CHAPTER I

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[Frontispiece: The Muzzle of a Revolver was Covering Him]

THE WAY OF THE STRONG

By RIDGWELL CULLUM

Author of "The Twins of Suffering Creek," "The Night Riders," "The One

Way Trail," Etc.

With Four Illustrations by

DOUGLAS DUER

A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS

114-120 East Twenty-third Street -- New York

Published by Arrangement with George W. Jacobs & Company

Copyright, 1914, By

George W. Jacobs & Company

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN U. S. A.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAP.

I ON SIXTY-MILE CREEK

II THE ROOF OF THE NORTHERN WORLD

III THE DRIVING FORCE

IV LEO

V THE SHADOW OF DEATH

VI ALL-MASTERING PASSION

VII DEAD FIRES

VIII SI-WASH CHUCKLES

IX IN SAN SABATANO

X A PROMISE

XI TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO

PART II

I AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS

II ALEXANDER HENDRIE

III THE PENALTY

IV THE BLINDING FIRES

V IN THE SPRINGTIME

VI LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES

VII HAPPY DAYS

VIII ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK

IX THE WHEAT TRUST

X MONICA'S FALSE STEP

XI WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING

XII THE CLEAN SLATE

XIII HENDRIE'S RETURN

XIV A MAN'S HELL

XV PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS

XVI IN THE MOONLIGHT

XVII PAYING THE PRICE

XVIII A MAN'S HONOR

XIX THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE

XX THE VERDICT

PART III

I THE MARCH OF TIME

II WHEN VOWS MUST YIELD

III TWO LETTERS

IV ON THE RAILROAD

V A YOUNG GIRL'S PURPOSE

VI IN TORONTO

VII THE DECISION

VIII THE SHADOW OF WAR

IX CAPITAL AND LABOR

X STRIKE TROUBLES SPREADING

XI LEYBURN'S INSPIRATION

XII HENDRIE SELLS

XIII FRANK LEARNS HIS DUTY

XIV THE STRIKE

XV PHYLLIS GOES IN SEARCH OF FRANK

XVI THE DAWN OF HOPE

XVII A RAID

XVIII HIS BACK TO THE WALL

XIX TWO MEN

XX THE STORY OF LEO

XXI HENDRIE'S WAY

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE MUZZLE OF A REVOLVER WAS COVERING HIM . . . . . . _Frontispiece_

THEN CAME HER ARRIVAL AT DEEP WILLOWS

THE MAN LEAPED FROM HIS SEAT AND FACED ABOUT

PHYLLIS CAUGHT HIS HANDS AND HELD THEM TIGHTLY

THE WAY OF THE STRONG

PART I

CHAPTER I

ON SIXTY-MILE CREEK

It was a grim, gray day; a day which plainly told of the passing of

late fall across the border line of the fierce northern winter. Six

inches of snow had fallen during the night, and the leaden overcast of

the sky threatened many more inches yet to fall.

Five great sled dogs crouched in their harness, with quarters tucked

under them and forelegs outspread. They were waiting the long familiar

command to "mush"; an order they had not heard since the previous

winter.

Their brief summer leisure had passed, lost beneath the white pall

which told of weary toil awaiting them in the immediate future. Unlike

the humans with whom they were associated, however, the coming winter

held no terrors for them. It was the normal condition under which the

sled dog performed its life's work.

The load on the sled was nearing completion. The tough-looking,

keen-eyed man bestowed his chattels with a care and skill which told of

long experience, and a profound knowledge of the country through which

he had to travel. Silently he passed back and forth between the sled

and the weather-battered shelter which had been his home for more than

three years. His moccasined feet gave out no sound; his voice was

silent under the purpose which occupied all his thought. He was leaving

the desert heart of the Yukon to face the perils of the winter trail.

He was about to embark for the storm-riven shores of the Alaskan coast.

A young woman stood silently by, watching his labors with the voiceless

interest of those who live the drear life of silent places. Her

interest was consuming, as her handsome brown eyes told. Her strong,

young heart was full of a profound envy; and a sort of despairing

longing came near to filling her eyes with unaccustomed tears. The

terrors of this man's journey would have been small enough for her if

only she could get out of this wilderness of desolation to which she

had willingly condemned herself.

Her heart ached, and her despair grew as she watched. But she knew only

too well that her limitless prison was of her own seeking, as was her

sharing of the sordid lot of the man she had elected to follow. More

than that she knew that the sentence she had passed upon herself

carried with it the terror of coming motherhood in the midst of this

desolate world, far from the reach of help, far from the companionship

of her sex.

At last the man paused, surveying his work. He tested the raw-hide

bonds which held his load; he glanced at the space still left clear in

the sled, with measuring eye, and stood raking at his beard with

powerful, unclean fingers. It was this pause that drove the woman's

crowding feelings to sudden speech.

"Heavens, how I wish I were going with you, Tug!" she cried.

The man lifted his sharp eyes questioningly.

"Do you, Audie?" he said, in a metallic voice, in which there was no

softening. Then he shook his head. "It'll be a hell of a trip. Guess

I'd change places with you readily enough."

"You would?" the girl laughed mirthlessly. "You're going down with a

big 'wad' of gold to--to a land of--plenty. Oh, God, how I hate this

wilderness!"

The man called Tug surveyed her for a moment with eyes long since

hardened by the merciless struggle of the cruel Yukon world. Then he

shook his head.

"It sounds good when you put it that way. But there's miles to go

before I reach the 'land of plenty.'" He laughed shortly. "I've got to

face the winter trail, and we all know what that means. And more than

that. I'm packing a sick man with me, and I've got to keep him _warm_

the whole way. It's a guess, and a poor one, if he don't die by the

way. That's why I'm going. Say, he's my partner, and I've got to get

him through." He laughed again. "Oh, it's not sentiment. He's useful to

me, and so I want to save him if I can."

Tug's manner was something like the coldly rugged view of the distant

peaks which marked the horizon on every hand. The girl watching his

sturdy figure, with its powerful head and hard, set face, understood

something of this. She understood that he was something in the nature

of a product of that harsh, snow-bound world. He was strong, and she

knew it; and strength appealed to her. It was the only thing that was

worth while in such a country.

"You can't save Charlie," she said decidedly. "They tell you you can't

get consumption in this country--but, well, I'd say you can get

everything that makes life hell. He's got it; and a chill on the way

will add pneumonia to his trouble, and then----" She made a significant

gesture.

"Maybe you're right," Tug admitted. Then he shrugged, and, moving over

to one of the dogs, busy chewing its rawhide harness, kicked it

brutally. "Anyway he's got to take his chance, same as we all have."

The girl sighed.

"Yes." She was thinking of herself. "When do you start?"

The man looked at the sky. Then he glanced down at the land sloping

away to the distant banks of a creek, which in a less monstrous country

would have borne the prouder denomination of "river."

"When your Leo comes up to help me pack Charlie into the sled. Say,

isn't that him coming along up now?" he added, shading his eyes. "This

snow's got me dazzled for a bit."

The girl peered out over the white world. It was an impressive view.

Far as the eye could see a great ring of gray-crested hills spread out,

their slopes massed with patches of forest, and the gleaming beds of

ancient glaciers. Just now the cold of coming winter held pride of

place, and the dark woodlands were crowned with the feathery whiteness

of newly fallen snow. But though impressive the outlook was unyielding

in its severity, and the girl shuddered and, for relief, was glad to

return to speech.

"Yes; he's coming along up."

Tug watched the distant figure for some thoughtful moments.

"He's a great feller," he said at last. But there was no real

appreciation in his tone. Then he laughed. "I should say he'd need to

be a great feller to get a good-looker girl to come right along up to

this devil's playground with him."

Audie's troubled eyes softened.

"He's a great fellow," she said simply.

Tug laughed again.

"I s'pose that's why they call him 'Leo.' Guess most fellers' nicknames

have a meaning suggested by their characters. Leo-Lion. Maybe they're

right. I'd sooner call him 'Bull.'"

"Why?"

Audie was interested. Yet she understood there was no sympathy, and

little enough friendliness in this hard, cynical man.

"Just his way of tackling life." Tug watched the great figure as it

came slowly up the slope. His eyes were keen, shrewd, speculative.

"He does tackle it," agreed Audie warmly.

"Yes. He gets right out to meet things. He's a fighter. I'd say he's a

born 'kicker.' He doesn't fancy the things that come easy. He's after a

big piece of money, but"--he laughed--"he don't want it easy. That's

where we're different. It seems to me there's enough weakness in the

world for a man to live on, and there's surely enough money for the

overflow to dribble into your pockets, if you only hold them open

right. That's my way; but it's not his. Say," he quizzically surveyed

the girl's flushed face, "guess you'd follow him to hell--if he asked

you?"

Audie shrugged her handsome shoulders, but her eyes were soft.

"I've followed him here, which is the cold edition of it. I don't guess

I'd need persuading to get up against the warmer side."

"No. But it's taking life hard."

"Guess we have to take life hard sometimes. It's mostly the way of

things. Life comes by degrees. And you can't help any of it. Three

years ago I was acting in a New York theater, getting a hundred dollars

a week salary. I wore beautiful clothes. I had heaps of friends, men

and women. I lived on the best, and never knew what it was to cook a

meal, or do a chore. Two years ago I was 'barnstorming' at Dawson

in--well, they call it a theater. Now--now I am here."

"With a man we call 'Leo.'" Tug studied the girl's beautiful face, her

superb figure, that would not be denied even under the coarse clothing

she was wearing. She did not appeal to him as a woman. She was too

pronounced a type. There was a decided boldness about her. Even her

beauty was aggressive. But he was sufficiently observant to be

interested in the woman's reason lying behind her actions.

"And why not?" demanded Audie, with a quick flash of her big eyes.

Tug smiled coldly.

"Just so. Why not?"

"Maybe I haven't given up as much as you might think." Audie's eyes

were intently fixed upon the approaching figure. They were alight with

the fires of passion. "Leo is bound to make good. He can't fail. That's

the man. He would win out under any circumstances."

Tug nodded.

"Sure. By fair means or----"

"He'll win out," cried Audie sharply.

Tug's broad shoulders lifted indifferently.

"Sure. He'll win out."

It was not the man's tone; it was not the man's words; it was his

manner that made Audie long to strike him. His cynical expression was

infuriating as he moved off to meet the approaching Leo.

Audie watched him go with brooding, resentful eyes. She saw the two

meet, and, in a moment, the sun broke through the clouds of her anger.

How could it be otherwise when she beheld the contrast between the men,

which so much favored her Leo. A wave of pride thrilled her. In face

and form, as well as character, her man was something of a god to her.

They came towards her, Leo moving with an active, swinging stride,

while the other moved with the almost cat-like stealth which the use of

moccasins ever gives their wearer. Leo was a large man in the early

stages of manhood. He was twenty-five years of age, but, from the

unusual cast of his rugged features and the steady light in his keen

gray eyes set beneath shaggy, tawny brows, he might well have borne the

burden of another ten. It was a wonderful face. Such a face as rarely

fails to appeal to a woman of Audie's type. As Tug had said, he was a

fighter; and the fact was written largely in every line of his

features. It was the face of a man of passionate resolve; a man who

would not be denied in anything he undertook. Nor was it a harsh face.

His eyes looked out with an utter fearlessness, but there was a gleam

in their depths which baffled. Whether that latent fire was inspired by

good or evil it would have been impossible to tell. Perhaps it was the

memory of that strange light which had inspired Tug's doubt.

For the rest his physique was large and extremely powerful. He wore a

close, curling fair beard which accentuated the thrust of his square

chin, and from beneath his slouch hat flowed the mane of waving hair

which had originally inspired his nickname.

The woman only had eyes for Leo as they came up to the sled, and for

the time at least all her troubles and regrets were forgotten. She had

no words to offer. She was content to be a silent witness. The affairs

of life in such desperate regions must be left in men's hands, her

woman's sphere extended only to the inside of their squalid home.

She watched Leo pass a critical eye over the sled. Then his deep voice

expressed his approval.

"You've fixed things neat," he said, without great interest. Then his

eyes settled upon the stout canvas bag lashed securely on the forepart

of the sled, and his whole expression instantly changed.

The change was as curious as it was sudden. All unconcern had passed,

and his eyes shone with a deep fire which told of some straining

emotion stirred in the depths of his soul. He pointed at the bag. Nor

was his hand quite steady.

"That's a great 'wad,'" he said. Then, half to himself, "a dandy 'wad.'"

"Yes." Tug gazed thoughtfully at the parcel of gold, which represented

the result of his and his partner's years of isolation in the white

wilderness of the north. "It's a goodish 'wad,'" he agreed with

satisfaction.

The bigger man was lost in a profound contemplation of the gold that

was his quest also. For a moment or two neither spoke. Then Leo

withdrew his gaze with a sigh, and turned to the waiting woman.

"Here, catch!" he cried. He pitched a seven-pound trout, which he had

just taken from the creek, across to her. "It'll make dinner," he

added. "Guess we'll not get many more. The creek'll be solid ice in a

week." Then he abruptly moved up towards Tug's hut. "You best get

things fixed, and I'll bring Charlie out."

Leo's manner had become all unconcerned again. These two men were about

to pass out of his life. The fact of their existence, their coming or

going, had very little real interest for him. They did not influence

his concerns one iota. But Tug left the sled and followed him.

Tug was the first to reappear from the hut. He was clad for the long

trail, and bore in his arms the pile of furs with which to shut out the

deadly breath of winter from the body of his sick partner. Behind him

came Leo carrying the attenuated body of the sufferer as easily as he

might have carried a baby.

He deposited his burden in the sled, and looked on while the other

buried the sick man beneath the warmth-giving furs. At last all was in

readiness and Tug stood up. His whip was in one hand, and his gee-pole

in the other. He was ready to "mush" his waiting team on.

"You'll only make the head of the Shawnee Trail, tonight," Leo said in

his confident way, after a narrow inspection of the overcast sky.

"You're going to get snow--bad."

"We'll camp there--if we do," replied Tug cheerfully. "If we

don't--we'll make Mt. Craven, and shelter in the woods."

Leo shook his head.

"You'll only make the head of the Shawnee." Leo bent over the sick man

to wish him good-bye. "So long," came the weak response from amidst the

furs. Tug swung out his whip and the dogs stood up alert.

"So long, folks," he cried. Then he glanced round at the woman with a

grin. "Guess I'm off to that land of plenty, Audie."

The jest on his lips became a heartless challenge under which the girl

perceptibly winced. But even if her wit had served her to retort, she

was given no chance. It was Leo who took him up with a quickness of

understanding almost surprising; and though his manner was quite

without heat there was a subtle, underlying bite in his reply.

"You've got to travel more miles than one to get there," he said. "So

long."

Tug laughed without any enjoyment.

"I'd say this country's a hell of a piece--from anywhere," he retorted.

He turned at once and shouted at his dogs.

"Ho, you, Husky! Demon! You, too, Pinto! Mush, you devils! Mush on!"

The dogs responded on the instant. They strained at their harness, and

promptly leaped into a swift run, bearing the laden sled away in a

dense flurry of soft snow.

Leo and Audie looked after the departing outfit, until the speeding

sled reached the foot of the long slope and disappeared behind a

snow-laden scrub of undergrowth. Then the man stirred.

"It's getting near food," he said, in a matter-of-fact tone.

But Audie gave no sign of hearing him. Her face was turned away. She

was still turned in the direction of the vanished sled. Her eyes were

crowded with tears, and all the old longing and terror were upon her

again.

"Audie!"

The summons came without any softening. The man's only answer was a

deep, choking sob. Leo turned at once; neither was there any sign of

impatience in his voice as he questioned her.

"What are you crying for?"

The sound of his question broke the spell of the woman's overwrought

feelings. She choked down her sobs and her tearful eyes smiled round

upon him, although her cheeks were still wet.

"Because I'm a fool. Because I've always been a fool, and--always shall

be."

Leo half smiled and shook his head.

"We're never fools when we think we are," he said calmly. "The truth

lies in the reverse."

Audie sighed. Again the corners of her pretty mouth drooped, and her

brows drew ominously together.

"I--I was thinking of--of the places where he's going to. I was

thinking of the--the good time he'll have. I was--oh, I was thinking of

the winter that's coming to us here and--and of what I've got to----"

The man drew a deep breath, and something like a shadow crossed his

strong features. His gaze wandered away towards the creek, where for so

long he had been laboring to lay the foundations of that wonderful

structure of success he purposed to achieve.

"You're scared," he said deliberately, at last. "You're scared to have

your baby up here--alone." Then his eyes came back to her. "Guess I

can't blame you--no one could. We--didn't reckon on this." He waited

for a moment. "What do you want me to do?" he asked at last.

For a brief moment the girl's big eyes brightened with hope. But the

moment passed, and tears again fell upon her soft, round cheeks.

"Do? Oh, Leo, I--I want to go where there's light, and--and hope. I--I

want to go where there's help for me." She shuddered. "Yes, I'm scared.

I'm terrified. But it--it isn't only that. It's--oh, I don't want our

baby to be born in this awful country. Think--think of its little eyes

opening on--on this wilderness. Besides----"

She broke off, her tearful eyes filled with doubt.

"Besides--what?"

There was no denying the directness of this man's mind.

"It--it doesn't matter. I----"

"But it does."

Audie had stopped to pick up the fish; but she left it where it was.

She understood the uselessness of further denial. She had long ago

learned her lesson. This man, young as he was, was utterly different to

all the men she had ever met. Sometimes she was afraid of him;

sometimes she would have given worlds never to have set eyes on him.

But always she knew that somehow her fate was linked with his; and

above all she knew that she loved him, and under no circumstances would

she have had it otherwise.

His love for her she never considered--she dared not consider it. In

the remote recesses of her woman's soul, recesses hidden so well that

even she, herself, rarely visited them, recesses the contemplation of

which filled her with dread and trepidation, she held the hideous truth

that his regard for her was incomparable with the devotion she yielded

to him. But even with this subtle conviction, with this painful truth

ever vibrant in her happiest moments, she was woman enough to be able

to thank her God that she was permitted to live on the fringe of his

life, his only companion in the rough hut which was their home. She

would have him just as he was--yes, a thousand times sooner than yield

up the love she bore him.

She knew now that a crisis in their lives had arrived. She knew that

she had gone too far to retreat. Therefore she took her courage in both

her hands.

"It's--it's the baby," she cried haltingly. "He--oh, yes, he, I am sure

it will be a boy--will--will have no father, if--if he is born up here."

It was out. She could get no further; and she stood clasping her hands

to steady the trembling she had no power to check.

The verdict of this man, whom she looked to as the arbiter of her fate,

was slow in coming. With each passing moment her apprehension grew till

she longed to cry out at the torture of the suspense. He was thinking

earnestly, swiftly. He knew that she had confronted him with a problem

that might well change his whole future. Therefore he considered

without haste, without the least emotion.

At last his keen eyes turned upon her up-turned face, and what she

beheld there warned her of the calm judgment he had brought to bear.

"Yes," he said thoughtfully. "And," he went on, after a moment, "maybe

he'd have no mother either."

For a moment puzzlement was added to the woman's trouble.

"You mean----?"

