confident in his own mind that the knowledge which
had escaped had been obtained by Charles, in the
manner indicated, he was determined to see if the
fellow could be "bluffed" into an admission of his
guilt.

Up to the present the attempt had not proved
successful, although from the man's manner, and the
assumption of indignation, which sat very ill upon
him, and which the shrewd farmer thought he could
see through, he felt more than ever confirmed in his
opinion that the man was guilty.

After Ranger had left, the two men sat silent for
some time, smoking, and occupied with their own
thoughts.

John felt the position was an awkward one.  His
brother had been practically dismissed.  Where was
he to go?  What could he do to avert it?  He knew
his brother's ways too well, and was conscious that
it would be no easy task to manage him.  But time
was pressing, and it was of the utmost importance
that whatever was decided upon should be promptly
and vigorously carried out.

The silence, which was becoming painful, was at
length broken by John, who, laying down his pipe,
and turning to his brother, said, "This is a rather
unpleasant wind-up to our expectations, Charley?"

Receiving no reply from Charles, who sat moodily
gazing into the fire, he continued, "We've been
together now ever since we were babies, and although
there will come a time when we must be separated, it
does seem a pity that out here it should have to take
place in such a manner."

"Well, who's to blame?" asked Charles savagely.

"You heard what Ranger said?"

"And of course you believe him?"

"I don't say that I do.  I want to hear your version
of his story."

"You heard what I said also?"

"That amounted to nothing.  You had better have
told him you had not written the letter."

"Why should I?  What right had he to ask such
a question?"

"It would have been so easy, and would have no
doubt put an end to the matter."

"Don't you believe it.  That man had come with
his mind made up, and any denials on my part would
have been of no avail."

"It would have put him to the proof of his statement,
at all events; and we should have known better
the value to attach to it."

After a short pause, John added, "Well, Charley, I
am sorry to be obliged to confess it, but from the
way in which you avoid the question, I am beginning
to be of the opinion there must be some truth in
Ranger's charge.  Tell me candidly, did you write
that letter?"

"Don't you bother your head about what you have
nothing to do with."

"It *is* something I have to do with.  You are my
brother, and we are the only remaining members of a
once united and happy family.  Anything that affects
your honour or happiness equally affects mine, and
I hope you feel the same towards myself.  If we are
to be separated,—as seems very probable,—don't let it
be in anger.  If you will give me the assurance that
Ranger is mistaken, and that you did not write the
letter, I'll believe you."

"It's a question that neither you nor Ranger have
any right to ask.  I shall give no further answer.
You may both think what you like, and do as you
like.  I shall answer no more questions."

Rising abruptly, as if to put an end to what
was clearly an unpleasant topic of conversation,
he retired to his room, leaving John to ruminate
alone upon the difficulties which lay before him.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`TO FRESH FIELDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   TO FRESH FIELDS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "All about him shadows still."—TENNYSON.

.. vspace:: 2

The Bartons were early on the move the next
morning, and Charles was soon busily engaged
arranging and packing, ready for departure.

"Then you mean to go, Charley?" asked John,
anxious to say something.

"Of course I mean to go!  Didn't Ranger tell me to?"

"I know that; but I thought you might have made
up your mind, after sleeping upon the subject, to go
and explain matters and put things straight."

"Not likely, John!  I wouldn't stay here now if he
was to ask me."

"I'm very sorry to hear it, for you may travel a
long way before meeting with another man who will
be as kind and considerate of his men as Ranger is."

"I don't feel that I have much to thank him for."

"Ah, you are prejudiced at present."

"I don't think so,—I speak as I feel."

"Yes, yes!  But, mark my words, you'll make a
different statement before long."

"We shall see!"  Then, after a pause, he asked, "I
suppose, John, you will be able to drive me and my
luggage over to M'Lean Station?"

"I don't suppose there will be much difficulty about
that,—we are not busy now.  But where do you
think of going?"

"I shall go for Maple Creek first.  There I shall
make inquiries, and have a good look round.  If I
can't find anything there, I shall go on to Calgary,
which is a busy city, where I think I am pretty sure
to succeed."

"Yes, I should think it about as good an arrangement
as you could make."

"I am only sorry, John, you are not going with me;
I should have been glad for us to have continued
together."

"So am I, Charley.  You can't tell how I feel your
going."

"Well, it is not too late now, if you have a mind to
make one with me.  I should be very glad if you
would, John."

It was the first time he had appeared to evince any
feeling at the prospect of parting, and it moved his
brother deeply.  But his reply was calmly and
unhesitatingly given—

"It's no use, my boy; however much I might have
liked to, it's too late now!"

"What do you mean by too late?"

"I was on the point of letting you into a secret
last night, when Ranger came, and then the 'rumpus'
with him upset all my little plan."

"What was it?" inquired Charles, with some
astonishment.

"Why, nothing more nor less than that I am going
to get married, as soon as I can properly fix up matters."

"Never!  Who are you going to marry?"

"I am only waiting for Mary Truman's answer,
which she has promised in about another week."

"Then it is not yet settled?"

"No, not quite," he replied rather solemnly.

"Well, you know 'there's many a slip'——"

"Yes, I am aware of all that, but I don't anticipate
one here."

"But if she does—shall you stay on?"

"No, not I!"

"In that case you could then come on and join
me, so I'll take care to let you have my address.  But
there, John, I hope you'll be more successful than I
have been."

"You don't mean to say that you have already
proposed and been refused by Mary?" asked John
anxiously.

"No, no! not by her, but Jessie Russell."

"Oh, she's going to have Fellows!  Didn't you
know that?"

"I did not know it, but I thought so," he replied,
as a fierce light gleamed in his eyes.

"You've kept your little affair very quiet," was
John's sly rejoinder.

"It's not a pleasant experience to talk about," he
added.  "It makes, however, another reason why I
am not sorry at having to leave the place."

"I'm sorry for you, Charley, my boy; but I think
she'll get a good husband in Fellows."

"I'm not so sure about that.  My advice to you is,
be careful about him."

"Why! what do you mean?"

"He's a man I should trust only as far as I could
see him."

"Know anything against him?"

"Don't ask me any more questions."

The subject was dropped, and Charles went on
with his packing, whilst John went over to the Ranch
to acquaint the farmer with his intention of driving
Charles to town.

There was no difficulty in arranging this, and
Ranger having paid him the wages due to Charles,
together with a month's salary in lieu of notice, in
order that he might have something to go on with,
he returned and prepared for the journey before him.

After spending about a week at Maple Creek,—a
small but flourishing township, contiguous to the
Crane Lake, from whence a distant view of the
Cypress Hills in the South may be obtained,—and
finding nothing offering to suit him, Charles Barton
determined to proceed on to Calgary, which lies about
seventy miles east of the "Rockies."

Calgary is laid out at the juncture of two rivers,—the
Bow and the Elbow,—and is a busy trade centre
for nearly all the ranching districts of Southern
Alberta; and as the Calgary and Edmonton branches
unite here with the main line of the Canadian Pacific
Railway, it is rapidly becoming a large and important
emporium for the trade of the North-West Provinces.
Its edifices and public buildings are sound and
substantial; whilst its churches, hotels, stores, and
factories, give ample evidence of the successful nature
of its business prospects.  It has a population exceeding
four thousand people, but the stream of settlers
is so continuous in its direction, and the reputation
which this province enjoys is so good, that it will
certainly not be very long before these figures are
largely exceeded.

The second day after his arrival at Calgary, Barton
fell in with a stockman belonging to a large and
thriving rancher in the locality, by whom he was
taken in hand, and offered a position at one and a
quarter dollars a day, which was accepted, so that for
a time his troubles were at an end.

Barton's departure from the Ranch—where incidents
of importance were not matters of common
occurrence—was scarcely to be classed as a nine-days'
wonder.  His morose and taciturn disposition, which
had kept him aloof from his mates, had brought him
few friends; they were acquaintances, and that was
all.  No one was found regretting him, and but few
missed him.  Here and there, the brother was asked,
"What's become of Charles?" but it was more for the
sake of John himself than for the one who had gone.
To one who did venture the additional inquiry,
"Where's he gone too?" the reply was, "to Maple
Creek or Calgary, whichever appears most suitable
and promising."

John, however, missed him; which after all was but
natural.

They were brothers, and had never been separated
for a quarter of a century.

Charles had been but poor company for John, but
it is not always the most talkative that are regarded
as the choicest company, and John felt lonely now he
was gone.

When he learned that he was safely and comfortably
settled at Calgary, he was pleased, and after a
time became more reconciled to the change; especially
in the contemplation of another change which he
hoped soon to be making himself.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`KINBRAE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXX.


.. class:: center medium bold

   KINBRAE.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "And thou hast also tempted here to rise,
   'Mid sheltering pines, this cottage rude and grey."
   \                                        WORDSWORTH.

.. vspace:: 2

With the arrival of the English mail came
the expected letter from Mrs. Sinclair,
conveying the welcome news to Fellows,
which her telegram had prepared him for, that the
Broadstone firm had decided to take no action upon
the information supplied them about himself.

It also expressed the mother's great desire to see
him; but he was urged to act as his circumstances
might suggest.  If he decided to come home, she
would see that he did not want; but as her income
was limited, she would not be able to supply him with
pocket-money; and unless he saw his way to obtaining
employment in England, it would not be wise to
disturb present arrangements, if they were favourable.
In his next letter, he was to be sure and inform her
fully with regard to his position and prospects.

The decision at which he had practically arrived
was only confirmed and strengthened by the receipt
of this letter.