Again Audie broke off. A sudden understanding had come. His point of

view was wholly in another direction from hers. He was not thinking of

their moral obligations towards the little, unborn life. He was

thinking of her; of what the unassisted birth in these outlands might

mean for her.

She was startled. Then a rush of feeling swept over her that would not

be denied.

"I--I wasn't thinking so much of--of myself," she cried eagerly. "I

meant----"

"I know," he interrupted her. "You meant we are not married."

"Yes, yes. That's it." She came to him and seized one of his strong

hands in both of hers, and her eyes were pleading up into his. "Oh,

Leo, don't you understand what it means to him? Won't you? I never

thought of it before. How should I? All I wanted in the world was to be

with you. All I wanted was to be your devoted companion. That's why

I--I made you bring me up here. Yes. I know. I made you bring me. You

didn't want to. I knew then, as I have always known, as I know now,

that--that I was merely a passing fancy to you. But I did not care. I

believed I could make you love me. I blinded myself utterly, purposely,

because I loved you. But now I realize something else. I realize there

is another life to be considered. A life that is part of us. It is that

which appalls me. Now I see the terrible consequences of my folly, to

remedy which I must add to your burden, or give up forever all the

happiness that has been mine since I knew you. Oh, Leo, I cannot bring

a bastard into the world. Think of it. The terrible shame for the

boy--for his mother. Don't you see? Give our little one a father, and

never as long as I live will I cross your path, or make any claim on

you. You can let the memory of my love lose itself amid all the great

schemes that fill your thoughts. All I want, all I hope for is that you

may go on to the success which you desire more than all things in life,

and may God ever prosper you."

The man released his hand deliberately, but without roughness. The

calculating brain was still undisturbed by the self-sacrifice of the

girl. He had solved the problem to his own satisfaction, through the

only method he understood.

"You don't need to worry yourself, Audie," he said, in his blunt way.

"The boy--if he's a boy--shall have a father. And I don't guess you

need to cut yourself out of my life. We'll start down this day week.

You've got to face the winter trail, but that can't be helped. We'll

get Si-wash's dogs. He's a good scout, and knows the trail well. He'll

take us down."

The woman's face had suddenly flooded with a radiant happiness, the

sight of which caused the man to turn away. In a moment her

thankfulness broke out, spasmodic, disjointed, but from the depths of

her simple soul.

"You mean that?" she cried. "You mean--oh, may God bless every moment

of your life, Leo! Oh, thank God--thank God!"

She suddenly buried her face in her hands, and tears of joy and

happiness streamed down her cheeks.

Leo waited for her emotion to pass. He stood gazing out down at the

creek. His eyes shone with that peculiar fire which in unguarded

moments would not be denied. Then after a few moments the sound of sobs

died down, and the man turned.

There was a marked change in him. The fire in his eyes was deep and

somber. Audie, glancing into his face, knew that he was deeply stirred.

She knew that for the first time in her companionship with him the

restraint that was always his had been relaxed. The soul of the man had

risen superior to the domination of his will.

"Listen to me, Audie," he cried, in a voice grown suddenly thick with

an emotion she had never before witnessed in him. "You said you knew

you were merely a passing fancy to me. That's not quite true. It's true

I never calculated to marry you. But I liked you. I don't suppose I

loved you in the way you would have me love you. No, I liked you,

because--you are a woman. Just a woman full of all the extraordinary

follies of which some of your sex are capable, but--a woman. It's

difficult, but I must tell you. I've always known that the time would

come when we must have a straight talk. I have no real love to give to

any woman. My whole mind and body are absorbed in another direction,

which is utterly opposed to all sentiment. What shall I call it?

Ambition? It's scarcely the word. It's more than that. It's a passion."

His eyes shone with deep feeling. "A passion that's greater than any

love man ever gave to woman."

"Yes, all my life I've fostered it," he went on abstractedly, "from

away back in the days of early boyhood. God knows where I got it from.

My father and mother were respectable, dozy, middle-class folks in New

England, without a thought beyond the doings of their little town. They

had no ambition. Their life drove me frantic. I must get out and do. I

must take my place in the battle of life, and win my way to the

forefront among the ranks of our country's millionaires. That is the

passionate dream of my life which I intend to achieve. That is the wild

ambition that has eaten into my very bones. It is part of me. It is me.

It is a driving force which I have created in myself--and now it is

beyond my control. I am the slave of my self-created passion, as surely

as any drug fiend is a slave to the wiles of his torturer. I could not

defy its will if I desired to. But I do not desire to. Do you

understand me? Do you understand when I say I have no love to give to

any woman? I am eaten up with this passion which leaves no room in mind

or heart for any other.

"Maybe you think me a heartless brute," he continued after a moment's

pause, "without feeling, or sympathy. Perhaps you're right. Maybe I am.

I don't know. Nor do I care. I doubt if you can possibly understand me.

I don't understand myself. All I know is, nothing I can remove will

ever stand in the way of my achievement. I have no real scruples, and I

want you to know all this now--now with our whole futures lying before

us. This problem is not as difficult as you seem to think. There is no

particular reason why I should not marry you. On the contrary there is

every reason why I should. I have had a good year, so good that it

might astonish you if you knew the amount of gold I have taken out of

the creek. We shall go down to the coast with twice the amount Tug

possesses. Tug never knew how well I was doing."

He smiled faintly.

"However," he hastened on, "my plan had been to leave here next spring,

to avoid the winter journey, that was all. There will be no work done

all the coming winter. So what does it matter if we make the journey

six months earlier? It will help you, and does not hurt me. So--don't

worry yourself any more about it, but just make your preparations for

departure this day week."

The man's usual calm had returned by the time he finished speaking. He

had settled the matter in his own way, and his manner left nothing more

to be said.

Audie understood. Her eyes were alight with a rapturous joy and

devotion, but she realized how little he desired the outburst of

gratitude she was longing to pour into his unwilling ears. In spite of

the coldness with which he had told her he could never love her, this

was probably the happiest moment of her life. She held herself tightly

and strove to speak in the same calm manner he had used at the last.

"Thank you, Leo," she said simply. Then she added with an emotion that

would not be denied, "I pray God to bless you."

Leo nodded.

"Right ho!" he said coldly. Then he picked up the trout. "Guess we'll

get food."

CHAPTER II

THE ROOF OF THE NORTHERN WORLD

Si-wash was a great scout; he was also an Indian of independence and

decision, both qualities very necessary in the snow-bound country such

as he lived in. But Si-wash understood men very well; particularly the

curiously assorted samples of whitemen who sought the remoteness of the

Yukon in those early days when the news of its wealth was only just

beginning to percolate through to civilized countries. It was for this

reason he was as putty in the hands of the man Leo.

When consulted Si-wash protested against Leo's contemplated journey

over the winter trail to the coast, especially with the added burden of

a white woman. He drew a picture of every difficulty and danger his

fertile brain could imagine, and laid it before the cold eyes of the

big man. Encouraged by the silence with which his stories were received

he finally threw an added decision in his definite refusal to hire his

dogs, and conduct the party over the perilous road.

Then Leo rose from his seat on the floor of Si-wash's hut, and invited

him to visit his workings on the creek bank. Si-wash went, glad that he

had been able to dissuade this man who possessed such cold eyes, and so

unsmiling a face.

At the creek Leo spoke quite seriously.

"Si-wash," he said, as they stood beside the frozen, snow-laden stream,

"I am disappointed in you. I have brought you here to show you your

grave. There it is--under the ice. If you don't hire yourself and dogs

to me, if you don't accompany us to the coast, I'll drown you in the

water under that ice, where it's so cold that all the fires of hell,

where your spirit will surely go, will never be able to thaw you out,

though you remain there forever, as you undoubtedly will."

Si-wash both liked and feared Leo. But he hated cold water, in fact

water of any sort, and feared talk of hell still more; so there was no

further discussion. Si-wash accepted his money in advance; and, nearly

a month later, the travelers were scaling the perilous heights of the

watershed which is really the roof of the northern world.

Once foot is set on the long winter trail, all rest of mind and body is

left behind. Days and nights, alike, become one long nightmare of

unease. Every hour of the day carries its threat of danger. Every foot

of the way is beset by shoals for the feet of the unwary. And the

night--the long northern night--is a painful dream crowded with

exaggerated pictures of dangers so narrowly escaped during waking, and

vivid suggestions of added terrors which the morning light may reveal.

It is called the Shawnee Trail; vain enough appellation. There is no

trail; there never has been a trail; nor will there ever be a trail, so

long as the northern winter holds its fierce sway in due season. It is

just a trackless wilderness, claiming thoroughfare by reason of the

impassability of the rest of the country in that region.

There is no room for life in such a world, for there is no rest or

relief. Existence is an endless struggle against the overwhelming odds

of an outlaw nature. The great white land is broken and torn. It rises

and falls, or plunges precipitately in the manner of a storm-swept

ocean; but ever the journeyer is borne upward, ever upward, to the

barren crests of the watershed which dominate the melancholy spectacle

of Nature's wasted endeavor.

For the most it is a silent land; nor is there movement to break the

awesome stillness, unless it be the frequent presence of storm.

Otherwise the calm is like the silence of the grave, without a whisper

to waken the echoes of the riven, age-worn crags, or a movement to stir

the hidden valleys into a seeming of life. It is the stillness of outer

darkness, lit only by a wintry sheen, like the death-cold stare of

wide, unseeing eyes.

Such thoughts and feelings stirred the woman traipsing easily over the

smoothly pressed snow-track left by the laden sled. She moved with the

curious swing of the snowshoer, leisurely, comfortably. The gee-pole in

her hand was an unnecessary equipment, for her path was fully tested by

those who understood far better than she the dangers of the road before

them.

Audie's eyes were looking out ahead at the men and the dogs. She knew

she had no other responsibility than to keep pace. For the rest she

knew that the burden of their journey rested on shoulders more capable

of bearing it. So her mind was given up to thoughts which could never

enter the men's heads. And those thoughts were full of the unutterable

desolation of this untamed world.

Si-wash headed the dogs. A great incline of smooth, soft snow mounted

up to the crotch of a great hill, where twin peaks rose sharply,

towering above, and a wide pathway was left between them. It was a

beacon of the trail, marking one of the roughest stretches yet to be

traveled. Beyond this, five miles further on, the scout had marked a

camping ground.

Just now he was a little anxious in his silent Indian way, and the sign

of it was in his furtive watchfulness, as he peered from the road to

the burnished light of the desponding sun.

Leo, swinging along beside the sled, was quite unaware of his guide's

unease. The monotony of progress left him free to think whithersoever

his active brain listed. For the time it led him on, on into dreams of

the future, a future than which he could imagine no other. His fortune,

or that which stood for the foundations of it, lay strapped at the tail

of the sled, and the knowledge of its presence, the sight of its canvas

wrapping stirred him to a gladness which no monotony of the long trail

could diminish. For him this was the moment of passing, when the

foundations had been carefully laid and the first scaffold pole was

about to be set in place round the structure of fortune he intended to

build.

The harsh voice of Si-wash struck unpleasantly on his ears.

"Look!" he cried, pointing at the drooping sun with a mitted hand. "It

the be-damn sun-dogs. Him look, an' look lak hell. Him much be-damn

sun-dogs."

The man's irritability seemed quite uncalled for. The sun was shining

over the still world with its usual coppery splendor; a gleaming ball

of ruddy fire centering a wide halo of brilliant light, which, in its

turn, was studded with four magnificent jewels of light--the fiercely

burning sun-dogs which Si-wash so bitterly cursed. But Leo understood

the full significance of what he beheld. He, too, felt inclined to

curse those ominous wardens of the ineffective northern sun.

"Storm," he said, as he came up beside the Indian.

"We camp. Five miles," said Si-wash presently. "Five mile, long piece.

Yes. Storm, him come quick."

The men moved on in silence, side by side. Audie had heard their talk.

She, too, had looked across at the stormy sun, but she had no comment

to add.

They were nearing the summit of the hill. The laboring dogs moved with

heads low, and lean quarters tucked well beneath them. Their pace was

the same as ever, only their effort was greater. With each moment the

gap came down towards them, and, at last, they trod the shoulder under

foot. Then Si-wash's sharp command rang out, and the five great burden

bearers of the north dropped in their traces, and sought their

well-earned rest on the feathery softness of untrodden snow.

The men surveyed the view from the great height at which they stood.

For long moments no word was spoken. Then the Indian held up a warning

hand.

"See, hark!"

A curious sigh, almost as if the great hill were shivering under the

biting cold of the atmosphere, seemed to drift out upon the sparkling

air. It died away, somewhere in the distance behind them.

Then Si-wash spoke again.

"We camp quick." He pointed away out at the far side of the valley

confronting them. "We mak dat valley. See dat hill? We come so. We mak

round it. It bad. So. Long, deep fall. Dogs haul 'em long side hill.

Very bad. So we mak 'em before storm. Good. After hill mush wood. Tall,

big. It is we camp."

Without waiting for reply he turned to the dogs.

"Ho, you damn huskies. Mush!"

In a moment the dogs leaped at their traces, and the journey went on.

The end of the passage came quickly; and, as it did so, and the scout

took the first step of the descent, another sigh, longer drawn out this

time, sharper, a sigh that spoke of restless discontent, shuddered down

the mountain side and passed on ahead of them. A moment later a tiny

eddy of snow was caught up in its path and vanished amidst the

sparkling air particles glistening in the sun.

Again the Indian's voice broke the silence. But this time it was to

urge the dogs faster. He had said it was five miles to where they could

camp in safety; and five miles, with a storm coming on, was, as he

said, a "long piece."

But since the second breath had swept down the hillside a change seemed

to have come over the aspect of the day. It was subtle. It was almost

indescribable. Yet it was evident. It may have been that the air had

warmed by a few degrees; it may have been that the sun's labored light

had diminished. Certainly there was an added grayness settling upon the

icy world. Yes. Something had certainly changed in the outlook, and it

was a change which threatened, and told of the dread storm to come.

The dogs raced down the long hillside under the urgent commands of the

Indian. A mile, one out of five to be accomplished, was devoured by

scurrying feet. Then came the first real challenge of the storm. It was

a swift, fierce blast which swept after them, as though enraged at the

attempt to escape. In wanton riot it sent a dense flurry of snow like a

fog whistling about them, and, for the moment, blotted out all view of

the goal Si-wash had set for himself.

The men had no words, but their thoughts were sufficiently in common.

The swift-rising storm had banished every other consideration from

their minds. Audie closed up on the sled, and her action spoke for

itself.

Another blast rushed at the speeding travelers. It came across them.

For a moment it seemed to pause in its rush as though it had reached

the object of its attack. It swung round in a fierce whirl, round and

round in growing fierceness, picking up the snow and bearing it aloft

in a gray fog, like fine white sand. It dashed it in the faces of the

men, it beat fiercely upon the thick coats of the racing dogs, it swept

it under the fur hood of the woman, and painfully whipped the soft

flesh of her cheeks.

The hiss of its voice was not allowed to die out. Reinforcements rushed

to its aid. They came with a long-drawn moaning howl sweeping down from

the distant hill, now grown vague and shadowy behind them, and added to

the rapidly growing fog.

Harshly above the howl of the storm Si-wash's voice shouted into Leo's

ear.

"The gar-damn blizzard. It hell!"

But Leo made no response. He had no answer for anybody. All his mind

was centered upon the goal he longed for. Just now the woodland bluff,

Si-wash had spoken of, seemed the most desirable thing in the world. He

was not thinking of life or death. They were considerations that never

troubled him. He was thinking of what the wrecking of their transport

might mean to him.

Si-wash, being only a half-civilized savage, was thinking of those

things which did not trouble his white companion; and, being simply

human, he thought of the woman, the burden of whose presence he had

deplored.

He turned and shouted at her to come up abreast of them, fearing a

stumble might mean death to her in the storm; and in the same breath,

the same tone, he hurled a string of blasphemous commands at his dogs.

Almost blinded by the whipping snow, Audie staggered to the side of the

Indian. So cruel was the buffeting of the storm she would have fallen,

but for the timely succor of the man's outstretched hands. Already the

downward rush was left behind, and the level of the valley was under

their feet. Ahead of them, lost in the gray of the storm lay the

incline which was to lead them to the treacherous shoulder of the hill

they had yet to pass. Neither dogs nor men could see it, and their only

guidance was the wonderful instinct of the savage brain of the Indian.

With unerring judgment he led the way, faltering not even for a second

in his decisions; and soon, far sooner than seemed possible, the

tautened traces, and crouching gait of the dogs, told that his judgment

had not erred. The ascent had begun.

The steady pull went on for an hour; a grinding, weary labor in which

every inch of the way was only accomplished under the cruel lashing of

a merciless wind, and with eyes more than half blinded by the powdered

snow. The wind seemed to attack them from every side; now from ahead;

now from behind. Now it whistled down the hillside on their right; now

it came up with a vicious scream from the depths of the canyon which

dropped away beside them on the left of the harsh, hummocky path. The

heavy wrappings of furs about their mouths were a mass of ice from the

frozen moisture of their hard breathing, while the dense hoar-frost on

their lashes had to be wiped away lest their lids froze together as

their watering eyes blinked under the force of the wind. It was such a

journey as matched the sterile land through which they were passing;

such a journey as only the hardened folk of the northern world could

dare to face.

At last the ascent was accomplished, and with the relaxing of effort

came the first warning of the dangers with which they were surrounded.

It was the horror-stricken cry of the woman. In the blinding snow she

had approached the edge of the path too nearly. Her feet shot from

under her, and, for a moment, absolute destruction threatened. Again

came the prompt succor of the Indian. Again he clutched her, and held

her. Then he gathered his strength for an effort, and the next moment

she was sprawling in safety at the feet of her lover.

"Ho, you damn-fool woman!" Si-wash cried, in a manner that merely

expressed his own fears, and had no insult in it.

Leo helped Audie to her feet. A moment later his deep voice shouted

above the howling of the wind.

"If she can fall, what about the sled?"

The Indian's reply was full of the philosophy of his race.

"Sure," he cried. "It easy."

The whiteman's next act spoke far more than any words could tell. He

dropped back to the tail of the sled to guard his precious possessions.

His first, his only consideration amidst the perils of that road was

his gold. The woman bearing the burden of her devotion to him, must

fight for herself.

Each passing moment brought added perils. The path up here was shorn of

its loose covering of snow, swept away to the depths below by the

all-mastering gale. The surface left was little better than a sheet of

glare ice, hummocky and studded with roughnesses caused by broken ice

frozen upon its surface. The snowshoes of the travelers left them

fairly secure from slipping, but the wretched dogs had no such help.

They fought for foothold till their weary feet were left torn and

bleeding.

But the hill was passed and the track was no longer an ascent, and at

this altitude the snow fog had lightened to gray mist which left the

Indian less troubled. His silent blasphemy against the powers that

ruled the storm ebbed gently. Its flood had passed. That was his way.

The wall on his right was a sure guide, and at the end of it lay the

haven where he hoped to eat and sleep. So long as he could see he had

no fear whatsoever of the country to which he was born.