By the same mail the letter which the Broadstone
solicitors had been instructed to send, came addressed
to Charles at the Ranch.

Seeing, by the printed address on the envelope,
that it was from a firm of solicitors at Broadstone,
what had been but suspicions before were now
regarded as facts,—that it was Charles who had
overheard the conversation between Ranger and Fellows,
and had at once communicated with Broadstone.
There was nothing else that the brother knew of,
which could bring him into correspondence with such
a place as Broadstone.

"Look at that," said the farmer, as he handed the
letter to John to be forwarded; "if anything was
wanted to confirm the charge I made against your
brother, is not that good proof?"

"It certainly looks like it," replied John, in a
disgusted tone.

"Yes; and to play with words, as he did, up to the
very last," added Ranger, "rather than try to undo
the mischief he had been aiming at."

"I feel it very sorely, Ranger, he being my own
brother; more especially when I remember that
nearly his last words to me were a caution to beware
of Fellows.  I am quite at a loss to understand what
he could have been dreaming about."

The letter, when it reached Charles, in no way
tended to increase his happiness.  He saw, only when
it was too late, what a fool he had been.  He had
gained nothing, and had lost a good situation, besides
being separated from a brother for whom he felt a
very strong affection, although he may have had a
queer way of showing it.

He would gladly have recalled the act, could he
have done so, since it had involved him in its
consequences; but no thought of reparation to the
wronged ever entered his narrow mind.

Fellows—who now felt himself partially, at all
events, re-habilitated—was anxious that the
procuring of a home, to which he might be able to take
the woman he was looking forward to making his
wife, should not be delayed.

He had still another object in view.  He had
resolved, that if his efforts were attended with success,
to invest his savings, in order to repay the firm the
moneys belonging to them, which he had misappropriated.
He had written a very full and penitential
letter, informing them of his intention, and therefore
he was desirous that no time might be lost.  Ranger,
who was a man of the highest integrity, commended
him for his desire, and promised to aid him in every
possible way.

Two days later, in pursuance of his promise, Ranger
took Fellows with him into town, that together they
might learn some particulars of Kinbrae, which was
known to be in the market, and to see what other
holdings were to be had.

Kinbrae was a small settlement some ten or
twelve miles south-east of Crescent Lake, near to the
head-waters of a tributary stream flowing into the
Qu'Appelle River, after pursuing a fairly straight
course for about fifty miles.

The holding was one of one hundred and sixty acres,
on which a well-built homestead had been erected,
together with most of the buildings needed for carrying
on the work of a farm.  The owner, Dennis Crowley,
on the death of his wife, three years previously, had,
with his two sons, young men of eighteen and nineteen
respectively, left their home in County Kerry,
Ireland, to try their fortunes in the Far West.

With little experience to guide them, they had just
managed to exist during the three years they had been
in possession; and, having frittered away the small
capital they possessed, were now only anxious to clear
out and return, with whatever they might succeed
in realising on the sale of their stock.

In a state of society such as that which prevails
amidst the boundless prairies of the North-West,
however favourable the circumstances may be,—and that
they are *most* favourable there is abundant testimony
to prove,—there are sure to be some who will go to
the wall.  Like the men in other stratas of society,
who, although they may be placed in positions of
affluence to-day in a little while will be found
grovelling amid scenes of penury and want, they seem to
lack the secretive and acquisitive qualities which the
more successful possess, and they fail.  But the fault
is never with themselves, it is their misfortune—at
least, so they tell us!

This was Crowley's case, and the reason given for
wishing to dispose of his holding.  At the suggestion
of Ranger, it was determined to ride over and view
the place, but there was not time to do this at present.

The following week, however, when work was not
quite so pressing, and their services could more
readily be dispensed with, a day was selected, and,
making an early start, they reached Kinbrae soon
after midday.

The buildings were substantial, commodious, and
in fairly good condition, but the so-called stock was
poor in the extreme.  The farming utensils were
ill-conditioned and of little value; and the household
furniture, which scarcely included the barest necessities,
was rudely constructed, of the roughest material,
and possessed no features of attractiveness.  Three
horses, five steers, two dogs, and one cat, constituted
the live stock.  About thirty acres had been under
cultivation, but nothing had been done since the late
harvest to prepare the land for the next.

Crowley—who originally had been asking three
hundred pounds for the holding as it stood—was
willing now to take almost any offer that would
enable him to get away.

Ranger was well satisfied with the position of the
location, and the prospects it held out, and had no
hesitation in advising Fellows to offer two hundred
pounds down, which, after a very little demur, was
accepted, with option of possession within a month.

The farmer was pleased with the future which
appeared to be opening for Fellows, notwithstanding
it would be at some considerable sacrifice to himself.

The services of Barton he could well dispense
with, but those of Fellows, and Russell in addition,
would be a serious depletion of his working staff,
which it might be a work of time efficiently to
replace.