But with all this confidence the dangers were no less. The track sloped

perilously towards the edge of the precipice on the left. It narrowed,

too, so that there was no room for more than two people abreast. Leo

understood these things, as only a man can whose mind is beset with

dread for the safety of his possessions. Therefore there was something

fierce and threatening in his sudden shout at the man who was leading

the dogs. There was something else in it, too. There was a terrible

fear, which sounded strangely in a man of his strength of purpose.

"Stop! Curse you, stop the dogs!" he cried wildly.

The shout brought the dogs to a stand, and the Indian dropped back.

"What is?" he demanded. But he needed no answer.

The tail of the sled was at the very brink of the precipice, supported

only by the thrust of Leo's gee-pole, to which he clung with all the

strength of his great body.

The Indian and the woman flung themselves to the rescue, and, in a few

moments, the sled was resting safely at the inner side of the path.

Then the Indian, as though imparting pleasant intelligence, assured his

comrade.

"It more skid, bimeby," he observed confidently. "It worse--bimeby," he

added, turning again to the dogs. "Mush on, you devils!" he cried.

"Maybe we freeze."

There was no longer any ease of mind for the whiteman. Time and again

the sled skidded, and each time he saved it from destruction only by

inches. That stretch of level became a nightmare to him, and only the

passionate endeavor of his labor made his nervous tension bearable. His

pole was at work every foot of the way, guiding, staying, holding that

incessant skid.

So they struggled on, floundering their way yard by yard, the dumb

burden bearers fighting for a foothold at every step. It almost seemed

as if they, too, understood their own danger from the skid, and were

driven by their apprehension to unaccustomed efforts. They tore at the

unyielding surface of ice with claws broken and bleeding, and, by sheer

tenacity, ground out a purchase.

The drop to the woodland valley below was nearing. Si-wash called a

warning to the man behind.

"We near come by end," he shouted. "Then him go down lak hell."

With this brief information the whiteman had to be content, for Si-wash

promptly returned to his dogs, and finally took his place at the head

of the sled. Presently the sled jolted. It tilted forward as the

leading dogs of the team vanished down the slope. Then, in a moment,

the run began.

The change came all too suddenly. The sled gained a furious impetus.

Leo dashed forward to thrust a brake at its head. Si-wash was already

there with his pole thrust deep in the snow. The two men joined forces,

and, for a moment, the pace was steadied.

Then something happened. It was disaster; the worst disaster that could

have befallen at such a moment. Leo's pole, strained possibly by the

work it had already done, bent. It cracked; and broke off short. In a

moment he was left behind sprawling in the snow. Before Si-wash could

readjust his pole to the center of the nose of the sled the vehicle

swung out stern first. It swept on at a great speed, and the dogs raced

to keep out of its way. In another moment its impetus carried it to the

brink of the precipice. It swept on, half poised in mid-air. Then, with

a clatter and scrunch, it fell over the side, almost sweeping the heavy

dogs from their feet.

It was a desperate situation. The straining dogs held for the moment by

reason of their great weight, and in that moment the Indian and the

woman were able to reach them and throw their own weight into the

balance. Even then it was a desperate uncertainty. Could they hold it?

Could they recover the fallen vehicle carrying such an enormous weight?

But the problem solved itself in its own way. Just as the great figure

of Leo loomed up on the scene of the disaster, the strain on the traces

slackened, and the dogs were left standing still. There was no longer

need to struggle.

Si-wash rose from the ground and released his hold.

"Wot is't?" he asked, in a stupid way.

Leo was leaning over the edge of the precipice, gazing down with eyes

that strained to behold the safety of that which he most prized in all

the world. He made no answer.

Si-wash came to his side. He dropped upon his stomach and peered down

at the gray depths beneath. For a long while he was silent. Then, at

last, as his companion stirred, he spoke in the curiously indifferent

manner of his kind.

"The pack. Him haf gone. Him drop long way."

Leo was on his feet before he had finished speaking. He turned away and

looked out into the gray fog. Presently he glanced down at the man

beside him. Then his eyes rested on the dogs. Audie, watching him, saw

a strained, dreadful expression growing in his eyes. There was a subtle

fire lighting them; a fire she dreaded to look upon.

Then he began to speak. And as he spoke a wild, untamed, impotent fury

swept through his head, sweeping away all thought, all reason. Words,

foul, blasphemous, raving, leaped to his tongue and found expression.

He cursed the Indian; he cursed the woman, the dogs, the sled. He

cursed the storm and the country. He cursed furiously, impotently every

form of life that came within the range of his distorted vision. He

cursed his God.

CHAPTER III

THE DRIVING FORCE

Through the tattered pinewood branches the northern sun's cold rays

sought to light the gloomy aisles below. It was like the furtive

peeping of curious eyes into mysteries forbidden. On the ragged

outskirts its staring light had power; but within the dim recesses it

was swallowed up, devoured by the impenetrable gloom of ages, where the

woodland depths refused to yield their secrets.

Yet these woods were the haven of many a weary traveler. Since ever the

foot of man had trod the watershed, none had failed to seek shelter

amid these stately shadows; and at all times they lent a sure retreat

before winter's storms to the lesser animal life. No storm could search

the deepening valleys; no blizzard could more than stir the mighty

canopy; no roar of wind could break the grave-like silence, just as no

sunlight had ever yet solved the riddle of its impenetrable heart.

Two men and a woman sat huddled over a crackling fire, at a spot where

dozens of fires had burned before. It was cold, bitterly cold, even

here where the fierce winds had scarcely power to stir the air. But,

even so, the cold could not add one iota to the icy misery of, at

least, two of those who watched the miserable effort of the fire to

achieve where ages of sunlight had failed.

Beyond the rays of the firelight the meager paraphernalia of a camp

loomed up in the twilight. A low tent of rough-tanned hides had been

carefully pitched. It was a stout enough shelter of crude Indian

workmanship, and it doubtless served its purpose well in a land of

storm such as these northern heights of the world. Near by was an

up-turned sled in the course of repair, and again the stout crudeness

of workmanship bespoke the Indian hand. The long, rawhide traces were

strung out upon the bed of pine-cones and needles which covered the

ground, just where the harness had been flung from the shoulders of the

weary dogs, who squatted about between their human masters, staring and

blinking at the pleasant warmth of the fire with luxurious confidence.

The men were silent, and the woman watched one of them with anxious,

troubled eyes. She was longing to speak, to say something that might

salve the wounded heart of her lover. But there was nothing, nothing,

she knew, that would ease his pain, and restore to his burning,

despairing eyes their wonted look of masterful confidence. She knew

that, for the time, at least, hope had been hurled from its high

pedestal in his heart, and it was beyond her puny woman's strength to

restore it to its setting. She yearned to comfort as only a loving

woman can, but she was far too well versed in the curiosities of Leo's

dominant, almost violent nature, not to realize the futility of such an

effort.

So she watched him with hopeless gaze. She saw the fixed stare of his

bloodshot eyes boring unseeingly into the pitiful embers of fire. She

saw the thick veins standing out upon his temples, and understood the

passionate regret and resentment driving him; and as she watched these

things, estimating them in her own timid way, she wondered and marveled

at the power of gold upon the human heart, and at the terrible effect

its loss could have on a strong man's mind.

While she watched the brooding figure her mind went back to the moment

of disaster when the sled had fallen. For just as long as she lived

those moments would remain vividly in her memory. When Leo had

discovered that half the load had torn itself from its fastenings, and

had been swallowed up by yawning depths below he went suddenly

demented. She knew it. Never in her life had she witnessed so dreadful

a change in anybody. Even now the impotent, almost idiotic ravings and

cursings of the man rang in her ears. It was terrible. She shuddered at

the recollection. Then what followed was no less horrible to one who

had always known her lover for a sober-minded, purposeful man. In the

midst of the storm, with the wind raging about them, and the gray fog

blinding their eyes, he had stood by threatening her, and refusing to

raise a hand in the task of saving the wreck with its remaining half of

the cargo.

The toil of those hours. The weary hopeless toil. And it had been

accomplished by the Indian and herself under the shadow of this man's

insane threats against them both. Once during their struggle, just when

the sled was almost within reach of safety she had been driven in

self-defence, and in defence of the faithful Si-wash, to hold the

maniac at bay under cover of a revolver, whilst the task was completed.

Her life had been strangely checkered, she had passed through many

adventures that rarely befall a woman belonging to the life of

civilized communities, but the worst moments she had ever known were

incomparable with that struggle on the brink of, for all she knew, an

unfathomable chasm.

The shadow of that struggle was still upon her. She could not shake it

off. She was dreading every passing moment, longing to hear the calm

tones of her lover she was used to, but fearing lest the insanity

inspired by the loss of his gold had not yet passed.

So she waited, watching, watching for the sign that was to tell her of

the easing of the straining brain, watching the dreadful stare of his

eyes, as they gazed upon nothing of what they beheld, with a brain lost

in a terrible contemplation of the hideous thoughts passing behind them.

Si-wash was silent, too. But that was his way, the way of his race. His

impassive face yielded no indication of what was passing behind it. If

he feared his companion's mood he gave no sign. Possibly he did not.

Possibly he realized that here, here on the wild, chaotic trail he was

master; certainly that his chances were equal with the other.

The fire burned low. Si-wash kicked the embers together with his

moccasined foot. Then he rose and shuffled to the wood pile and

replenished it. For a moment he watched the flicker of the flames as

they licked round the dead, inflammable bark, and in desperation Audie

broke the awful silence.

"When'll the sled be ready for the road again?" she demanded, without

serious interest.

Si-wash's eyes drifted to the cumbersome vehicle.

"I finish him two days," he said, holding up two fingers to impress his

assurance upon her.

"Most of the food was saved," Audie went on. "It was the other things

that were lost."

The Indian nodded.

"Sure. We freeze but for fire. Him cook-pots go. Only one him saved.

Blanket him go. So him go the----"

"Go and get wood, you red son-of-a-moose," cried Leo with sudden

vehemence. "Don't stand there yapping like a yellow cur."

The man's bloodshot eyes blazed up furiously into the Indian's face.

For a moment Audie feared another outbreak such as she had witnessed

before. She even feared for Si-wash's wretched life. But the Indian

understood his companion's mood and moved silently off to obey. He

admitted to himself that the man was mad; and he had a curious dread of

people who were possessed of such a devil.

Leo watched him disappear in the gloom of the woods. Then he turned

back impatiently to the fire. He hunched himself up, resting his chin

upon his hands, and his elbows on his knees. The mention of their

losses had again driven him hard, but, curiously enough, now the eyes

of the watching woman saw that his mood had changed for the better. His

were less straining, and the veins of his temples no longer stood out

like twisted cords. She began to hope. She felt, dangerous as it might

seem, that it would be far better that he should talk, whatever pain

such talk might cost her. Far better than that he should sit silently

nursing his despair.

The idea became fixed in her mind, and she cast about for an opening.

Her instinct belonged to her sex; she knew, none better, the burden of

dreary thoughts hugged to a silent bosom. It was difficult. Leo was at

all times aloof. His armor of reserve left her still a stranger to his

inmost feelings and thoughts, so that she scarcely knew how to approach

the task she contemplated.

She was spared her trouble, however. It was Leo who at last broke the

silence and made possible that very purpose the contemplation of which

filled her with so much doubt. He stirred, and swiftly aimed a vicious

kick at a log protruding from the embers of the fire. The response was

a shower of sparks flying upward. Then he turned to her and began

talking rapidly.

"I--I sometimes feel as if I could blame you for all--this," he began,

in a low, harsh tone. "But I don't. I've still got sense enough for

that. And it's lucky--lucky for you."

The woman's face paled under the beaver cap pressed low down upon her

head. The threat was the more terrible for the simplicity of the manner

in which he uttered it.

"How could I be responsible?" she asked, while her heart chilled within

her.

"How?" Leo laughed without mirth. "I tell you I don't blame you--and

yet I might. I did not intend to make this journey in winter."

Audie understood. She knew he was making this journey for her sake.

Therefore she remained silent. How could she deny the blame, which, she

knew in her heart, he set at her door?

"Say, I wonder if you know what this means to us--to me," he went on,

in a tone of suppressed passion. "No, you don't--you can't. Guess it's

not likely. You just remember we've still enough food for the journey

which is to bring us where your child can be born in--in decency. You

know we have no money. But that don't mean a thing to you, because you

guess there's a man's hand ready to get busy in your service. You've no

thought for anything else, because--because I guess you're a woman."

He caught his breath sharply as though laboring under a stab of intense

bodily pain.

Then he laughed a short harsh laugh.

"If you could only look into my brain--my heart--my feelings, maybe

you'd realize something of the destruction that's been done there by

the loss of my gold. Oh, I'm no miser, greedily hungering after the

precious stuff. It's not that." He paused and looked steadily at her.

"I s'pose you can't realize what it means to have the concentrated

hopes of years suddenly dashed to a thousand atoms. No, course you

can't. You can't see, you can't feel these things, because you have

never got up against those hills of success, which confront every man

of purpose who's determined to cut himself a path which is to lead him

right up to the--top of things. I've got busy that way, and the walls

have fallen in and well nigh broke me up. That's what's happened. But

I'm not down and out--yet. Not quite. No. I want to get right up and

hurt some one in return. I want to hit out and--hurt. I want to do

things by way of--retaliation. Guess there's nothing to--to retaliate

on but those very walls that have so nearly crushed me.

"That's the way I'm feeling now. But I don't guess it's all. Not by a

sight. Guess I've been well nigh mad. Maybe I was mad. I don't know. I

don't care. Anyway I am mad no longer. How long my sanity will last I

can't say. All I know is I daren't look back. If I did--well, I

wouldn't gamble a heap on the result. No, I got to look forward. Maybe

that'll save me."

Audie nodded. The fear of him was dying out of her.

"I think I understand--all," she said, in a low voice. "Yes, look

ahead, it will be best for you. Don't let thought of our--our boy

concern you now; forget everything--but that goal you spoke of."

Just for a moment the man's eyes softened. He was not insensible to the

utter self-effacement in the woman's desire to help and comfort. But

they hardened again almost at once.

"I'm not going to let--anything--interfere," he said almost brutally.

"My plans are fixed. Now listen. To-morrow I get right back to

Sixty-mile Creek. Anyway I start out for it. I'll have to go on foot.

Maybe I shan't ever reach it. Anyway that don't matter. If I do I'll

remain there until I have washed up as much gold as I have lost. It may

take a year--two--three. It don't matter how long."

"But----" Audie broke in with wide, horrified eyes.

Leo stopped her with a swift gesture.

"It's no use shouting," he said harshly. "I tell you my mind's made up.

You'll go on down to the coast with Si-wash. You'll be able to get the

help you need there."

"Yes, yes, I can manage. I can get to my sister in San Sabatano."

"Good. You'll go on then. I can trust Si-wash. He's been paid. You'll

have food enough, and you'll travel light. If he fails you, and I

survive, if I hunt the world over I'll kill him."

Audie's eyes lit. It was the one expression of feeling Leo had

displayed which she could take to herself.

"Then afterwards--God knows when--I'll come and marry you. It's the

best we can do. It's all I can promise. We're plumb up against it.

Whatever happens, I'm going to marry you. That goes."

Audie breathed a deep sigh of heartfelt gratitude. The ice had been

broken. She knew that Leo's mental balance was restored. It mattered

nothing to her at that moment that she had to face the world alone with

her burden of motherhood. It mattered nothing that the shame she had so

dreaded was still to be hers. The future had no longer any terrors for

her. How should it? The man she had always known had once more resumed

sway in the mind so recently distracted to the verge of madness. Her

lover was once more the ruthless, powerful creature she had followed

into the wilderness, was ready to follow into the wilderness again if

he would only permit her.

"Must I--must I go on to the coast? Is there need?" she said, in a low,

pleading voice, after a moment's silence. "If you are going back,

cannot I go back, too? There's the sled. Why go on foot? Let me return

with you, Leo."

The man shook his head, and his negative was as irrevocable as any

spoken words. If he understood the devotion prompting her he gave no

sign.

"Your life shan't be risked that way," he said. "The child must be born

where you can get help. That's--our duty. It's my duty that you reach

the coast in safety as far as the matter is humanly possible.

Si-wash'll have to fix that. After that I'm helpless--I haven't a cent

in the world or I would give it you. You'll have to go on to the coast,

and I--I return alone."

Audie bowed her head submissively. She knew he was right under the

existing circumstances. Anyway, right or wrong, she was ready to submit

to his will. More than that she was glad to do so. Her big eyes stared

thoughtfully into the blaze of the fire. There was no more to be said.

She was content to sit there in silence, dreaming her dreams; those

dreams which the silent northern world so mysteriously fosters, to

cover up its own nakedness and make life possible upon its sterile

bosom.

Later on the shuffling of Si-wash's moccasins scrunching upon the

pine-cones made itself heard. He came with a great load of firewood

upon his broad back. Leo watched him deposit it and replenish the fire.

Then Audie set about preparing a meal, and the dogs were fed from the

store of frozen fish, which, by a trick of Fate, had been saved in

preference to their precious store of gold. After that, as the twilit

woods were swallowed up in the darkness of night, Audie vanished into

the tent, and was seen no more.

The solitude of the tent was preferable to the silence round the fire.

She had permitted her lover to dispose of her life as he chose, but she

passionately longed to return with him to the north, whatever the

dangers to herself and her unborn child. All she cared for was this

hard, unyielding man. So long as she had him she could think of and

consider those other things which now seemed so small in her life.

Without him they were utterly swallowed up by the desolation of all her

thoughts and feelings. She wanted him. She wanted this love of hers.

Nothing else in the wide world really mattered. He was going out of her

life. She knew it. She knew more. He was going out of her life for

ever. It was a haunted, despairing woman that sought the warm furs

which the man had given up to her use. And the eyes that finally closed

in slumber were stained with tears wrung from the very depths of her

warm, foolish heart.

For long hours after the woman's eyes had closed in troubled sleep the

two men hugged the warmth of the fire. They had neither blanket nor

bed. All that had been saved had been given to the woman. The fire

stood between them and the bitter cold of the northern night, and

beside it was their couch of rotting pine-cones. But they were hardened

to the deadly winter, and, so long as they could keep the frost out of

their flesh, nothing much mattered.

They smoked in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts; and it was

nearly midnight when Si-wash gave his friend the benefit of his

profound cogitations.

He had just replenished the fire, and finally drawn up the broken sled

as an added protection against the bitter breath of the night breezes.

Then he returned to his place and squatted upon his haunches, hugging

his knees with his clasped hands, while he puffed at the reeking black

clay pipe which, in the manner of his race, protruded from the center

of his mouth.

"I mak 'em long piece way. No plenty wood. I mak 'em mile--two mile."

Si-wash held up two fingers.

Leo looked up quickly at this breaking of the silence.

"Sure," he said. "Wood scarce."

Si-wash nodded.

"Plenty scarce." Then after a long pause: "Other man find him. Burn 'em

all up."

Leo eyed his companion. Then he grinned unpleasantly.

"Guess there's only one damn-fool outfit on this trail--hereabouts----"

The Indian went on smoking, and nearly a minute passed before he shot a

quick, sidelong glance at his white friend.

"No. Two," he said; and the inevitable two fingers were thrust up again

before Leo's eyes.

It was the white man's turn to pause before replying now.