He, however, felt he had done no more than was
his duty.  It was the correct thing to do.  And he
had no fears that he would come out all right in
the end.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JOHN AND MARY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXI.


.. class:: center medium bold

   JOHN AND MARY.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "I will hereupon confess, I am in love."
   \                    *Love's Labours Lost*, Act I. sc. ii.

.. vspace:: 2

Barton's duties at the Ranch were of such a
nature, that he was seldom to be seen in the
neighbourhood of the house during the daytime;
for the most part he was out on the prairie,
attending to the cattle, of which Ranger had now a
pretty considerable stock.

Mary Truman's attention was chiefly devoted to
the dairy, which of late had quite outgrown the
powers of Mrs. Ranger, and she was only too glad to
avail herself of the assistance which Mary was very
willing and quite competent to render.

The two had but few opportunities of seeing each
other; and during the week which was to elapse,
according to arrangement, before the reply he had
asked her for was to be given, they had seen nor
heard nothing of one another.

Mary had learned from Mrs. Ranger of the
departure of Charles, and the circumstances which
had brought that event about.

Whatever may have been her feelings for John,
she had no sympathy with Charles, and felt, in
common with others, no pang of regret when told he
had gone.

With the exception of his brother, the man seemed
to have left not a friend behind him.

Mary kept herself as much in the house as possible,
as though carefully bent upon putting obstacles in
the way of any accidental meeting between herself
and John.

The week, however, was barely out, when the
anxious swain, eager to know his fate, and unwilling
to brook delay, made his appearance at the dairy
door, at the close of the day, to inquire if Mary was
too busy to see him.

She herself was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Ranger
chanced to be standing at the door, and to
her he addressed his inquiry.

.. _`MARY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN, BUT MRS. RANGER CHANCED TO BE STANDING AT THE DOOR`:

.. figure:: images/img-233.jpg
   :figclass: white-space-pre-line
   :align: center
   :alt: MARY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN, BUT MRS. RANGER CHANCED TO BE STANDING AT THE DOOR.

   MARY WAS NOWHERE TO BE SEEN, BUT MRS. RANGER CHANCED TO BE STANDING AT THE DOOR.

"Mary has just gone upstairs," replied Mrs. Ranger.
"Shall I tell her you want her?"

Barton hesitated for a moment, scarcely knowing
what reply to make, till at last, with a confused
smile, he stammered out, "Yes, do please."

Going to the foot of the stairs which led to the
rooms above, Mrs. Ranger called, "Mary! here's
John wants to see you.  Shall I tell him to wait?"

"Oh, tell him I can't come at present," was the
reply, which was plainly heard by those in the room
below.

"Is he to wait?"

"No; please tell him I can't be bothered to-night."

On her return, John remarked, "I heard what the
young lady said, and I suppose I must be content
with that for my answer."

"Is it anything you want, John, that I can do for
you?" asked Mrs. Ranger, with a good-humoured
smile.

"No, I think not—at least, I know you can't," he
added, quickly correcting himself.

"Do you care to wait then?" she inquired.

"No; I daresay I shall see her before long,—I
should be sorry to bother her."

Following him to the door, as he was leaving, she
whispered, "I think I can see what's brewing.
Now, don't be offended if I offer you a bit of advice.
I have had some experience, and seen a little of life,
and have some knowledge of the ways of my own
sex.  Don't be too ready to take a woman at her
word.  Just remember, she doesn't always mean all
she says.  You see what I mean, I think?  No
offence.  Good-night."

It was with very mixed feelings that John returned
to his solitary dwelling.  He had considerable
confidence in Mrs. Ranger, as a shrewd, common-sense
woman, yet he hesitated to place full reliance
upon her judgment.  She no doubt meant well,
and spoke as she did with a desire to reassure
him.  But he felt sorely puzzled to account for Mary's
unwillingness to see him.  Experience he had none;
he had learned nothing in that school.  He had but
just entered as a pupil, and the first lesson was now
being studied.

Books had been his only tutors, and the few he
had read had imparted theories which opportunity
had not enabled him to test.

Men with a wider knowledge, and a deeper insight
into the mysteries of the female mind, could have
told him that Mary's unwillingness to see him, and
her brusque—it might even be rude—message, were
favourable rather than unfavourable auguries of what
was likely to be the nature of her reply.

But he had no one he could draw inspiration from.
Imagination was therefore allowed to run riot, and
the most unfavourable result anticipated, rather than
the sensible advice of Mrs. Ranger being allowed to
have its way.

Before retiring for the night, he had so far
overcome his scruples—or shall we rather call them
doubts?—as to resolve that he would make another
effort on the morrow to see her, and learn the fate
that was in store for him.

When Mary joined the couple in the sitting-room
below, some ten to fifteen minutes later, there was a
mischievous gleam in her sparkling eyes, and slightly
nervous but mirthful twitching about the corners of
her pretty lips, which betrayed the humour she had
been indulging at the expense of her love-sick swain.