"Two?" he said, half incredulously.

The Indian nodded, and again held up two fingers.

"How d'you know?" Leo's question came sharply.

"Smoke," returned the Indian; and his one hand described a series of

circles upwards.

"You mean--a camp fire? Where?"

Leo was more than interested.

"So. Back there. Big piece. One--two--three mile." Si-wash held up

three fingers in deliberate succession.

Leo's interest seemed to suddenly die out. He had no further questions

to ask; and, a moment later, he leaned forward and knocked the ashes

from his pipe. Then he rose and moved over to the sled. Here he sat

down and supported his back against an iron strut, and stretched his

legs out beside the fire. In a few moments he was asleep.

Si-wash remained where he was. He made no preparations for sleep; but

he slept, every now and then waking up to replenish the fire. And so

the long hours crept on toward the gray dawn.

*****

Daylight had come. Leo yawned and stretched his cramped limbs. Si-wash

was still beside the fire. He had melted a pot of snow, the only pot

that had been saved from wreck on the hillside. He was making tea,

boiling it, as is the fashion of all Indians. The smell of it pervaded

the camp and reminded Leo that he was hungry.

In half an hour breakfast was over, and Si-wash proceeded with his work

on the sled. Audie waited for the commands of her lover. But none were

forthcoming. For a long time Leo sat lost in thought, watching the

skillful fingers of the Indian at his work, while the fierce sled dogs

fought and played around in their untamed, savage way.

The man's expression was quite inscrutable. He was thinking neither of

the Indian nor his work. His mind was on other matters, matters which

set him puzzling and speculating.

At last he rose and picked up the rawhide rope, which was lying beside

the diminished wood pile. He stood for a moment contemplating it. Then

he absently stretched it out on his powerful hands, and finally coiled

it up.

"Guess I'll climb around and gather wood. So long, Audie," he said

briefly.

The next moment the girl's longing eyes were watching his retreating

figure as the gray distance swallowed it up.

For a long time she stood thus. Then she started and looked around. It

was the Indian's voice that had startled her.

"Him heap good feller. Him no come back bimeby."

The girl's eyes widened with sudden fear.

"What do you mean?" she demanded, with a clutching at her heart.

The Indian's features relaxed into something approaching a smile.

"Him crazy, sure!"

CHAPTER IV

LEO

Leo gazed about him as he left the woodland shadows behind. All sign of

the recent blizzard had passed. The world was white, cold, and bathed

in the gleaming sunlight of the northern winter. The air was warmer

than it had been for days, an unusual phenomenon after such a storm.

For a moment his unexpressive eyes lifted to the shining sky. There was

nothing to suggest anything in the nature of one of those rapid changes

of weather so much a feature of winter in this region, and the prospect

seemed to satisfy him. From the sky his glance drifted to the jagged

horizon, and here it searched closely in every direction. For a long

time he stood studying every rise and depression in the glacial ocean

of hills and valleys; then, slowly, his interest began to wane.

Now a definite disappointment became apparent in the frown that

depressed his strong brows. He moved out from the edge of the woods and

skirted them until a fresh vista of bald, snow-clad hills presented

themselves to his searching eyes. For a time his scrutiny lacked

something of its original interest. Then, quite suddenly, it became

fixed on one spot, a deep depression, shadowed, and definitely marked,

an almost black patch in the white setting of the surrounding world.

In a moment all his interest had revived, and he concentrated all his

efforts to read the meaning of that which he beheld.

"He wasn't lying, after all," he muttered at last. And his words gave a

key to his recent moments of waning interest.

He knew that the black patch he was looking at was a bluff of woods

lying in the narrow valley between two high hills, a bluff of woods

such as those which lay behind him. Whether they were larger, or just a

small, isolated cluster of trees did not concern him. He was watching a

spiral of thin smoke, a faint shadow against the dark backing, as it

floated upwards and drifted away, quite invisible after it broke the

sky line. He knew that this was the smoke Si-wash had told him of. He

knew, as Si-wash had known, that it was the smoke of a camp fire. He

wondered whose, and, wondering, he moved out without any hesitation in

its direction, determined to ascertain whose hand had lit the fire; a

matter which had seemed all unnecessary to the Indian's mind.

Just for a moment he glanced again at the sun, and took his bearings.

Si-wash had said three miles at most. Three miles; it was little enough

to concern himself about. He knew that unless he encountered

unlooked-for difficulties he would be able to cover the distance, and

make the return journey in less than four hours.

So he set off, adopting a course much as the crow might fly. That was

his way in all things. He rarely sought to spare himself by seeking the

easier route in anything. His goal always assumed a definite point

straight ahead of him, so why make the journey longer for the sake of a

little ease? Time enough for such deviations when stress of

circumstances demanded.

His way took him down a long, easy slope, where, at moments, banks of

snow mounted up to many feet in height, and at others the earth lay

bare, swept clear by the force of the recent storm. Then it was

possible for him to travel swiftly, nor was he put to inconvenience

from the fact that he was without his snowshoes.

The depression was quickly passed and terminated in the abrupt rise of

a low bald hill whose base was surrounded by a low, shabby scrub. At

first glance the hill had a curious resemblance to a monk's shaven

crown, but a closer inspection revealed that here was one of those

broken hills suggesting the ruin of a one-time magnificent mountain,

which must have succumbed under the fierce blastings of one of Nature's

passionate moments. The bald crown was a broken sea of torn and riven

rocks, which might well have been the result of gigantic operations

with dynamite.

The obstruction gave him no pause. Again deviation never entered his

head. With infinite purpose he attacked the ascent which amounted to a

laborious and even perilous struggle. There was no faltering, and soon

he was so far involved that any thought of yielding to the difficulties

he encountered became quite out of the question. To return would have

been far more difficult than to continue the advance.

The ascent occupied an hour of great physical effort, but at last he

stood at the summit breathing hard from his exertions. Here he paused

and surveyed the distance. Again was it characteristic of him that he

had no longer interest in his immediate surroundings, or the

difficulties he had already surmounted. His whole thought was for that

which lay ahead, for those difficulties which still remained to be

overcome.

The descent of the hill, though it appeared to be no mean

accomplishment, was far shorter, and far less abrupt than the upward

climb had been. Nor was he sorry for the respite, while still there was

no shrinking in him from whatever hazard Nature might have chosen to

offer. He had calculated that such was the case, for the whole trend of

the land was upward, bearing on up to the crystal peak between which

the crowding woodland ahead lay pinched. His eyes wandered on with his

thoughts which carried him out in the direction of the tiny ribbon of

smoke, still gently rising from the heart of the woods to vanish in the

sparkling air above.

He remained for one brief moment while he made a rough estimate of the

distance he had yet to go; then, without wasting a precious moment, he

dropped upon the first rugged step of the descent. The work was harder

than might have been expected, far harder. And the rope he had brought

with him frequently stood him in good stead while making those big

drops, which, from the distance, seemed so insignificant and easy. But

it was never his way to consider difficulties seriously until he found

himself in their midst. At all times the needs of the moment were

sufficient, and he was firm in the belief that there was no difficulty

in human life where an advantageous way out did not lay waiting for the

seeker. His mood was the dogged persistence which urges a man on

without consideration or thought for anything else in the world but his

own all-mastering purpose.

It was this mood which had first driven him to the northern wilderness,

where he hoped to acquire the necessary foundations for his fortune in

the least possible time. It was this intensity of purpose which had

blinded him to the possibilities of burdening himself with the care of

a woman. It was this crude driving force which, in face of stupendous

difficulties, not to say impossibilities, had decided him to return on

foot to Sixty-mile Creek. These things were part of the man. He could

not help them.

So it was in the case of his search for this mysterious camp. He was

urged to make it, irresistibly urged, and he could have given no

definite reasons for his actions.

Slowly there came a change in the man's whole attitude. It was a subtle

change, and one wholly unrealized by himself. As he gained way over the

broken path before him a strange eagerness became apparent in all his

movements, in his expression, in the quick, searching glance of his

eyes. The deliberate manner in which he had made the ascent now gave

way to an impatient eagerness which frequently placed him at

considerable risk, and even peril. Often, where the slower process of

the rope's assistance would have been safest, he trusted to hands and

feet, and even to a jump, with a considerable uncertainty as to where

he was going to land. But he took the risks, urged on by this strange,

unacknowledged desire to reach his destination quickly.

The broken hill was left behind him after less than an hour's hard

struggle; and when, at last, he stood upon the comparatively smooth

upland, with the distant fringe of woodlands high up above him, he

realized that his estimate, as had been Si-wash's, of the distance, was

considerably at fault. He had still full three miles to go amidst the

hills and valleys made by snow banks swept up by the storm, before the

mystery of that thread of smoke could be fully solved.

But the way was easy, and he hurried on. The brief day was passing

rapidly. Strangely enough all thought of time had passed from him. It

no longer occurred to him that he had to return to his own camp to make

his preparations for his contemplated journey back to the creek. He had

become solely absorbed with the quest in hand. That, and that alone,

seemed to matter.

Half an hour's tramping brought him within full and intimate view of

the edge of the woods; and, as he drew near, a further change crept

into his manner. Once he paused, more than half hidden by a snow bank,

and gazed up at the towering crests of the aged pines. He was

impressed. These woods were of far greater extent than those which had

served him as a shelter from the storm. They towered dizzily, and

spread out an immense distance along the sides of the two mountains,

between which they had seemed so pinched; and somehow their immensity

depressed him with a feeling of the smallness of human life.

It was from this moment that the fresh change in him took place. He

left the shelter of the snow bank with a curious crouching gait, and

eyes furtively watchful. The reason of the change was quite unapparent,

even to himself. He knew that he was searching for a sight of

fellow-creatures; but what he did not know was that it was inspired by

an active instinct to avoid contact.

He crept on from the shelter of one snow bank to the shelter of

another. He moved along over the shallows of snow so that his

moccasined feet gave out no sound. And his whole progress bespoke an

almost frantic desire that his approach should not be witnessed from

the woods.

Nearer and nearer he drew, and, as the shadows came down toward him,

his pace increased almost to a run. Finally the last sheltering snow

bank was left behind and a low broken scrub replaced it. He breathed a

deep sigh; the sigh of a man who is relieved beyond words. The gray,

familiar gloom of the forest overshadowed him, and he was content. Just

for a few moments he paused for breath. Then his restless spirit urged

him on, and, plunging forward, the solemn twilight of the forest

swallowed him up.

For quite a while he hurried on like a flitting shadow in the midst of

a world of shadows. Then, finally, he paused listening. The grave-like

silence was quite unbroken by any sign of life. Nothing came to him

stirring the echoes of that ages-old world. He strained hard for some

familiar sound that might guide him to the spot where the mysterious

camp lay. But no such sound was forthcoming.

CHAPTER V

THE SHADOW OF DEATH

A deep stillness prevailed while the man stood in profound

contemplation of the figure beneath the covering of furs. The silent

woods suggested the calm of a shadowed sepulcher. The shrouded figure

lying at his feet completed the suggestion.

Tug's eyes, if unsympathetic, were at least anxious. The sunken

features of his companion filled him with a curious feeling of

superstitious awe at the stealing, subtle approach of death. Death, in

the abstract, had no terrors for him. The sight of a life suddenly

jolted out of earthly existence would have disturbed him not at all;

but this steady march, this almost imperceptible progress, stirred

those feelings of superstition which underlie all human life.

He noted the hungry shadows of an unearthly blue which surrounded the

sunken eyes, and filled the hollow sockets. The greenish tinge in the

pallid flesh revolted him; the lips, so drawn, with all their ruddy

ripeness gone, left him with a feeling of positive nausea; while the

utter helplessness in the way the trunk collapsed beyond the rough

pillow supporting the lolling head, left him shrinking at the thought

of the speeding life whose ebb he was powerless to check.

Well enough he knew that death was hovering well within sight. Poor

Charlie, the companion of his fortunes, was rapidly passing away. There

was no help he could bestow, no real help. All he could do was to

minister to each whim expressed in the thin, struggling voice; for the

rest the march of Death must go on. For many days the end had been

steadily approaching, and now the icy breath in the shadow of Death's

hovering wings seemed to add a chill to the wintry air, and freeze up

the heart in his own robust body.

Tug's expression was one of hopeless incompetence. He wondered, as he

had wondered for days, what he could do to help the sufferer. He knew

that pneumonia had laid its clutch upon the poor wretch's lungs, and

all treatment for it was a riddle to which he found no answer.

His eyes lifted from the dying man, and he stared about him vaguely.

They took in the squatting dogs, reveling in the comfort of the

flickering firelight, well sheltered from the breath of winter by the

canvas screen he had erected to shelter his sick companion. The sight

of these luxuriating beasts annoyed him; and, with a vicious kick at

the nearest, he sent them scuttling into the background.

Then he glanced at his diminished store of wood. Here lay the only

service his helplessness permitted his thought to rise to. Yes, he

could still strive to keep the cold, that stealing cold which Charlie

had cried out against so bitterly, that cold which he had declared had

eaten into his very bones, from his dying friend. So he moved over to

the pile and replenished the fire with liberal hand, till the last

stick in his store had found its way to the hungry flames. Then, with a

curious patience, almost gentleness, he once more tried to administer

the fragrant, but less savory soup, which was always kept simmering in

the boiler on the fire.

It was curious to watch this powerful specimen of virile, unsympathetic

manhood endeavoring to assume the indescribable gentleness of the

nurse. It fitted him as ill as anything well could, yet he did his

best. And no one knew better than he that his patient was beyond such

clumsy, well-meaning efforts. The lips remained closed, as did the

sunken eyes, and no words of rough encouragement seemed to penetrate to

the dull brain behind them.

At last Tug put the pannikin aside, and dropped the tin spoon with a

clatter. He could do no more. Again he rose to his feet and stood

helplessly by.

"Poor devil," he muttered. "His number's plumb up."

At the sound of his voice there came a slight movement of the lolling

head. Then the great eyes opened slowly, and stared up at the muttering

man in an uncanny, unseeing fashion.

"Sure."

The one word, spoken in the faintest of whispers, told Tug that the

dying man's intellect remained unimpaired, and the knowledge left him

annoyed with himself that he had spoken aloud.

"I'm kind of sorry, Charlie," he blundered. "I didn't just guess you

could hear."

"I've--known it--days." The other struggled painfully with his words.

Tug had no answer for him, and Charlie went on in his halting fashion.

"It--don't--matter. I was thinking of my--folks."

"Sure. I know." Tug sighed in a relief he could not have explained.

He waited.

For some time the sick man made no answer. It almost seemed as if his

straining intellect had been overtaxed, for the glazing eyes remained

immovable, and, to the waiting man, he might have been already dead.

He bent over him, his anxiety driving him to reassure himself. It was

his movement that again broke the deathly spell. Slowly a gleam of

intelligence struggled into the staring eyes, and the man's lips moved.

"It's my share--my--share--of the gold." He gave a short quick gasp. "I

want them--to--have--it. It--was--for them."

Tug nodded.

"I know. You always said you wanted it for your folks. I'll--see they

get it. Is--there anything else?"

"No. Say----"

Tug waited. As the silence remained he urged the dying man.

"Yes?"

"It's no good. They--they--won't--get--it."

"What d'you mean--they won't get it?" Tug's face flushed. He felt that

his promise was doubted. A promise given in all good faith, and under

the spell of that dreadful thrill, which never fails to make itself

felt in a promise to the dying. "I've given my word. Isn't that

sufficient?"

"Sure. But----" The man broke off gasping.

After a while the struggle eased and his whispering voice became

querulous.

"It's--it's--cold. The--the fire's going--out."

Tug glanced quickly at the fire. It was burning brightly. Then he

remembered he had used up the last of the fuel.

From the fire he turned to the dying man again. He understood. It was

the march of Death, that cold he complained of. His hard face struggled

painfully for an expression of sympathy.

"Yes," he said. "I'll go and collect more wood. I--I didn't notice the

fire going down. We must keep the cold out of you."

The lolling head made a negative movement.

"You--can't. It's--it's--all--over me. I'll----" Another shuddering

sigh, half shiver, half gasping for breath, passed through the man's

body. Then the thin eyelids closed, and no effort on Tug's part could

produce any further sign of life.

For a long time he endeavored, striving by words of encouragement to

persuade the weary eyes to open. But they remained obstinately shut.

The man's breathing was of the faintest, too; a sign which Tug felt was

full of omen. He hated his own helplessness; and he cursed under his

breath the madness of his attempt to save his companion by making this

wild journey. Back there on Sixty-mile Creek he felt that though the

man had been doomed, this sudden collapse into pneumonia might have

been averted. He had been foolish, criminally foolish to make this mad

attempt; and yet----

He moved away. No, he could do nothing else, so he might just as well

go and gather wood. He had half the day in front of him. It would be

better to do something useful than to remain there watching and talking

to a man practically dead. Anyway it would be more wholesome. He knew

that the dread of Charlie's death was growing on him. For some

unaccountable reason it was attacking his nerves. The woods seemed to

be haunted with strange shadows he had never felt the presence of

before. He must certainly get to work.

From the far side of the fire he glanced back at the ominous pile of

blankets and furs. He saw the man's head move. It lolled over to the

other side. It was the only sign of life he gave. The eyes remained

closed, and the ashen lips were tightly shut.

The movement, the vision of that deathly figure suddenly set the strong

man's skin creeping. He hurried away, almost precipitately.

CHAPTER VI

ALL-MASTERING PASSION

Not a movement disturbed the tomb-like peace of the aged woods; no

sound broke the profound silence. It was as if even Nature herself were

held in supreme awe of the presence of Death.

In the absence of all restraint Tug's dogs crept toward the fire, and

crouched within the radius of its pleasant warmth, their great muzzles

resting between outstretched paws, their fierce eyes staring steadily

at the ruddy flicker of the leaping flames. Maybe they were dreaming of

those savage ancestors from whom they sprang; maybe memories of fierce

battles, of gluttonous orgies, of desperate labors, were crowding

pleasantly under the charm of the moment's ease. But twitching ears

bespoke that curious canine alertness which is never relaxed.

The moments passed rapidly; moments of delight which rarely fall to the

lot of the wolfish trail dog. It was an oasis of leisure in lives spent

betwixt the labor of the trail and the settling of fierce quarrels,

which, to the human mind, possess no apparent cause.

Then again, in the briefest of seconds, the whole scene was changed. It

came as one of the dogs lifted its head gazing intently at the pile of

furs under which the sick man lay.

It was a tense moment. Every muscle in the creature's powerful body was

set quivering, and a strange, half pathetic, half savage whimper

escaped its twitching nostrils. Every head about the fire was abruptly

lifted, every ear was set pricked alertly, and each pair of fierce eyes

stared hard in a similar direction.

There was no sign of movement among the furs, no change of any sort,

nothing whatsoever to arouse such tense ferocity, even alarm. But those

things were there in every eye, in the pose of each savage creature, in

the slow rising of harsh manes until they bristled high upon every

shoulder.

One dog rose to its feet.

Each dog rose slowly in turn; slowly and watchfully. And now a further

change became apparent in their attitudes. All ferocity suddenly died

out, leaving only alarm, a desperate, currish terror. Manes still

bristled like the teeth of fine combs, but ears were flattened to

lowered heads, and great whipping tails curled under, between crouching

hind legs, while lifted lips left gleaming fangs displayed in currish

snarls.