A broad smile was upon Ranger's face, but his
wife, looking up from the work she had in hand,
merely remarked, "Mary, I could not help noticing
how disappointed John seemed with your message."

"Indeed?  I don't see why he should be," was
Mary's reply, in a tone of assumed ignorance which
was far from deceiving the older couple.

"He said he should be sorry to bother you,
but he had no doubt he should see you before long."

"Will he!  Perhaps he may or he may not."  Then,
after a brief pause, she asked, as though anxious the
subject should not be dropped, "Did he say what
he wanted me for?"

"Not likely, child!  Did you imagine he would?"

"I never took the trouble to think.  Why should
he not?  I have no secrets!"

"Are you sure, Mary?" asked Mrs. Ranger, looking
round at her with a comical kind of questioning
glance.

"Oh, dear me, yes!" she replied.

"Well, I think I had very little difficulty in reading
John's secret, which I imagine is not much of a
secret to you."

"I suppose, if I cared to take the trouble, I might
guess what brought him here to-night."

"No doubt of it, my dear."

"And I don't know any reason why I should
hesitate to tell you.  The fact is," she added,
"a week ago he asked me if I would be his wife."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That it was a subject I had not thought about,
and did not want to."

"Of course that was all quite true, Mary?"

"I daresay it was," she replied; "at all events, it
was as true as most of the things said under such
circumstances are."

"Did the answer satisfy him?"

"Oh, dear no!" she replied, with a laugh.  "He
wanted a reply in a week."

"And you promised to give it?"

"No, I did not!  I told him if he wanted a
different answer to the one I had given, he must let
me have a month to consider it."

"Well, and what then?"

"On his pressing me to be, as he termed it,
more reasonable, and to let him know in a week, I
promised that I would try what could be done in the
time."

"And so he came to receive your answer
tonight—which you were not prepared to give.  Is
that it?"

"My opinion is," answered Mary, "that a woman
gains nothing by making herself too cheap."

"Well, it's a serious matter, my child, and one not
to be trifled with," Mrs. Ranger added seriously.

"Yes, I know; but really I cannot help laughing
when I see what long faces the men put on if they
want to tell a woman they love her."

"Well, that may be because they feel how very
serious are the consequences of such an act."

"Bother the seriousness!  I don't believe that enters
into their minds.  They are too frequently wondering
what sort of figure they will cut if the woman or
girl should happen to say 'No' to them."

"That's not the case with all of them."

"It may not be, but it is with most of them."

"I'm afraid you are rather cynical, Mary."

"Well, I can't help it if I am."

"And I don't think you care much for poor John."

"To tell the downright truth," added Mary, "I
don't think I do, either."

"Then, regardless of the man's feelings, don't say
yes to him unless you feel you can love him."

"That's why I want more time," she replied a little
more soberly.  Then, after reflecting for a while, she
continued, "You know, when I came out here it was
with the intention of marrying my cousin; and but
for the sad accident which befell us, I should in all
probability by this time have been Joe's wife.  The
change was so sudden, and his loss comparatively so
recent, that really I have scarcely had time to get
over it, and to examine the state of my own feelings
thoroughly."

"I can quite believe you, my dear," was Mrs. Ranger's
motherly comment.

"Candidly," she went on, "I do not dislike the
man, but I cannot say that I love him; and unless I
can bring myself to do that, I shall certainly act upon
your advice and not say yes."

"Quite right, so far," said Mrs. Ranger; "but your
duty now is, not to refuse to see John, nor to play
too much with honest love, but to tell him what you
have told us; and if he cares for you, as I believe he
does, he will see the reasonableness of your request,
and be prepared to wait.  At all events, try him."

"Well, perhaps I will.  I think very likely the next
time he comes I'll act upon your advice."

.. _`239`:

The farmer, who had listened with interest to the
conversation which had been carried on by the two
women, seeing they were on the point of leaving him,
ventured to add, "And I think you have come to a
very sensible conclusion."

"But please, Mr. Ranger," exclaimed Mary, "I
hope you will not mention any portion of our
conversation to John, if you should see him."

"Trust me for that, my girl," he replied.  "I shall
leave him to fight his own battle; and you may
reckon that what has been said to-night is safe in
my keeping."





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.. _`PREPARATIONS`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII.


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   PREPARATIONS.

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "The food of hope is meditated action."—WORDSWORTH.

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Fellows—or rather Sinclair, as we may now
call him, since all necessity for concealment of
identity had passed—was not free from some
little excitement whenever he reflected upon the
change which he contemplated so soon making in
his position.

He had not forgotten those at home at "Railton."  Ralph
had written a long letter to his mother, giving
a full account of his Jessie—the wedding that was in
prospect—and the home he hoped to have the
happiness so soon of taking her to.