Yet the sick man's bed at which they stared still remained undisturbed.

The man beneath the blankets had not stirred. He was still, so still.

It was as if these brutish eyes beheld something invisible to the human

eye; something which crushed their hearts under an overwhelming burden

of fear.

For nearly a minute the statue-like tenseness of attitude remained.

Then the spell was broken. One dog, the largest of all, the leader of

the team, the oldest in the craft of the trail, oldest in years, and,

possibly, far the oldest in canine wisdom, squatted upon its haunches

and licked its lips. One by one the rest followed its example, and,

finally, with sighs as of relief, they returned again to their

luxurious basking in the firelight.

But the leader did not attempt to return to the charmed circle of the

fire. It seemed as if he realized a sense of responsibility. Presently

he rose, and, with gingerly tiptoeing, moved away from his companions.

He edged warily toward the sick man's bed. He drew near, snuffing at

the air, ready to draw back instantly should his wisdom so prompt him.

Nearer and nearer he drew, and with lowered muzzle he snuffed at the

edge of the bed. With stealthy, creeping gait he made his way toward

the pillow, snuffing as he went. Then, as his greenish eyes rested upon

the man's lolling head, he again squatted upon his haunches and licked

his lips. The next moment a low whimper broke the silence. It grew

louder. Finally the dog's great head was lifted, its muzzle was thrown

high into the air, and the whimper was changed into a long-drawn-out

howl of amazing piteousness. It was doling the death warning of its

race.

A chorus of whimpered acknowledgment came from the fire. The other dogs

stirred restlessly, but that was all. The fire was too pleasant, such

moments as were just now theirs were all too few in their laborious

lives for them to emulate the mourning of their leader. So they

resettled themselves and went on with their dreaming.

Then the mourner gave up his office. This tacit refusal to join him had

rendered his position untenable. So, not without resentment in his

heart, he, too, returned to the fire, and, with a sense of duty duly

performed, once more buried his nose between his paws, and gave himself

up to profound meditation.

But it was not for long. Within five minutes every dog was on his feet

again thrilling with a wild feeling of passionate resentment. There was

no mistaking their mood at this fresh disturbance. There was no craven

slinking, there were no currish snarls. Each dog was on his toes ready

to battle with a tangible foe, such as they now anticipated.

For some moments the reason of the disturbance was not apparent. Their

supersensitive hearing reached beyond the range of that of their human

masters. But at last the sound of muffled footsteps awoke dimly the

echoes of the woods. A man was approaching. He was walking swiftly,

moving along with the soft crunch of hurrying, moccasined feet.

His shadowy figure loomed up out of the gray twilight of the woods;

and, just beyond the camp, he halted and hurled a string of deep-voiced

curses at the growling dogs. Instantly the chorus of canine displeasure

ceased, and the creatures backed away from the forbidden pleasures of

the fire. These animals acknowledged no definite master, but they

obeyed man. For such was their teaching upon the trail.

Now the man came on fearlessly, searching the camp with quick, furtive

eyes that had no scruples. It seemed deserted, except for the dogs, the

memory of whose presence about the fire further convinced him that it

must be so. Without hesitation he began a closer examination; and the

first thing to interest him was the sled, with its rough harness spread

out just where the dogs had been freed from their traces. Instant

recognition leaped into his eyes.

"Tug's!" he murmured. Then, after a pause, he added, "I wonder."

His interest rose swiftly, and his quick-moving eyes passed on to the

bed, with its pile of furs. Just for a moment he hesitated. It was

almost as if some premonition of what lay beneath them gave him pause.

Then, with a movement almost of defiance, he stepped toward it and

dropped on one knee beside the pillow. Again there came a pause, but

his turned ear explained it. He was listening. Listening for the sound

of breathing. But no sound came to him; and, at last, with no great

gentleness, he turned back the cover.

An ashen face with staring sightless eyes looked up into his; and for

long moments he remained bent over it, lost in a profound study of what

he beheld. Then slowly he raised one powerful hand, and, with something

like shrinking, pressed an outstretched finger against the dropped jaw.

It yielded to his touch, and the mouth shut, but the moment the

pressure was relaxed it slowly reopened, and resumed its deathly gape.

"Dead!" he muttered; and the meaning of the camp puzzled him no longer.

He raised his head and glanced from the empty sled, empty of all but

the store of dog food, to the tent, and a wild passionate light shone

in his eyes. His whole expression had changed, merged into one of

desperate desire. The dead man was instantly forgotten. All

speculations were forgotten for the moment, absorbed in the thought of

the possibility of the return of the living Tug. His busy brain was

full of excitement which set his pulses hammering, and the blood

rushing through his veins. But he had not stirred from his place beside

the dead.

He turned his head much in the manner of a man hunted, and dreading his

own shadow. His eyes peered out into the gray twilight of the forest.

He was listening, too. Listening for that sound which was to tell him

of the return of the owner of the camp. But no sound reached him. He

saw that the dogs had crawled back to the fire, and their attitude

further told him that they were still unaware of any approach.

His eyes came back to the tent and a torrent of thought poured its

flood through channels which seemed bursting under the sudden pressure;

and through it all passed a vague wonder as to what God or devil had

inspired him to seek out the mystery of this camp.

But he sought no answer. He desired no answer. He knew that an

irresistible passion was driving him, a passion he had no desire to

thwart, a passion he hugged to himself and whose influence warmed him

to an almost insane joy. And under its strange driving he became

active. A hundred thoughts swept through his brain, each finding

expression in his swiftly moving eyes.

Again he surveyed the camp. The dogs still hugged the now low-burning

fire. From the fire he turned to the spot where the fuel store had

evidently been kept. There was no more wood, and the axe was gone, and

thus he accounted for Tug's absence. Furthermore he understood that he

might return at any moment. Therefore if he were to act at all it must

be at once.

He rose to his feet and moved swiftly across to the tent, and as he

went the memory of all he had lost upon the trail swept over him. He

told himself he had been robbed, robbed just as surely as if human

hands had wrested from him the prize he had toiled so desperately to

win. This came in answer to the voice of conscience; but conscience had

no power against the driving force which was the whole substance of his

life. Some strange fate had driven him toward an opportunity that he

was not the man to miss. Charlie, that mild, harmless partner of Tug

was dead; and Tug--well, Tug was probably living, but he had never been

a friend of his. He had always felt subtly antagonistic toward him.

What mattered if--if he robbed him? Yes, that was what he intended. He

would rob him, and----

He raised the flap of the tent and passed within, letting the curtain

fall behind him.

Not a sound broke the stillness outside. The dogs stirred without

sound. Their ease was passing. It was almost as if they knew that the

law of club and trace was soon to claim them again.

In a few moments Leo reappeared. A fresh change had come over him. His

work was in full progress, and now the light in his eyes was less

straining, less passionate. Now he was once more the man of purpose,

keen, swift-thinking, ready. The passionate obsession that was his was

once more under control, its desire having been satisfied in the

acquisition of the bag of gold he now hugged in his arms. The keenest

essence of his thought was at work. Possibility after possibility

opened out in a series of pictures before his mind's eye, and, with

swift slashes, like the progress of the surgeon's knife, his brain cut

them about, extracting every detail of importance, assimilating the

living, the vital points.

Though powerless to resist the temptation held out to him, he knew full

well its meaning. He knew what possible consequences hovered on the

horizon of his future. The morality of his act concerned him not at

all, but those other considerations demanded his closest attention. All

his plans must be reorganized. Now there was no need to return for

laborious years on Sixty-mile Creek, and a great joy flooded his heart

at the thought. He could take up his plans where they had been broken

by the disaster in the storm. But there must be a difference. There

must be considerable modification. He thought of Audie, and at once the

necessary modifications unrolled before the keen pressure of thought he

was laboring under.

Audie and the Indian could still go on, he thought, as his eyes

surveyed the five great husky dogs with satisfaction All that had been

arranged for her could remain--for the present. She was still to remain

a part of his life. He had given his promise, and he was more than

satisfied to fulfill it when the time in his affairs came for such

fulfillment. Then there was Tug. Tug must be provided for; and as the

thought came to him a grim, half smile twisted the corners of his

compressed lips. Yes, he would leave him written instructions, which,

if he knew the man, would not be ignored.

These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind in the midst of action.

He saw the whole situation as plainly and simply as though Providence

itself had ordained the whole scheme. There was only one thing that

could upset it--Tug's premature return. But he set the thought aside.

He would not contemplate it. That must take care of itself. He would

deal with it when it occurred.

Reluctantly enough he bestowed Tug's store of gold upon the sled,

lashing it doubly secure after his disastrous experiences. Then he

stored bedding and food upon the vehicle. He provided a sufficient but

light enough load, for he knew he must travel fast and reach the coast

long before those others. Si-wash was behind him, and Si-wash knew

every inch of the trail, whereas he only had a vague knowledge which

might fail him at any moment.

Within half an hour the pack on the sled was complete, and the great

dogs stood in their harness ready to do the behests of their new master

as willingly as those of the old. But the last item of his program

still remained to be attended to. Leo searched his pockets and found

the stub of a pencil, but no paper rewarded his efforts. For a moment

he was at a loss. Then he bethought him of the tent, and passed beneath

the flap. In a few moments he returned with a sheet of waterproof

paper, such as is used to line biscuit boxes, and he sat down on his

pack and began to write. And all the time he was writing the grim twist

of his lips remained. He seemed to find some sort of warped humor in

what he was doing.

His writing finished he secured the paper on the front of the tent

where it must easily be seen. Then he stood off to read it.

"My Dear Tug;

"I find it necessary to commandeer your gold. Mine is at the bottom of

a precipice ten miles back, if you care to make the exchange. Si-wash

will tell you where. I suggest you either wait here till they come

along, or go back to my camp in the woods, beyond the broken hill, and

join Si-wash there. Anyway you can travel down with him. They have dogs

and camp outfit, and I have left here sufficient food, etc., for your

needs. I have found you a better friend than I ever hoped to. So long.

Good luck.

"Leo."

Leo read his note over with evident satisfaction. He had no scruples

whatever. He saw in one direction only. Straight ahead of him, his eyes

turning neither to the right nor to the left of the path of life he had

marked out for himself. He believed that the battle must always go to

the strong; sentimentality, pity, were feelings he did not acknowledge.

He knew of their existence, and deplored them as the undermining germ

responsible for the disease of decadence which has wrought the

destruction of more than half the great empires in the world's history.

And what the world's history had not taught him he had gleaned from the

lives of great men, as he saw greatness. Greatness to him meant

conquest, and the world's conquerors had been men utterly devoid of all

the tenderer feelings of humanity. They had embarked upon their careers

thrilling with the lust of the ancient savage, or the ruthless courage

of the animal kingdom, qualities which he regarded as the essence of

life, as Nature had intended it. So he gave himself up to a similar

course. He would rather be a king by savage conquest, than the

hereditary monarch of a race whose vitality is slowly being sapped by

the vampire of sentimentality.

He picked up Tug's gee-pole, and gave one swift final glance over the

camp. Then, stooping, he covered the staring face of the dead man with

a blanket and turned to the dogs.

A sharp command and the traces were drawn taut. Another, and the

journey had begun. The dogs, fresh from their week of idleness,

strained at their breast harness, and the sled moved slowly, heavily

over the dry bed of the forest. But it soon gained impetus, and the

twilit shadows of the primordial forest quickly swallowed it up.

As the scrunch of the pine-cones under the steel runners died away the

calm of ages once more settled upon the woods. The dying fire burned

lower and lower, and the deathly stillness was unbroken even by a

crackle of sputtering flame. The solitude was profound and full of

melancholy.

The minutes crept on. They lengthened into an hour. Then far in the

distance, it seemed, came the soft pad as of some prowling forest

beast. But the pad quickly changed to the soft scrunch of moccasined

feet, and, presently, a man, bearing a great load of wood upon his

broad back, came on through the dusky aisles of the forest.

CHAPTER VII

DEAD FIRES

Tug did most things with a smile; but it was never the happy smile of a

pleasant nature. Nor was it even a mask. It was an expression of his

attitude toward the world, toward all mankind. His eyes conveyed

insolent contempt; and his smile was one of the irritating irony and

cynicism which permeated all his thoughts and feelings.

But his smile was for those looking on. There were times when another

man looked out of the same eyes; a man whose cold heart loomed up ugly

and threatening out of those deeper recesses of feeling which the

shrewd might guess at, but were rarely admitted to.

Tug was a man whose selfish desire was above and before all things. He

was of that temper which saw injustice and wrong in every condition of

life obtaining, in every established institution of man, even in the

very edicts of Nature. It was impossible for him to see anything but

through the jaundiced light of his own utter selfishness. Every

condition over which he had no control contained a threat, which, in

his view of things, was directed against the fulfillment of his

desires. He wanted the world and all its possibilities for comfort,

pleasure, profit, for his own, without the effort of making it so; and

had he obtained it he would undoubtedly have grumbled that there was no

fence set up as a bar to all trespassers upon his property.

He detested the thought that others held possessions which he had not.

But it was not his way to air his grievance from a personal point of

view. He adopted a subtler course, and a common enough course among men

of his class. He cloaked his own selfishness under a passionate plea

for those others similarly debarred, railing at the injustice of the

distribution of the world's benefits, and storming against class

distinctions and all the lesser injustices which went to make up the

dividing line between capacity and incapacity. In short he was, though

as yet unprofessed, a perfect example of the modern socialist whose

utter selfishness prompts methods and teachings which are the

profoundest outrage against the doctrines of the Divine Master, who

demanded that man should love his neighbor as himself.

Tug had not the moral courage for an open fight, and here he was far

inferior to the greater adventurer, Leo. Leo would drive roughshod over

everybody and everything; the whole wide world if necessary. He would

gain his end by the frank courage of the fighter, which must always

command a certain admiration, even if condemnation goes with it. But

Tug had no such qualities. It was for him to wriggle and twist, using

anybody and anything, by subtle underhand workings, to achieve a

similar purpose. But again, even in his purpose he was Leo's inferior.

Leo's desire was for victory, victory in the great struggle of modern

life, and not for the fleshpots which that victory would entitle him

to. Tug desired victory, too, but it was that he might taste the

sweetest morsels which those fleshpots contained. Whichever way the

struggle went there could be little doubt as to who would claim the

applause from the balconies at the fall of the curtain.

When Tug reached his camping ground he found himself in a land of dead

fires. The cold, gray ashes were everywhere about him. Life had gone;

hope had fled. And the charred embers of the camp-fire in the center of

it were the symbol of the ruin.

His quick eyes took in the picture, while his cold heart read something

of the meaning of what he beheld. The absence of his dogs first drew

his attention, and this was swiftly followed by the realization that

his sled was nowhere to be seen. Then his eyes caught the notice which

was written on biscuit paper and secured to the front of his tent. He

threw down his burden of dead wood, which had still remained upon his

back, and stood in front of the message Leo had left him.

For long minutes he stood while the words, the bitter, ironical

sentences, sank deep into his selfish heart. Here he was treated to the

very attitude he loved to assume himself, and it lashed him to a cold,

deadly fury. Again and again he read the message and each time he read

it he found fresh fuel with which to build the icy fire of his rage.

The theft itself was maddening, but strangely enough the tone of

impudent triumph in which Leo addressed him drove him hardest. All that

was worst in him was stirred, and the worst of this man was something

so malignant and unsavory that the absent Leo might well have shrunk

before its pursuing shadow.

No word passed his lips; no expression changed his features, except for

the sudden cold pallor which had spread itself over them. Words rarely

expressed his deeper feelings; he was not the man to storm in his

despair. His whole mind and body were concentrated in a deadly desire

to find a means of coming up with the man who had injured him. With

each passing moment the words of the message gravened themselves deeper

and deeper upon his mind, until they filled his whole thought, and left

him panting for revenge. As long as he lived that message would float

before his mind's eye, that message which told him of the dead fires

about him, that message staring out at him upon the wreck of all his

hopes. Yes, as long as he lived that moment would stay with him. As

long as he lived he would wait for the ruin, even the life of the man

who had wronged him.

Suddenly he made a movement with his moccasined heel. It was his only

expression. The pine-cones crushed under it; and to him it was the life

of the man, Leo, he was crushing out.

With a steady hand he reached out and removed the paper from its

fastenings. He folded it deliberately, carefully, and bestowed it in an

inner pocket. Somehow its possession had suddenly become precious to

him, and a certain contentment was his as he turned away and seated

himself on an upturned box.

It might have seemed curious that he made no attempt to search his

camp. It would have been natural enough. But that was the man. In his

mind there was no need for search. The message, he knew, told the

truth, and the blow had fallen upon a nature that would not uselessly

rack its feelings by vain hopes such as a search might inspire.

Besides, he knew this man Leo. He knew him, and hated him; and in his

hatred he believed that the thought of his vain, searching would give

his despoiler malicious pleasure.

For long he sat there before the dead fire. His comrade remained

unheeded. He was thinking, thinking desperately in his cold fashion.

And curiously enough the possession of that paper helped to inspire

him. Already he contemplated it as a sort of token that, in the end, he

would return an hundredfold the injury done him. Yes, it should be his

mascot through life, it should be a guiding star to his whole career.

It should be his inspiration when the moment came. No thought of any

law entered his mind. He knew that the crimes of this bitter northern

world were beyond the reach of the laws of civilized man. No, the only

law that could serve him was the law that each made for himself. He

would make his own law--when the time came. There would be no mercy.

Mercy? He smiled. And it was a smile so cruel and cold that it might

well have damped the courage of the great Leo himself.

Night closed down before Tug stirred from his seat; and when the

movement came it was inspired by the bitter cold which had eaten into

his stiffening joints, and the gnawings of hunger to which he had been

so long oblivious.

He rose abruptly. The present was with him again, the dread present of

the bitter northern trail; and he set to work with all the deliberation

of a man who understands the needs of the moment, and has no thought

beyond them. He rekindled the fire, and boiled the water for his tea.

He prepared the dried fish and cooked it. Then he sat down and devoured

his meal with all the relish of a hungry man without a care in the

world.

But he did not seek his blankets afterwards. The fire had warmed his

bones, and the food had satisfied his craving stomach. So he remained

where he was, smoking and thinking; dreaming the ugly dreams of a mind

devoid of any of the tenderer thoughts of humanity.

Hours passed, and the long sleepless night dragged on toward a gray,

hopeless dawn; and, by the time the black woods began to change their

hue, and the gray to creep almost imperceptibly down the aged aisles,

his last plans were complete.

Then he arose and stretched himself. He put his pipe away, and

replenished the fire with the last of the wood, finally setting water

thereon to boil. Then, picking up his axe, he moved off into the deeps

of the wood.

In half an hour he returned with a burden of rough-hewn stakes which he

flung down beside the fire, while he prepared his breakfast. He

devoured his meal hurriedly, and within another half hour was at work

upon his final tasks.

He stored all his property inside the tent, removing the furs and

blankets from his dead comrade. It almost seemed like desecration. Yet

Tug knew what he was at. It would not do to leave the body encased in

warm furs. The man would have to be buried--later. In the meantime the

cold would freeze the body, and preserve it until such time.