She lost nothing from his description of her
personal charms; and her character and conduct,
and everything that affected her, were so graphically
and faithfully delineated, that to the mother's
imagination she appeared a paragon of all the
virtues.

He expressed sincere and heartfelt regret that his
mother and sister could not be present to take part
in the celebration of what must be regarded as the
event of his life.

It was a source of much satisfaction to Mrs. Sinclair
thus to learn of her son's progress and happiness.
But occurring so far from home, in a land to
which she was an entire stranger, and under
circumstances which she was only able but dimly to realise,
the event which, had it happened at home, would
have been a joy to anticipate and prepare for, and a
more than "nine-days' wonder" to talk about, was
shorn of much of that exciting interest a mother
might naturally be expected to feel at the coming
marriage of her only son.

Her congratulations and good wishes, with such
maternal counsel as seemed to her only fitting, were
at once put into a letter and posted, that it might
reach him before his wedding-day should have
passed.

Crowley had been informed by Sinclair that he
would be prepared to complete the contract entered
into, and to take possession at the end of the third
week; which had been assented to.

It was Sinclair's intention to spend a week or so
at "Kinbrae," seeing that everything was prepared
for the "home-coming," which it was contemplated
should be at the end of the month.

Russell had arranged to quit his shanty also, a
week before, in order to help Sinclair as much as
possible; and during that last week Jessie was to be
the guest of Mrs. Ranger, who, woman-like, was full
of excitement at the prospect.

From time to time much animation prevailed at
the Ranch.  Silks and satins were not expected to
be in evidence, but the women were busy putting
little mysterious touches to dresses and hats, and
adding pieces of finery when obtainable, so as to
mark the occasion, which was a new experience, yet
one which it would never do to allow to pass without
a decent show being made.

The wedding was to take place at the homestead,
and a parson from the town had been arranged with
to come over and "hitch-on" the couple.

The day was to be observed as a holiday for the
hands, and all were to be invited to the wedding-feast.

Ralph and Jessie had to endure a deal of rough,
but good-humoured, chaff during the intervening
period.

Society in the Far West, at the time of which we
write, was not that unsophisticated and half-civilised
agglomeration of human beings which before
the advent of the Pacific Railway was to be found
in the isolated and sometimes sparsely-populated
settlements dotted about the prairie, or away up in
the backwoods, remote from the haunts of men.
Facilities for improved transit had created growing
towns and cities, and the influx of the stranger from
many lands had given rise to wants which traders
found it their interest to meet.

The ubiquitous representatives of the great
emporiums in the "States," as of the large commercial
houses of the foreigner from across the seas, were
indefatigable in pushing the wares of the firms they
were commissioned to represent; not only supplying,
but contributing largely to sustain a demand their
energy had done so much to create.

With the exception of some few of the labourers
on the Ranch, the whole of Ranger's people might be
described as belonging to the upper strata of the
working classes.

Sinclair himself—before his fall—was not what
would be generally defined as a working-man.  The
working-men would be the first to resent his
inclusion in their ranks, whilst those resembling Ralph
would not be over-eager to claim the doubtful
privilege.  Since his arrival at the Ranch he had
found it necessary to step down, and don the
appearance, as well as join in the tasks of, the
working-man.

Humiliated, as he already felt himself to be, by his
past career, this was no hardship, for he knew that if
he had received the due reward of his deeds, he would
probably now be working out a sentence of imprisonment,
only to emerge, it might be, as a hardened
ruffian, further to prey upon society; or else to take
his place with the lowest dregs of a society which the
honest working-class look down upon, sometimes with
pity but too often with contempt.

On the day the contract for "Kinbrae" was to be
settled, Ranger rode over with Sinclair and Russell
to the neighbourhood of the Crescent Lake to
complete the transaction.

Crowley was ready for them on their arrival.  His
luggage, and such things as he intended to take with
him, had been packed, and carted to Bredenbury the
previous day, for transmission by a branch of the
Pacific Railway running from Yorkton, until it unites
with the main line a short distance east of Winnipeg.
The stock having been inspected, the business
was soon completed, and wishing the homeward
voyagers farewell, the three men were left in
possession of "Kinbrae."

Besides the stock, there was one farm-hand—a
youth of about seventeen, employed by Crowley,
who had consented to remain with the new owner.

When Ranger had left, the two men set out on a
general tour of inspection.

"It strikes me, Russell, that fellow Crowley, who
has just gone back home, must have been a very lazy
chap to be willing to part with such a capital location
as this is for the money he did!"

"I don't understand him at all, sir," said Russell, as
they walked over the fields, and through the rich
grasses of much that was still untouched prairie-land.
"He appears to have done very little.  There has
not been more than about thirty acres under
cultivation all the time he was here."

"I suppose he must have run out his capital, and
left nothing to buy stock with."