Now the purpose of his stakes became evident. Even Tug, selfish and

callous as he was, acknowledged his duties to the dead. He knew the

prowling scavengers of the forests too well to leave his comrade

without sufficient protection. So he proceeded to secure the body under

a cage of timber which would defy the attacks of marauding carnivora.

With Charlie left secure his work was complete. Broad daylight was

shining among the rugged crowns of towering pines. The moment had come

for his departure. He would obey the letter of Leo's instructions. He

would follow the path he had marked out for him. Afterwards he would

choose his own path; a path which he knew, somewhere in the future,

near or far, would eventually bring him within striking distance of the

quarry he intended to hunt down.

CHAPTER VIII

SI-WASH CHUCKLES

It was Si-wash who first witnessed the approach of the newcomer; and he

at once realized that it was not the return of his friend, Leo, the man

whom he still liked, in spite of the madness which he believed now

possessed him.

So he watched thoughtfully from the shadow of the fringe of the forest.

He peered out over the white plain upon which an ineffective sun poured

its steely rays, while he studied the details of figure and gait,

which, in a country where contact with his fellows was limited, were

not likely to leave him in doubt for long.

Presently he vanished within the woods. He went to convey his news to

the waiting woman, the woman whose heart was full of a dread she could

not shake off, whose love was silently calling, calling for the return

of the man who was her whole world.

But his news must be told in his own way, a way which, perhaps, only an

Indian, and those whose lives are spent among Indians, can understand.

He came to the fire and sat down, squatting upon his haunches, and

remained silent for some minutes. Then he picked up a red-hot cinder

and lit his black clay pipe, which he produced from somewhere amidst

the furs which encased his squat body.

"We go bimeby," he said, after a long pause. "No storm--no snow. Him

very fine. Good."

Audie's brooding eyes lifted from the fire to the Indian's broad face.

All her fear, all her trouble was shining in their depths. The man saw

and understood. But he did not comment.

"We can't go--yet," she said. "We must wait. Leo will come back. Oh,

I'm sure he'll come back."

The Indian puffed at his pipe, and finally spat a hissing stream into

the fire.

"Maybe," he said.

The woman's face flushed.

"Maybe? Of course he'll come back," she cried with heat. "He--he has

gone to collect wood."

The Indian nodded and went on smoking.

"Him fetch wood. Sure," he said presently. "Him go day--night--morning.

Si-wash fetch wood. One hour--two--three. Then Si-wash come back.

Si-wash not crazy."

Suddenly Audie sprang to her feet. Her eyes flashed, and a fierce anger

swept through her whole body.

"Leo is not crazy. Don't dare to say he is," she cried vehemently.

"I--I could kill you for saying it."

The Indian gave no sign before the woman's furious threat. He smoked

on, and when she had once more dropped to her seat, and the hopeless

light in her eyes had once more returned, he removed his pipe from his

mouth.

"Si-wash--you kill 'em. It no matter. Leo, him crazy still. You stop

here--an' freeze. So. It much no good."

The man's good humor was quite unruffled, and Audie, in spite of her

brave defence of her lover, despairingly buried her face in her hands.

"But he will come back, Si-wash!" she cried haltingly. "Say he will.

You know him. You understand him. He must come back. Say he must. He

can never travel this country on foot, without food or shelter. Oh, say

he must come back!"

But Si-wash was not to be cajoled from his conviction. He saw the

woman's misery, but it meant nothing to his unsentimental nature. Leo

had gone. Well, why should she worry? There were other men in the

world. This is what he felt, but he would not have expressed it so.

Instead of that he merely shook his head, and spoke between the puffs

of his reeking pipe.

"Leo no come. But the other, him come. Tug, him come quick. Maybe him

speak of Leo."

In a flash the girl's beautiful eyes shot a gleaming inquiry into the

man's coppery face.

"Tug? Tug coming here? It's--it's you who're crazy. Tug is miles away.

He must be getting near the coast by now. He must be safe by now, safe

with his precious gold."

"Maybe him not safe. Maybe him lose him gold, too."

"You mean----?"

Audie caught her breath as she left her inquiry unfinished.

"Nothing. All same Tug him come here. I see him. Hark? Sho! That

him--he mak noise."

The Indian turned slowly round and stared out into the twilit woods.

Audie followed the direction of his gaze and sat spellbound, listening

to the sound of hurrying feet as they crushed the brittle underlay of

the woods. The Indian's dogs, too, had become alert. They were on their

toes, with bristling manes and deep-throated grumbling at the intrusion.

As Tug came up Si-wash rose and clubbed the dogs cordially. In a moment

they had resumed their places beyond the fire circle, and, squatting on

their haunches, licked their lips and yawned indifferently.

"Tug!"

Audie was on her feet staring at the apparition of the man she had

believed was even now nearing the coast.

Nor did the man's usual ironical smile fail him.

"Sure. Didn't you guess I'd get around after--what has happened?"

Audie eyed him blankly as he waited for her to speak. The Indian, with

his eyes fixed upon the fire, had not stirred from his seat. For the

moment he was forgotten by these white people. He moved now. It was a

slight movement. Very slight. He merely thrust one of his lean hands

inside his furcoat.

His movement was quite unnoticed by the others, and as Audie stared,

quite at a loss for words, the man went on--

"Well? He's got away with it. Maybe you're--satisfied."

Tug's smile was unequal to the task. The cold rage under it made its

way into his eyes. And as she listened a curious change crept into

Audie's eyes, too. Si-wash, with his attention apparently on the fire,

was yet quite aware of the change in both, and his hand remained buried

in the bosom of his furcoat.

Audie had suddenly become very cool. She pointed at the box which had

been Leo's seat.

"You'd better sit down," she said coldly. "You seem to have something

to tell me."

"Tell you?" Tug laughed. "Do you need telling?" he asked, as he dropped

upon the seat.

Audie resumed her place at the opposite side of the fire.

The Indian smoked on.

"You'd best tell us all you've got to tell," Audie said, with cold

severity. "At the present moment you appear to be quite mad

or--foolish."

Her manner had the effect of banishing the man's hateful smile. He

stared at her incredulously, and, from her icy face, his eyes wandered

to the motionless figure of the silent Indian.

"What the hell!" he cried suddenly. "Do you want to tell me that you

don't know what Leo's done? Do you want to tell me the whole lousy game

isn't a plant, put up by the three of you? Do you want to tell me----?"

"I want to tell you, you're talking like a skunk. If you've got

anything to tell us tell it in as few words as possible, or--get out

back to your camp."

It was a different woman talking now; a very different woman to the

forlorn creature who had appealed to Si-wash a few minutes ago. Just

for a second the Indian's eyes flashed a look in her direction, and it

was one of cordial approval.

But neither of the others saw it, and if they had it is doubtful if

either would have understood. For the mind of Si-wash was one of those

deep, silent pools, far more given to reflection than revealing their

own secrets.

Tug stared brutally into the woman's face. Audie was displaying a side

to her character he had never witnessed before. She was alone with

him--the Indian didn't count in his reckoning--she had no hesitation in

dictating to him, even, as he chose to regard it, insulting him. His

astonishment gave him pause, and he pulled himself together. Then he

found himself obeying her in a way he had never thought of doing.

Suddenly he thrust his hand into the bosom of his clothing and withdrew

it swiftly. His whole action was the impulsive result of a rush of

passionate feeling. Nor did it require his words to tell of the

condition of mind he was laboring under.

"Read that," he cried furiously, "if you are as ignorant of his doings

as you make out. Read it, and--and be damned."

He flung out his arm across the fire, his hand grasping the biscuit

paper on which the fateful message was written. Quite undisturbed by

his brutality Audie took the paper and unfolded it.

"It was left fastened on the front of my tent while I was away fetching

wood," Tug went on bitterly. "I came back to find my dogs gone, my

sled, half my stores, Charlie dead, he had been dying for a week,

and--and that paper. Read it--curse it, read for yourself."

The Indian never once lifted his eyes from the fire, the warmth of

which was an endless source of comfort to him. He was thinking,

thinking of many things in the deep, silent way of his race.

Tug waited impatiently while the woman devoured the contents of the

message. She read it once--twice--even a third time through; and while

she read, though her expression remained the same, all her emotions

were stirred to fever heat. She was thinking swiftly, eagerly, her

brain quickened to a pitch it had never realized before. Her love for

Leo was urging her the more fully to grasp the position in which his

latest act had placed him.

This outrage against the man, Tug, in no way lessened her concern for

her lover, for his welfare. The primitive woman was always uppermost in

her. She cared not a jot that Tug had been despoiled. Leo was well, Leo

was alive and safe. But was he safe--now?

A sudden alarm along fresh lines startled her. The meaning of what she

read took a fresh complexion. Leo had robbed--robbed this man. What

must follow if it were known?

For a moment this alarm shuddered through her body. Then she steadied

herself. Her mind suddenly became very clear and decided. She suddenly

saw her course clear before her, and her voice broke the tense silence

round the crackling fire. She read the message for the fourth time.

Read it aloud slowly.

As she proceeded the impassive face of the Indian remained unchanged.

He was listening--listening acutely, but so still, so indifferent was

his attitude that the chafing Tug scarcely realized his presence.

Audie's voice ceased, and for a moment no one spoke. Thin with a

muttered imprecation Tug held out his hand.

"Give me the ---- paper," he cried roughly.

Audie did not appear to hear him.

"Pass it over!" he demanded, still more roughly.

The woman looked up at him. Then she held the paper out, as though to

pass it across to his outstretched hand. The next moment it dropped

from her fingers and fluttered into the heart of the fire.

With a wild ejaculation Tug sprang to rescue it, but even as he rose to

his feet he stood transfixed. The muzzle of a revolver was covering

him, and behind the muzzle was the copper-hued visage of the forgotten

Si-wash.

"Let 'em burn," he said, in his low guttural tones. "Him writing heap

bad med'cine."

The paper curled up and burst into flame. Tug, furious but helpless,

watched the hungry flames devour it. Then, as it crumbled away into the

red heart of the fire, Si-wash returned to his seat. But his revolver

remained upon his knee, and his thin, tenacious fingers gripped the

butt of it firmly.

"Si-wash is right," said Audie coldly. She had not risen from her seat.

"Leo was foolish to write that. Still, I am glad--now--that he did. It

has told me what to do. You see, he said nothing when he went from

here, and I thought I should never see him again. Now I know that I

shall. Now I know that he is well and safe--yes, safe, since that paper

is destroyed. Well"--she looked her visitor squarely in the eyes--"what

are you going to do? You are welcome to avail yourself of our

transport, as Leo suggests--under conditions."

Tug's fury held him silent. His busy brain was searching for a means to

escape from the dictation of this woman, for a means by which to assume

domination of the position for himself. As yet he could see none.

So Audie went on with the tacit approval of her faithful comrade.

"You can travel with us, but you will carry no firearms. You see, I

don't anticipate that your feelings are particularly kindly toward us.

Anyway we'll take no chances. You can go home to your camp now.

To-morrow morning, if the weather holds, you can join us. We'll meet

you in the open, somewhere near your camp. Mind, in the open, and

you'll come to us with your hands up. We shall then search you for

weapons. After that, if things are satisfactory, we'll take your outfit

on our sled, and you can travel with us. Remember, Leo's welfare is my

one care. Well?"

Tug rose. In a moment the Indian's gun was covering him.

"Look 'im over for gun--now," Si-wash said, addressing Audie in his

brief guttural fashion.

Audie nodded.

"You'd best put up your hands, Tug," she said, with a smile, as she

rose from her seat. "Si-wash is a dead shot."

Tug obeyed. His hands went slowly up, and Audie passed round the fire,

and undid his fur coat. As she did so her eyes sparkled.

"You've got them both on," she said, unstrapping the ammunition belt

supporting two revolvers about his waist, "That'll simplify matters.

You see, I know them. One is Charlie's, and the other yours. They are

the only guns you possess. Good. Now you best go."

But the compelling gun of the Indian could no longer keep Tug silent,

and his pent anger broke out in harsh abuse.

"You ----!" he shouted. "You think I can't get back on you, but I can.

I will. I'll get your man, Leo, if I wait years. I'll break him--I'll

break the life out of him. I'll----"

"Maybe." There was a hard glitter in Audie's eyes as she interrupted

him. "One thing, you've got no evidence against him. Charlie is dead,

and--that paper is burnt. It is your word against his. When you meet it

will be man to man, and I don't guess there's a doubt who's the best

man. You best go home now."

Tug made no attempt to obey. He was about to speak again--to hurl some

filthy epithet at the woman, who had outwitted him for her love's sake,

but the Indian gave him no chance. In a second the threatening gun was

raised again.

"Go 'm quick! Dam quick!" Si-wash cried savagely.

Tug's eyes caught the threatening ring of metal. For a moment he

hesitated. Then he turned and strode off.

The steady eyes of the Indian watched him until the woods had swallowed

him up. Then he turned, and followed silently in his wake, while Audie

remained to dream fresh and more pleasant dreams before the fire.

Half an hour later she looked up as her comrade and champion returned.

"Gone?" she asked, with upraised brows.

"Sho'! Him go." Si-wash crouched down over the fire and spread his

hands out to the warmth. Presently he looked up with eyes twinkling

with subtle amusement.

"Him big feller, Leo. Good. Him much gold--now. So. Tug him no good.

When him find Leo, Leo kill him. Leo big feller."

As he finished speaking a curious sound came from somewhere deep in his

throat. And though his impassive face remained unmoved, though not a

ghost of a smile was apparent, Audie knew that the man was chuckling

with suppressed glee. She, too, felt like laughing, and it was the

first time she had so felt since the hideous nightmare of the storm,

and its accompanying disaster.

CHAPTER IX

IN SAN SABATANO

San Sabatano was not a big city, but it was a very busy one. At least

its citizens thought so, and their four-sheeted two-cent local

news-sheet fostered their belief. No doubt a New Yorker would have

spoken of San Sabatano as a "Rube" town, an expression which implied

extreme provincialism in the smallest possible way. It also implied

that its citizens had never turned their eyes upon those things which

lay beyond the town-limits, within which they had been "raised." In

short, that they knew nothing of the life of the great world about

them, except what their paper told them in one single column. Naturally

enough one column of the worlds news against twenty or more columns of

local interest gave readers a false perspective, especially when every

citizen of any local standing usually found a paragraph devoted to his

own social or municipal doings.

But then the editor was a shrewd journalist of very wide experience.

No, he had not been "raised" in San Sabatano. He had served his

apprenticeship on the live journals of the East. He understood men, and

the times in which he lived. More than all, he understood making money,

and the factor which his women readers were in that process. So the

world's news was packed into obscure corners, and San Sabatano was the

hub around which his imagination revolved.

So it came about that this individual had for months darkly hinted that

the _San Sabatano Daily Citizen_ had something up its editorial sleeve

with which it intended to stagger humanity, and startle its readers

into a belief that an echo of the San Francisco earthquake, or

something of that nature, had reached them. He told them that the

mighty combination of brain that controlled the _Daily Citizen_ and

guided San Sabatano public opinion had given birth to an epoch-making

thought; a thought which, before long, when the rest of a sluggish

world read of it, would lift San Sabatano as a center of enterprise, of

learning, of culture, to the highest pinnacle of fame known to the

world.

San Sabatano stood agog with breathless expectancy for weeks.

Then came the humanity staggerer.

It occupied a whole page of the _Daily Citizen_. The type was enormous,

and had been borrowed for the occasion. Fortunately it came in a slack

time. The citizens of San Sabatano had been so long held agog that

nothing much else had been doing to afford the editor local copy.

Therefore the epoch-making brain wave had full scope, and the use of a

prodigal supply of black and red ink.

It was a competition. Yes, a mere competition.

That was the first disappointing thought of everybody. It almost seemed

as if the staggering business had fizzled.

Then digestion set in, and hope dawned. Yes, it was not so bad. By

Jove! As a competition it was rather good. Good? why, it was splendid!

It was magnificent! Wonderful! What was this? A competition for women

clerks. Speed and accuracy in stenography and typing. Twelve prizes of

equal value. Five hundred dollars each, or a month's trip to Europe,

including Paris, Vienna, Berlin, Rome, London. And the final plum of

all. The winning twelve to compete among themselves for a special prize

in addition. A clerkship in the office of the _Daily Citizen_ at two

hundred dollars a month, an office to herself, and a year's contract!

Yes, if he hadn't staggered humanity, the editor had certainly set

excitement blazing in hundreds of young feminine hearts, and upset the

even tenor of as many homes.

For weeks, pending the trial of skill, that astute individual nursed

his scheme and trebled his circulation. Nor was it to be wondered at

that many times during the preliminary stages of organization, as he

watched the increasing daily returns of his precious paper, he sat back

in his creaking office chair and blessed the day he married the wife,

whose sister had just won a similar competition somewhere at the other

side of the continent.

At the closing of the entries it was found there were just two thousand

competitors. Success for the scheme was assured, and quarts of ink told

the gaping multitude that this was so.

Then came the day of the competition. It was to be held in the Town

Hall. So well was the interest and excitement worked up that, all

unpremeditated, half the smaller business houses were closed for the

day; a fact duly commented upon in the later issues of the paper.

The competition lasted all day, and it was late at night when the last

weary, palpitating competitors finally reached homes, which were still

in a state of anxious turmoil.

There was no news of the winners that night. There was none the next

morning. Nor the next. The editor knew his business and talked columns

in his own praise, and in praise of the manner in which the women of

San Sabatano had responded to his invitation.

A week passed, and then a special edition brought the long-awaited

announcement which dashed the hopes of one thousand nine hundred and

eighty-eight bursting feminine hearts. It was a simple sheet, with a

simple heading. No splashes of colored ink. It gave the list of the

twelve winners of the competition in dignified type, and invited them

to meet at the editor's office at noon next day, to compete for the

coveted special prize.

Among the names of the winners was that of Monica Hanson.

The following day Monica attended the final competition. She did her

utmost, spurred on by the driving necessity which had just been thrust

upon her brave young shoulders. Now she was sitting in the San Sabatano

Horticultural Gardens waiting for the evening issue of the paper which

was to tell her, in cold, hard type, the news which was either to crush

her eager young soul in despair, or uplift her to realms of ecstatic

hope and delight.

Oh, the teeming thought of those straining moments. It flew through her

brain with lightning-like velocity, spasmodic, broken. One moment she

had visions of pleasures hitherto denied her in a solitary career, eked

out on a wholly inadequate pittance doled out to her monthly by her

dead mother's solicitors in far-off New York. At another she was

obsessed by the haunting conviction that such good fortune was

impossible. Yet she felt she had done well in the examination, and,

anyway, she would certainly take that five hundred dollars she had

already won in preference to the European tour. It would mean so much

to her, especially now--now that this fresh call on her resources had

been made.

After long disquieting moments she finally sprang up from her seat. Her

nerves were getting the better of her. She thought she heard the

raucous call of the newsboy. She listened; her pretty brows drawn

together in plaintive doubt. Yes, no--her heart was thumping under the

white lawn shirtwaist she was wearing, in spite of the fact that it was

still winter. But winter in San Sabatano was as pleasant as many

another town's summer. In all the history of that beautiful southern

Californian town the thermometer had never been known to register

freezing point.