"I daresay that was about it.  He probably sent
all he raised the first season to market, or nearly
all, and the quantity for the next harvest was so
small that he never recovered."

"What I think of doing is, to try and get about
fifty acres under wheat for next harvest.  We ought
to be able to manage that."

"Yes, with some little additional labour, which I
daresay can be hired in town."

"What's the distance into town?" inquired Sinclair.

"I think the nearest is Church Bridge, about seven
miles; the next is Bredenbury, which is about two
miles farther."

"I'll see to it to-morrow," he added.

The week that elapsed prior to the event which
all were looking forward to was a busy one for
Sinclair and his two companions.

The house, with its farm-buildings, although sound
and in a fairly good condition, had been sadly
neglected, and needed a considerable amount of
attention to render them clean and presentable and
worthy of their new tenant.

The waggons and carts wanted repairing,—nuts
were missing, bolts were loose, damaged spokes
required replacing, and loosened tyres demanded
skilled handling.

Harness was not much better: where buckles had
fled, cord or thong had been substituted; broken
straps were found pieced together with string; and,
in fact, every contrivance seemed to have been
adopted to patch or conceal a flaw rather than spend
a penny on a necessary repair.

Agricultural implements were in a like shady
condition; many being cast aside as valueless which a
trifling outlay would easily restore to utility again.

The easy, negligent, and happy-go-lucky disposition
of the Irishman was so stamped on all around, that,
had he not already known it, it would have been a
comparatively easy matter to have arrived at the
conclusion, from the condition in which things had
been left, that the last tenant must have been one of
Erin's sons.

At the Ranch, Mrs. Ranger, with the two women,
were fully employed, or so they thought they were,
and endeavoured to impress everyone else with their
own belief that they were.  And if the difficulty
experienced in getting a plain answer to an ordinary
question might be regarded as some proof of the
truth of the representation, there was abundant
evidence of the fact from that source alone.

Ranger was about the only person who seemed to
be unmoved by pending events.  To judge from the
equanimity of his temper, and the apparent unconcern
manifested at all that was transpiring, or the little
heed he gave to the flurry and excitement in the
house, one might well have supposed him to be
entirely engrossed with the cares of the farm and the
duties which its out-door work involved.

Jessie, as the prospective chief actor in the coming
ceremony, was anything but an unmoved spectator of
what was taking place.

Possessing, however, considerable powers of
self-control to the outward observer, there was little to
mark the deep feelings of excitement working within,
which only by a vigorous effort she was able at all to
repress.

Until Sinclair made his appearance at the Ranch,
followed shortly afterwards by the Bartons, she had
seen very few of the male sex, except the labourers
from time to time hired for the season by Ranger,
with the appearance of none of whom had she been
in the least favourably impressed.  Her father and
Ranger were her only male companions, if we except
the youth called Tom, who was generally looked
upon as a little "daft," and a common "butt" for
everyone.

In the person of Ralph Sinclair, her woman's ready
wit had been quick to discover a man of more than
ordinary intelligence, capable of noble actions from
honourable motives.  Well-formed, and strongly-built,
with a pair of dark, thoughtful-looking eyes
beneath a broad, high forehead, his appearance won
her admiration,—-a sentiment, circumstance, or feeling,
known only to herself, and carefully hidden within
the treasury of her own breast.  But the feeling of
admiration was not allowed long to sit solitary.  It
gathered strength, and rapidly developed into a
warmer and more tender emotion, which the teaching
of her sex, as well as her own natural modesty,
would not allow her to confess to.

The attention given during the period of his illness
and convalescence but tended to strengthen and
confirm the feeling she had been led to cherish,
adding volume and power to the influences which
had been so forcibly working to prepare the way for
an all too easy conquest.

The revelation of Ralph's delinquencies came at
first as a great blow to her, as it threatened to rob
her idol of some of the sterling qualities she had in
her imagination invested him with.  Quickly recovering
from its effects she allowed her affections to
centre on him with all the ardour of which her nature
was capable, so that now she was contemplating
marriage as the crown of true womanhood and the
commencement of a useful and a happy life.





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.. _`"TILL DEATH DO US PART"`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIII.


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   "TILL DEATH DO US PART."

.. class:: noindent small white-space-pre-line

   "That man ... who shall report he has
   A better wife, let him in naught be trusted."
   \                        *Henry VIII.*, Act II. sc. iv.

.. vspace:: 2

Since his last rebuff, John Barton had been
vainly seeking an opportunity of meeting
Mary Truman alone.

Her efforts to avoid him had been persistent and
successful; but whether dictated by a spirit of
mischief, which finds delight in tantalising the ardent
swain, or from a mere desire to enjoy a little
flirtation,—by some designated "harmless," but which at the
best is dangerous and should be discouraged by the
sex,—Barton felt at a loss to determine.
Shakespeare says—

   |  "... Where love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
   |  Doth call himself Affection's sentinel."
   |

But as there did not happen to be a second possible
candidate for Mary's favours at present on the Ranch,
there was an entire absence of employment for such
a guard.  That was a foe of whom he had no dread.

The week prior to the coming wedding, Mrs. Ranger
had determined to spend a day in town,
making some necessary purchases; Tom was accordingly
ordered to have the buggy ready early on the
day the farmer had agreed to drive her in.

When Barton heard this, he thought he saw the
opportunity offering he had been waiting for.
Leaving the fields sooner than usual, he marched
straight up to the house, where he had the good
fortune to find Mary seated alone.

"At last, Mary!" he said.

"What's at last?" she asked quite innocently.

"Why, do you know how hard I've tried to see
you, and what a many times you have refused me."

"Well, why keep on coming?  I'm sure I never
asked you to."

"You know why, Mary."

"You seem in a dreadful hurry," she added sharply.

"Not so much in a hurry, Mary, as anxious to
know your answer."

"I'd much rather you were not so pressing," she
replied.

"But you promised to let me have your reply
to my question in a week."

"No!  I only promised to see what I could do in
that period, when you urged that a month was too
long a time to take for consideration.  There are
circumstances which alter cases, you know."

"Do such circumstances exist in my case?" he asked.

"Yes, I think they do," she replied, a little nervous
tremor visible in her tone.

"I'm sorry if it is so."

"Besides, I'm not at all anxious to give up my
liberty," she added laughingly.

"I don't ask you to be my slave, Mary, but my
wife," he replied with some emphasis.

"And in too many instances there is little difference
between the two states."

"Perhaps that is too true.  And my difficulty is
how to convince you that it will not be so in your
case, if I can help it."

"Every man is good at promising, and you know
the homely proverb about 'Promises being like
pie-crust'?"

"Do I look like a deceiver, Mary?"

"I'm sure I can't tell—I've not seen enough of
you to know."

"Is that one of the circumstances which you said
altered cases?"

"Well—yes; or if it isn't it ought to be, as it's
a matter of some importance."

"What are the other circumstances you referred
to?" he inquired.

"Well, I suppose you have not forgotten that when
I came out here it was with the intention of being
married to one of my cousins, who was with us?"

"No, I remember that.  It was a dreadful loss,
which must have deeply affected you.  But regrets
for the past should not be allowed to mar all future
happiness."

"I know.  Time is said to heal all wounds, but the
length of time is not stated."

"I was hoping, Mary, you had recovered from the
effects by now."

"The scars left by deep wounds are not easily
forgotten."

"And such a wound never need be forgotten."

"All very fine now, Mr. Barton," replied Mary.
"Seriously, I do not feel able so soon to give you
an answer.  The loss and disappointment to me are
yet too recent; I have seen so little of you (or you
of me), and have given the subject so little thought,
that I am not prepared to say what I may be
willing to do."

"Well, tell me, Mary, there's a dear girl, in all
seriousness, what you wish in the matter, and I will
try to make your wishes my law."  It must, however,
in justice be stated that the question was asked
in such a mournful tone, and the assurance given
with such a degree of hesitation, that it looked
exceedingly doubtful if all that was said was really
meant, or that the promise was one which would be
kept.

"Since you really want to know my wishes——"

"I do, Mary!" he interrupted.

"Well, don't be so impatient, sir, and I'll try and
tell you.  My wish is that you press for no answer
for six months, during which time we shall be able
to meet as friends and become better acquainted
with each other, when it may happen that friendship
will not improve upon acquaintance; in which case,
no harm will be done, as we shall each be able to
take our own course, and be saved many useless
regrets."

"Your conditions are hard, Mary, but I can't say
they are unjust; nor am I afraid of the result you
foreshadow."

"In that case, the subject can be again resumed.
In the meanwhile, let's agree to leave the future to
look after itself."

"If I thought there was any chance of your
relenting, Mary, I would try and urge you——"

"Then please don't," she interrupted, "for it will
not be the slightest use."

This was said with so much of resolution and
determination in the tone, that Barton, seeing it
would be useless to press his wishes further,
reluctantly consented to the arrangement proposed.

During the interval, as stipulated, Barton had
frequent opportunities of converse with Mary, the
result being to bring out more clearly the fact
that there was an affinity of souls between them
which paved the way for that union of hearts
which, when the six months had expired, and he
renewed his request, was confirmed by a union of
hands, with the usual formula—"*till death do its
part*."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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The wedding of Jessie Russell with Fellows was
celebrated at the time fixed, amid general
merry-making.  The company was not a large one,
comprising, as it did, besides the chief actors, only the
few work-people in Ranger's service—in all some
fourteen persons.

When the ceremony was over, and the feasting
had been vigorously started, Ralph drove away for
Kinbrae with his smiling bride, followed by the
hearty cheers and good wishes of all.

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   THE END

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