She made a pretty picture standing there amid a setting of fantastic

tropical vegetation. The cacti, great and small, with their wonder-hued

blooms and strange vegetation, were a fitting background to the girl's

golden beauty. She was quite southern in her coloring, that wonderful

tone of rich gold underlying a fair almost transparent skin. Her

waving, fair hair shone with a rich, ruddy burnish, crowning a face of

perfect oval, lit with eyes of the deepest blue, which shone with

pronounced intelligence and strength.

No, her nerves had not played tricks with her. It was the newsboy. She

could see him now, just beyond the park gates. He was selling his

papers all too fast. So, with tumultuous feeling's, and a heart

hammering violently against her young bosom, she darted off to catch

him.

She reached the gates and slackened her pace to a decorous walk. The

boy had just handed an elderly man his paper, and was searching for the

odd cents of change waited for. Having paid his customer off he looked

admiringly up into Monica's pale face.

His shrewd eyes grinned impishly, and he winked abundantly, so that the

whole of one side of his face became painfully distorted.

"Say, ain't you Miss Hanson, Miss?" he inquired, with the effrontery of

his kind.

Monica's heart beat harder. But she replied with an icy calmness.

"Yes. That's my name. But----"

The boy's eyes sparkled.

"Then I guess the paper is sho' worth 'two bits' to you," he cried,

thrusting the folded sheet at her. Then his feelings and covetousness

getting the better of him, he added, "Gee, five hundred dollars, an'

two hundred a month! Say, how do it feel gettin' all that piled

suddenly on to yer, Miss?"

In a flash Monica's dignity had vanished.

"What--what do you mean?" she cried, almost hysterically. "I----" Her

fingers trembled so violently that she tore the paper nearly to ribbons

struggling to open it in the breeze.

The boy grinned.

"Gar'n. You ain't smart any. Guess you best hand me that 'quarter' an'

I'll show you wher' to look."

He was as good as his word, and handed her another paper folded at the

right spot, nor, to his credit, did he wait for the money in advance.

"You won it sho'," he said, and waited while in a daze Monica read the

wonderful news--

"'We have much pleasure in announcing that the winner of our Special

Prize of a position on our staff at $200 per month is Miss Monica

Hanson, whose wonderful speed, etc., etc.'"

Monica waited for no more. Snatching at her satchel she opened it and

drew out a single one-dollar bill, and pushed it into the willing hand

of the expectant boy.

"Keep the change," he heard her say, as she almost flew down the

sidewalk of the tree-shaded main street.

The boy looked after her. Then he looked at his dollar bill.

"Wal, guess she ain't got all the luck goin'," he murmured

philosophically, as he pocketed the well-worn note.

Monica hurried on at a pace, though nearly a run, far too slow to suit

her mood. Never, never in her life had she felt as she felt now. Never,

never. It almost seemed as if the whole world were before her with

loving, outstretched arms and smiling face, waiting to yield her all

that her young heart most desired. In a vision every face that passed

her by in her rush home seemed to be wearing a happy smile. Even the

trees overhead rustled whispered messages of delight and hope to her in

the evening breeze. This was certainly the one moment of moments in her

brief seventeen years of life.

She had hoped, she had dared to hope; but never in her wildest thoughts

had she really expected to win this wonderful good fortune. Two hundred

dollars a month for a year! Five hundred dollars capital to work upon!

And all this added to the pittance which thus far she had lived on

while she studied stenography. It was too, too wonderful.

She thought of all she could do with it; and at once there grew on her

joyous horizon the first threatening cloud. There was her sister, the

dearly loved, erring, actress sister who had come back to her out of

those terrible wilds in the far north of Canada.

Thank God this good fortune had come in time to help her. Poor, poor

Elsie, or Audrey, as she called herself on the stage. What terrible

troubles had been hers. Deserted by the man she loved, left alone with

an Indian, and another unfortunate white man, to make her way back to

civilization. The thought of her sister's sufferings smote her tender

young heart even in the midst of her own rejoicings. She had always

disliked and feared Indians hitherto, but now, since she had listened

to her sister's pitiful story of her husband's leaving her, and of the

wonderful loyalty and generosity of the Indian, Si---- what was his

name? Ah, yes, Si-wash--somehow she warmed towards them. It seemed

wonderful to think of an Indian having such generosity as to give poor

Elsie the money to get to San Sabatano from Juneau out of the payment

he had received in advance from the journey from Sixty-mile Creek. Why,

it must have taken nearly all he had.

Monica in her impulsive way felt that she would like to repay him, to

shake hands with him, and thank him. But her sister had told her that

he had gone back into the northern wilderness, which nothing could ever

induce him to leave for long.

It was a strange life and they were strange people. Even her sister had

acquired something of the reticence and somberness of the world she had

left behind her. Poor Elsie. She seemed to have made such a mess of her

life. She had been doing so well, too, in New York. Why had she thrown

it all up to marry this man, Leo, and wander off to the Yukon? What a

funny name, Leo. It seemed to be his surname, too. Leo; it was all

right for a first name, but--Elsie had insisted that it was his name,

and the one she liked to call him by.

And now, here she was fretting her poor heart out for him. Oh, it was a

shame. Men were perfect brutes. And to leave her under such conditions,

and at such a time. She blushed as she thought what she would feel if

her husband had left her when she was going to have her first baby. The

thought left her anxious. But even her anxiety for her sister was

lessened by the knowledge of her own good fortune. She remembered the

nurse, who was even now up in the small apartments she occupied, and

the doctor she had engaged. A week ago she had trembled at the thought

of how she was to pay these people, and provide her sister with even

the bare necessities of a confinement. Now, now it was different, and a

fresh wave of thankfulness for her good fortune flooded her simple

heart.

Yes, her sister should have every care. Everything she could do to make

her happy and comfortable should be done. And then, when the baby came,

wouldn't it be delightful? She would be its fairy god-mother. She hoped

he would be a boy. Fancy Elsie with a son. Wasn't it wonderful? And

she--she would give him every moment of her spare time from the office.

Ah, that wonderful thought--the office.

So her thoughts ran on, keeping pace with her feet. The wonders of the

new world opening out before her eyes were inexhaustible, and long

before she was aware of the distance she had covered she found herself

at the door of the cheap little apartment house where she lived on the

top floor.

There was no elevator, and she ran at the stairs, taking them two at a

time. Her good news would not wait. She must tell her poor sister. She

was dying to pour all the happy story into her ears, and watch the

wistful smile grow upon Elsie's troubled, handsome face.

On the sixth landing she stood breathlessly fumbling in her satchel for

her key, when the door opened and the nurse appeared holding up a

warning finger.

"Come quietly," she whispered. "The doctor is with her now. It came on

quite suddenly. I hope things will be all right, but--she's in a bad

way."

In a moment all the joy and hope died out of Monica's tender heart. All

the castles, all her dreams, fell into a tumbled ruin. Her sister, her

beautiful, brave sister was in danger. She knew it. She knew that the

nurse's words covered far more than they expressed. Oh, it was cruel,

cruel.

CHAPTER X

A PROMISE

Three hopeless days since the coming of that brief moment of

overwhelming joy. The reaction had been all too terribly sudden for a

young girl on the threshold of life. Monica sat at her dying sister's

bedside crushed under a great grief.

Those terrible three days. The demands made upon her by the reporters

of the _Daily Citizen_. The interviews she had had to endure with the

editor. The letters she received. Some from strangers; some from

acquaintances. Letters of congratulation; letters full of burning spite

from some of the unsuccessful competitors; vampire letters demanding

sympathy and practical help, pouring out stories of misery, sorrow and

suffering. All these, in her simplicity, she felt it her duty to

answer; and she must answer them with smiling words of hope and

comfort. She must at all times keep a smiling face.

To the reporter she had to talk and laugh while her heart was breaking.

To the editor she must offer her most engaging smile that his personal

goodwill be assured at the outset of her career. Nor, for one moment,

did she permit a sign of the aching heart underneath it all.

At the end of those three days she was an older woman by far than twice

her seventeen years. She was learning from the book of life in a manner

that left her almost despairing. How much she learned. That smiling

world she had gazed upon as she ran home with her wonderful news was no

longer smiling, its face had resumed its wonted expression which was

careworn, lined with suffering, and sorrow, and regret; and was

terribly, terribly old. She had learned something of what her success

meant. She knew now that her success meant failure to hundreds of

others. She knew that so it must always be. The successful path must be

lined with a tangle of weeds of suffering and hope abandoned. For every

success there must be, not one but hundreds of failures; for such was

the law of Life.

Thus she was robbed of her joy and thrown back upon the grief which lay

across her own threshold.

The verdict had been given that morning by the doctor; and

corroboration of it was in the steady eyes of the nurse. Her sister,

her well-loved, admired elder sister was dying. She was dying not as

the happy mother of a beautiful son, but as the deserted wife left to

starve for all her husband cared. She was dying a broken-hearted

creature whose wonderful, generous nature had been made the plaything

of a cold, unscrupulous villain. All this Monica told herself over and

over again as she sat beside the silent, uncomplaining woman during

those long hours of waiting for the end.

Her beautiful eyes were red with weeping, her pale cheeks looked so wan

with the long hours of silent watching. The nurse was still there to do

her work, but most of her work was now the care of the little life in

the bed that had been put up at the other side of the room, rather than

with the woman who had given up her life that her love might yield her

absent man this one last pledge.

Poor little Monica was alone, utterly alone with her grief. There were

no warm words of kindly comfort to soften her troubles. There was no

loving mother's gentle hand to soothe her aching head. The world was

there before her, hard, unsympathetic. She must face it alone, face it

with what courage she might, doing the best she knew amid a grief which

seemed everywhere about her.

An infantile cry from the other bed startled her. She rose and passed

across the room. The child seemed to be asleep, for its breathing was

regular, and the cry was not repeated. She gazed down upon its tiny,

crumpled face, and her young heart melted with a curious yearning and

love for the little life that was robbing her of a sister. It was so

small. It was so tender--and--and it had cost so much. She longed to

take it in her arms and press it to her girlish bosom. She loved it.

Loved it because it was her sister's and soon would be all she had in

the world to remind her of the generous heart from which life was so

swiftly ebbing.

"Monica!"

The girl started and looked round. The dying woman's eyes were wide

open.

"Come here." The voice was low, but the words were quite distinct. It

was the first time she had spoken for more than twelve hours.

Monica passed swiftly back to her place at the bedside.

"Oh, Elsie, Elsie," she cried, "I'm so glad you have spoken. So, so

glad."

A faint smile flickered gently over the sick woman's emaciated features.

"Are you?"

"Yes, yes. Oh, Elsie, you feel better, stronger, don't you? Say you

feel better. I--I know you do."

Monica's last words came hesitatingly, for even while she was speaking

a negative movement from the sick woman told her how vain were her

hopes.

"It is no use, Mon. But I'm perfectly easy--now. That's why I called

you. I want to talk about--him. You--you--love my little son, don't

you?" There was pleading in the voice as the woman asked the question.

"I saw you bending over him just now, and--and I thought--hoped you

did."

"Oh, Elsie, he is yours. How could I help but love him?"

The words came impulsively, and Monica dropped a warm hand upon the

transparent flesh of her sister's. Her action was promptly rewarded by

a feeble pressure of acknowledgment.

"I--I knew you would."

After that neither spoke for some moments. Tears were softly falling

down Monica's pretty cheeks. But her sister's eyes were closed again.

It was almost as if she were gathering her strength and thoughts for a

final effort.

Presently Monica grew alarmed. She dashed the tears from her eyes, and

bent over the bed.

"Shall I fetch nurse? Is there anything I can do?" she asked eagerly.

The big eyes opened at once, and the light in them was a calm smile.

The dying woman looked almost happy. To Monica's growing understanding

of such things her happiness might have been the inspiration of one who

sees beyond the narrow focus of human life; whose swiftly approaching

end had revealed to her tired eyes a glimpse of the wonderful world she

was approaching, that golden life awaiting all, be they saint or sinner.

"I don't want any one but you, dear--now." The voice was tired, but a

sense of peace was conveyed in the gentle pressure of her thin fingers

upon the soft warm flesh of her sister's hand. "I--I want to tell you

of--things. And--and I want you to promise me something. Oh, Mon, as

you love me, as you love my boy, I want you to give me your promise."

Monica seated herself on the edge of the bed and tearfully gave her

promise with all the impulsiveness which her love inspired.

"You only have to tell me what it is. I could promise you anything,

Elsie. I have only one desire in the world now; it is to--to help you."

Her sister's eyes closed for a moment. Then they opened again.

"Raise me up a little, dear. Put a pillow behind my shoulders. I want

to--to--see the bed over there. I want to see my little son, his--his

boy. That's better." She sighed contentedly as Monica raised her up,

and her big eyes at once fixed themselves upon the other bed. There was

nothing to be seen but the carefully arranged bed clothes, but, for the

time at least, it was sufficient.

"I want to tell you the things I never told you before. I want to tell

you about Leo; and I want to talk about my--my boy. Leo and I were not

married."

A little gasp of horrified dismay escaped the young girl. She was so

young that as yet her ideals of life were still intact. The thought of

such a thing as her sister now spoke of had never entered her innocent

head.

"Ah, that--that hurts you," the other went on. "I knew it would.

I--I--that's why I lied to you before. I lied when I said Leo was my

husband. Oh, Mon, don't let it make any difference to us now. The time

is getting so short."

"Nothing could ever make any difference between us," Monica said, in a

low voice. "I was startled. You see----"

"I know. Ah, my dear, my dear, you don't know what it is to love as I

love. I met Leo a long time ago, when I was an actress. He knew me as

Audrey Thorne, an actress, and I--I wanted to marry him. But--you see

he had nothing on which to keep a wife--an extravagant woman as I was

then. So, he went away, and--and I followed him. You must think me

utterly, terribly bad--but I loved him. I followed him right up into

the wilds of the Yukon, and--and I lived with him."

"Poor, poor Elsie." Monica's dismay had passed, and she gently squeezed

the hand she was still holding. The pressure seemed to give the other

courage to proceed.

"You mustn't pity me too much. I--I was very happy. I was very happy

until I knew about--my little son. It was then that I realized the

awful sin I had committed. It was then I knew the cruel wrong I had

done to that unborn life. I--I think I was nearly distracted when it

all came upon me." Her voice had risen. It was almost strident with

emotion. "For weeks I thought and thought what I could do to remedy my

wrong, and at last I took my courage in both hands. I told Leo,

and--and asked him to marry me--for the child's sake."

"For the child's sake?"

The admission which the words implied filled the simple Monica with

something like panic.

"You see, Leo never loved me as I loved him."

"Oh, Elsie, Elsie!"

"Yes, dear, I forced myself upon him."

The tragedy of her sister's life had almost overwhelmed the girl. The

whole pitiful story wrung her heart with its pathos, its shame. Her

sister. Her beautiful, clever sister. Oh, it was too, too dreadful.

After a while Elsie roused herself again. There was a lot yet to be

said, and she knew her time was short.

"I am all to blame. You mustn't blame Leo," she said earnestly. "He was

a good man to me. I know you think he has deserted me. But he hasn't.

That is not him. He promised to marry me, and, had I lived, he would

have kept that promise. We were coming down country for that purpose."

She paused. "Then something happened which made it necessary for him to

go on ahead. That's how I came to make the journey with the Indian.

It--it couldn't be helped. You--you mustn't blame Leo. He will be

looking for me. Is very likely looking for me now. But it is too late.

That is why I want you to promise me something."

Monica waited. She could find nothing to say. She was learning another

of the bitter lessons which life has to teach when the book is once

opened. Presently the other went on--

"You see, neither of us can now remedy the wrong I have done my little

son. As I said, it is too late. I shall be gone before Leo can marry

me." The big eyes became eager. They looked up with piteous straining

into the gentle face before them. "Do you see? Oh, Mon, do you

understand? My boy--our boy has no father; and very, very soon will

have no mother. Oh, Mon, what can I do, what can I say? Can--can you

help me?"

But Monica was gazing helplessly before her. The warmth of her love for

her erring sister was no less. But she was thinking, thinking, striving

with all her might to seek a solution to the painful tangle of her poor

sister's life.

"I--I--can't---- Tell me, Elsie--tell me anything I can do for him. I

don't seem able to think for myself," she cried hopelessly at last.

Something of Monica's difficulty seemed to communicate itself to the

other. Her brows drew together in perplexity.

"It is so hard," she said suddenly. "I have thought and thought, and I

can only see one possible hope--only one. That hope is--you."

"How? Oh, Elsie, tell me how. What can I do?"

With a sudden effort the mother propped herself up with her elbows

behind her. Her dying eyes were burning bright with feverish light. All

the hope of her poor dying soul looked up into her sister's face as her

final appeal rushed to her lips.

"How? Why, why, by taking him as your own son. How? Oh, Mon, his own

mother is taken from him. Then give him another. Make him your own

child--whose father is dead. It would be easy for you. You married

young, and your--your husband died--died at sea. He will never know

differently. No one will question it. Oh, my dear, don't you see? Bring

him up as your own child, born in wedlock, and never let him know his

mother's shame. Promise me, your sacred promise to a dying woman, that

he shall never know, through you, his mother's shame, and his own

disgrace. Promise it to me, Mon, it is the only thing that can give me

peace now. Forget everything I have told you. Forget the disgrace I

have brought on you. Forget everything except--except only your

promise. Promise! Promise!"

Her fingers tightened almost painfully upon Monica's hand. She was

laboring under a fierce emotion, almost sufficient to bring on a

collapse. The feverish eyes were bloodshot, and a hectic flush burned

on her thin cheeks.

The impulse of the moment was upon Monica, and she leaned forward. Her

other hand was tenderly raised to the woman's moist brow, in a loving,

soothing manner.

"I promise, dear; I promise on my sacred word that what you ask me

shall be done. Henceforth he shall be my son. Nor shall he ever know

through me the cruel wrong the world has done to you. I promise you,

Elsie, dear, freely, freely. And all my life I will strive to keep the

real truth of his birth from him."

"Thank God!"

The reaction was terrible. The dying woman fell back on her pillows,

and her features suddenly became so ghastly that Monica sprang from her

seat in wild alarm. She ran to the door to summon the nurse. But the

voice from the bed stayed her.

"No, Mon, not yet." Then the dying woman added with an irresistible

appeal, "Give me my boy, for--for a few minutes. After that----"

Monica ran to obey with an only too thankful heart. But her instinct

warned her that the end was not far off. She laid the sleeping child

tenderly by its mother's side, and placed her thin arm gently under its

shoulders. She felt maybe she was doing wrong, but--poor Elsie.

Elsie's eyes thanked her, but her voice remained silent. And for a long

while there was an unbroken quiet in the room.

Monica moved to the window and stood with her back turned to the bed.

Somehow she felt that these moments were too sacred for another's eyes

to witness. Slowly fresh tears gathered in her eyes, tears of sympathy

and love, and one by one they rolled unheeded, slowly down her cheeks.

And as they fell the last moments of her sister's life ebbed peacefully

away.

CHAPTER XI

TWO STRANGERS IN SAN SABATANO

Monica's life suddenly became filled to overflowing. She was no longer

a child, but a woman of a maturity that was almost absurd in one so

young. The happy, irresponsible girlhood she had so long enjoyed in her

mother's modest uptown apartment had quite gone. Whatever the future

might hold of happiness for her, certainly freedom from the more

serious cares of life would never again be hers.

Five years ago she and her mother had bade Elsie good-bye in the same

humble apartment, when the elder girl had left San Sabatano to go on

the stage in New York. Monica was twelve then. Twelve; and her young

eyes and younger mind were filled with a boundless envy and admiration

for the beautiful sister who was to bask in the wonderful limelight of

the stage, and wear clothes far beyond the beauty of all dreams; and

jewels--jewels, whose splendor was incomparable to the beauty of her

lovely, lovely Elsie. Had she only known it she was very near the truth

when she thought of the jewels her sister would wear.

Her mother was one of those quietly good women who contrive to inspire

their children with something of their own qualities by example rather

than precept. Neither Elsie nor Monica ever knew what it was to receive

one of those harsh reprimands so common among mothers of less

understanding, of less ability. Her children must grow up guided rather

than driven. All their lives this had been her method. Therefore it

came as a terrible shock to her when the more wayward of the two,

perhaps, in a sense, the bolder spirit of the two, suddenly announced

her intention of leaving the sheltering dovecote, where money was never

very plentiful, to earn her living in the flamboyant world of the stage.

True to her methods, and with, perhaps, a deeper understanding of her

child, and the uselessness of refusal, the mother's permission was not

long withheld. It was a reluctant enough permission, but given without

any outward sign of the disapproval she really felt. Moreover, she was

convinced of the rightness of her attitude. The girl, she knew, would

live her life as she understood it. Her only duty remaining, therefore,

was to equip her with all the knowledge of the world that lay within

her simple range of understanding. For the rest the child's fate was in

the lap of the gods.

But she never seemed to quite get over the parting. For a long time she

bore up with great fortitude, and her devotion to Monica became a

wonderful thing. It was almost as if she feared that she, too, her one

remaining child, might be taken from her, and swallowed up by the

hungry maw of the outside world.

She heard regularly from Elsie for some time. Elsie was getting on

quite well. Then letters became less frequent. And, finally, about the

time that Elsie met Leo, they ceased altogether. It was then that the

signs of break-up began to show in the patient woman at home.

She had died quietly and quickly of heart failure just a year ago.

Monica's grief was profound. But she was too young for any lasting

effect to remain with her. She lived on in the apartment without any

thought of leaving it. The whole thing seemed the most natural in the

world to her. Her mother's solicitor wrote her, and offered her a home

with his family, but, with prompt decision, she refused it. She told

him that if her mother's affairs permitted it, she would rather remain

in San Sabatano, where she had all her girlhood's friends, than break

new ground among strangers. Her mother's affairs yielded her the barest

living, so she remained, determined to make a way for herself in the

world, her own world, as other girls of her acquaintance had done.

Now she had reached the second, and, in many ways, the greater change

in her life. Where, before, only her childish affections had been

bruised and crushed at her mother's death, now she realized that she

had all too suddenly passed from the sunlit paths of innocent

childhood, to the harsher road down which all the world was journeying;

struggling, jostling, each striving to seize for themselves the easier,

the pleasanter paths along which to make the journey of life.

But the change in her was subtle. There was no outward effect, there

was no disturbing of the wholesome, happy nature that was the very

essence of her being. The change was in an added knowledge, a

quickening of naturally alert faculties. She realized that some strange

force had suddenly plunged her into the midst of a life which demanded

quick thought and swift action, so that her pulses might be kept

beating in perfect time to the pace at which life sped on about her.

She realized that she had suddenly become one of life's workers, and

that grave responsibility was already knocking at her door. From the

very beginning she accepted the new conditions gladly. She felt an

added zest to the fact of living. The old days of dreaming were gone.

Every moment of her waking hours was filled with thought, keen,

practical thought; and the demand thus made on her found her ready and

able. There was no fluster, no confusion of any sort. Her healthy brain

was quick and incisive, characteristics quite unsuspected even by

herself. Not only was this so, but, with the added pressure, there came

a quiet desire to test her newly discovered powers to the uttermost.

There were other changes, too, changes of almost equal importance. She

found herself witnessing the progress of affairs about her with an

entirely new understanding of them. All her understanding of the

precepts of her youth received revision; a revision which was inspired

by the story her sister had told her on her deathbed. The shock at

first had been a little overwhelming, but, young as she was, her ready

brain quickly assimilated the facts, and set itself to the task of

readjusting its focus.

There was no bitterness, no horror at her discoveries. She simply

realized that here was a small slice of life cut out by the same

ruthless knife which no doubt served hundreds of similar purposes among

the rest of mankind. Who was she to criticize, who was she to condemn?

Her knowledge was all to come, and maybe, as she went on, she would

discover that such tragedies were part of the real life which up to now

had been entirely hidden from her.

She had no blame for her dead sister. Her memory was as sacred to her

as if she had lived the most perfect life of purity under the social

laws governing man's relationship to woman. Her love once given was not

a thing to be promptly rescinded by the failure of its idol. The idol

might fall, and become besmirched in the unsuspected mire, but her

frank, kindly hands were ready to set it up again and again, and

perhaps in time her broader knowledge would teach her how to secure it

from further disaster.

Perhaps the first real warning of the change in her came at the moment

she considered her sister's funeral. Here undoubtedly a shock was

awaiting her, and, in a moment, there leaped into her focus a teeming

picture of almost endless complications. Just for an instant all her

nerves were set jangling, and an utter helplessness left her painfully

distressed. Then the feeling as abruptly passed, her mind cleared, and,

one by one, she found herself reviewing each detail of the situation,

and marking out the course she must adopt.

First and foremost her sacred promise to the dying woman stood out in

all its nakedness, entirely robbed of its cloak of impulse and

affection, in which it had been clad at the time of its making. And

from that promise, radiating in every direction, she saw boundless

possibilities for more than unpleasant consequences.

She knew she must make up her mind swiftly, and she did so in an

astonishing manner. A sleepless night found her in the morning ready

with her plans all clear in her mind. She still had nearly three weeks

before taking up her new position in the office of the _Daily Citizen_.

This would be ample time to put everything in order. It was necessary

to take the doctor into her confidence. He had been their doctor for as

long as she could remember. He had attended her mother in her last

illness, and knew their whole family history as well as she knew it

herself. Therefore she did not anticipate any difficulty with him.

So the third morning after her sister's death she visited him at his

house, and confided sufficient of her sister's story to him to enlist

his sympathy, without any breach of the confidence reposed in her. She

pointed out her own position, and begged his help in hushing the whole

matter up.

Dr. Bernard Strong was a man of wide sympathy and understanding, and in

giving his promise of help, pointed out the gravity of the position

which her quixotic promise had placed her in.

"My dear," he said, "this is almost a terrible business for you. Here

you are, bound to this town for at least a year, with a newly born

infant in your care, which you cannot explain away, without breaking

your promise to poor Elsie. You are known. You have many friends. What

in the world are you going to do?"

It was then that Monica displayed the quick, incisive working of her

suddenly aroused mental faculties. She told him in brief, pointed words

the plans she had made during the long, wakeful night.

"It does not seem so--so very difficult," she said.

Then she plunged into the details of her schemes. She pointed out that

her tenement was a weekly one, which she could get rid of as soon as

Elsie was buried. This she would do. Then she would take rooms far out

on the outskirts of the town. She would first find a house for the baby

in the country, a few miles out, where he was not likely to be brought

into contact with the townsfolk. That would be a start. After that she

would meet any emergency as it arose. The help she wanted from him was

to arrange the funeral, with all the secrecy possible, and see that the

law was complied with in regard to the baby. His registration, etc.

The quick practical manner in which she detailed all the minor details

to this man of experience filled him with a profound admiration, and he

told her so.

"It is astounding to me, Monica," he said kindly, "that you, a girl of

seventeen, can handle such a matter in the calm manner you are doing.

Perfectly astounding. You certainly ought to do well in this business

career you are about to begin. Really you have made things seem

less--er--formidable. But, my dear child, I feel I must warn you. You

see, I am so much older," he went on, with a smile. "I have seen so

much of the world--the sadder side of the world, that I cannot let this

moment pass without telling you of the rocks I can see ahead, waiting

to break up your little boat. Your tale of an early marriage and all

that, if the boy becomes associated with you in the minds of people in

the town, will never do. At once they will think the worst, and

then--what of your position on the _Daily Citizen?_ Then when the time

comes for you to marry? What then?"

"I shall never marry--now," was Monica's prompt and decided reply.

The doctor shook his head.

"It is so easy to say that. Believe me, my dear, you have tied a

millstone about your neck that will take your utmost strength to bear.

I even doubt if you will be able to bear it for long. You are about to

embark on a career of falsehood which will find you out at almost every

turn. It is quite terrible to think of. Poor Elsie did you the greatest

wrong, the greatest injury, when she extracted that promise from you.

And," he added, with a wry smile, "I fear, from my knowledge of you,

you will carry it out to the bitter end--until it utterly overwhelms

you."

Monica stepped off the veranda of the doctor's house with none of the

lightness of gait with which she had mounted it. She realized the

gravity of her position to the full now, and knew that, without

breaking her sacred word to a dying woman, there was no means of

remedying it. But she was quite determined, and walked away with her

pretty lips tightly compressed, her blue eyes gazing out unflinchingly

before her. Nothing should turn her from her purpose. It was Elsie's

trust to her. It was the cross she had to bear. Come what might she

would bear it to the end, even if at the last its weight were to crush

the very life out of her.

The next three weeks passed rapidly. Monica had no time to look back

upon the trouble which had so involved her, she had little enough time

to gaze ahead into the wide vista of troublous rocks the doctor had

promised her. In fact she had no time at all for anything but the

crowding emergencies of the moment, and keeping the well-meaning

friends and curious neighbors as far from the secrets of her inner life

as possible.

Nor was it easy; and without Dr. Strong's help many of her difficulties

would have been well-nigh insurmountable. But he was as good, and even

better, than his word. The whole of the funeral was achieved without

any unnecessary publicity, and Monica and the doctor were the only

mourners. Then the latter found a home for the boy on a farm, three

miles out of the town, where a newly born babe had just died, and so,

in the end, everything was accomplished just as Monica had planned,

without one unnecessary question being asked. Thus, by the time the

winner of the special prize took up her duties in the office of the

_Daily Citizen_, of all San Sabatano, Dr. Strong alone shared Monica

Hanson's secret. A secret, it was her future object in life to keep

entirely hidden from the world.

Monica entered upon her duties with a lighter heart than she had known

for weeks. Everything was as she could wish it. All traces of her

sister's shame had been carefully covered. Practically no sign was left

to delight the prying eyes of the curious scandalmongers. Her future

lay before her, wide, and, to her, illimitable.

Her aims and ambitions were fixed plainly in her mind. She must

succeed; she must rise in the commercial world; she must make money.

These things were not for herself. No, she required so little. They

were for him, for the little life so cruelly wronged at its very

outset. Henceforth her own life would be devoted to his. Her whole

thought would be for him and his welfare, not only for the child's

sake, but in memory of the love she had borne her dead sister.

How well the editor of the _Daily Citizen_ had judged the competitors

for the special prize was quickly demonstrated. Monica's zeal was

backed by the suddenly aroused acuteness of an unusually clever brain,

and, before a month had passed, the complacent individual in the

editorial chair had excellent reason for again congratulating himself.

He had intended from the outset that the winner of the princely prize

and unusual salary should earn every cent of it, but he found in his

new clerk an insatiable hunger for work, and a capacity for simple

organization quite astounding, and far beyond any demand he could make

on it.

In this beginner he quickly detected a highly developed germ of

commercial instinct; that germ so coveted, so rare. He tried her in

many ways, seeking in a more or less fumbling way for the direction in

which her abilities most surely pointed. Stenography and typing, he

quickly saw, were mere incidents to her. She had other and larger

abilities. Frequently in dictating letters he found himself discussing

matters pertaining to them with her, and she never failed to center her

mental eye upon the point at issue, driving straight to the heart of

the matter in hand. The man was frankly delighted with her, and, in the

shortest possible time, she became a sort of confidential secretary,

whose views on the organization of his paper were often more than

useful to him.

It was about this time that the editor's sanctum was invaded by a

stranger; a big stranger of quite uncommon appearance. The man was

simply dressed in good store clothes, which covered a powerful, burly

figure. But the chief interest lay in the man's face and head. It was a

strong face. To use Mr. Meakin's own description of him to his young

clerk some time later, he possessed a "tow head and a face like emery

cloth."

He gave no name, in fact he refused his name. He came to insert an

advertisement in the paper, and to consult the editor upon the matter.

His objects were so definite that, in spite of the refusal to give his

name, Mr. Meakin decided to see him. Monica was away at dinner, or he

would probably have turned him over to her. However, when the man

finally appeared the editorial mind was pleased at the study his

unusual personality offered him.

The stranger very nearly filled up the doorway as he entered the inner

office.

"Guess you're the editor?" he began at once, dropping into the chair

Mr. Meakin kicked towards him.

"Sure," Mr. Meakin was always sparing of words to strangers.

"Ah."

Then, so long did the man remain silent that the editor found it

necessary to spur him on by a method he usually adopted in such cases.

He pressed the button of his dummy telephone with his foot. The bell

rang out, and he lifted the receiver to his ear.

"Hullo! Who is it? Oh, that you, Allards? Oh, is it important? Well,

I'm engaged just now. I shan't be three minutes. Yes, I'll come right

along then. Goo'-bye!"

He looked across at his visitor as he put the receiver up.

"Sorry to interrupt you. I didn't just get what you said."

A flicker of a smile passed across the visitor's serious face.

"It's of no consequence," he said. "Guess I must have been thinking

aloud. You see it's kind of a fool trick having the button of that

dummy 'phone in sight under the table. Guess the feller who fixed it

was a 'mutt.'"

"Eh?" Mr. Meakin's face went suddenly scarlet. He was about to make a

hasty reply, but changed his mind, and laughed with a belated sense of

humor.

"It's served its purpose anyhow," he said genially. "What can I do for

you?"

The stranger responded to his humor at once.

"Don't guess you can do much. Maybe you can tell me a deal. I'm looking

for some one who's lately come to this city. A lady. Maybe you get a

list of visitors to this city in your paper."

"At the hotels--yes."

"Ah, I don't guess she's stopping at an hotel. Came to visit her

sister. Her name's Audrey Thorne."

"Audrey Thorne," Mr. Meakin searched the back cells of memory. He

seemed to have heard the name at some time or other, but for the life

of him he could not recall where.

"Guess I'm not wise," he said at last, with a thoughtful shake of his

head, while he eyed his visitor shrewdly. "Anyway, if I knew of the

lady, tain't up to me to hand information to a stranger--without a

name."

The stranger promptly rose from his seat.

"Just so," he said, with a sharp clip of his powerful jaws. "I'll ask

you to read this over," he went on, producing a sheet of paper from his

pocket, "and say what it'll cost to have it in your news-sheet for a

week."

He handed the paper across the desk, and Mr. Meakin admired the bold

handwriting in which the advertisement was set out.

"'Will Audie send her address to Box 4926 P. O. Winnipeg? Sign letter

in full name.--Leo.'"

Mr. Meakin read it over twice. Then he looked up keenly.

"Guess it'll cost you ten dollars," he said. "Sunday edition two

dollars extra. In advance."

The stranger paid out the money without comment and moved towards the

door. Then he looked back.

"There'll be no mistake. It's particular," he said deliberately.

"There'll be no mistake."

"Thanks." The stranger pocketed the receipt for the money with some

care.

The door closed behind the man who signed himself as "Leo," and Mr.

Meakin heard him pass down the passage to the outer office. Then he

turned to the stack of local copy at his elbow.

He was quite used to strange visits from stranger people, so he thought

no more of the matter until nearly an hour later when Monica returned

from her dinner.

As she entered the wholesome, airy apartment, with its soft carpet and

comfortable furniture, he looked up quickly.

"Say, Miss Hanson," he said, holding out a pile of proofed copy. "This

needs classifying. It goes in tomorrow's issue. Get it through before

four. Say, and you might hand this in to the advertisement department.

A guy with a tow-head, and a face like emery cloth handed me twelve

dollars for a week--and Sunday. Reckon he's chasin' up his lady friend,

and she's guessin' to lie low."

He passed her Leo's advertisement, and went on with his work.

Monica waited for any further instructions to come, and, as she stood,

glanced down at the sheet of paper containing the advertisement. In a

moment her attention was riveted upon it, and a sickening feeling stole

through her whole body. Then her pulses were set hammering with a

nervousness she could not control, and she felt faint.

At that moment Mr. Meakin happened to look up.

"Well?" he inquired.

Then he became aware of the pallor of the pretty face he was accustomed

to admire, when Mrs. Meakin was safely within the walls of their home

on the outskirts of the city.

"Say, you're not well," he exclaimed kindly.

Monica promptly pulled herself together.

"It's--it's just the heat," she stammered. "I'll--go and see to these.

Anything else?"

"Nothin' else just now. Say, don't worry too much if the heat----"

But Monica had fled before he finished his well-intentioned admonition.

Once in her own office she flung herself into the chair at her desk,

and sat staring at the ominous sheet of paper.

"Leo!" she muttered. "Whatever am I to do? Whatever am I to do?"

For a long time the pile of copy remained untouched while she struggled

with the problem confronting her. She viewed it from every aspect. And

with each fresh view it troubled her the more. What was her duty? What

was the right course to pursue? This man was Leo. Elsie's Leo. She had

no doubt of it. Leo, the father of Elsie's boy. If Elsie had lived she

would have welcomed him. But Elsie was dead. Elsie was dead and carried

with her her promise never to let the child know his mother's shame.

Ought she to tell the father of this child? Ought she to give him up?

It would be an easy way out of all her difficulties. Yet she had

promised to bring him up as her own.

No, she would not give the boy up. It was plainly her duty to keep him,

and--yes, she knew it--her desire. But equally she had a duty of some

sort to fulfil by this man. He must not be left in ignorance of Elsie's

death. He must be told that or he would haunt this town, and become an

everlasting source of disquiet to her. Yes, there was a duty to herself

as well. She must safeguard herself; safeguard the child. And with this

conclusion came an inspiration. She would write to him on her

typewriter, and leave the letter unsigned.

So she passed the advertisement on to its department, and, on a plain

sheet of paper, sent the briefest possible message to the post office,

Winnipeg.

"Audie died in child birth."

There was neither heading nor signature, and she determined to have it

mailed from another town. The more she considered it the more her

message pleased her. She was keeping her promise to her sister, and

fulfilling what she believed to be her duty to the man. He had asked

for news of Elsie; well, here was news which was the exact truth.

Her work was duly completed by four o'clock, and she awaited a call

from Mr. Meakin. There would be a number of letters to take down, she

knew, when his editorial work was finished for the day. In the meantime

she had leisure to reflect upon the visit of the man, Leo.

It was curious. Almost a coincidence that he should call when she was

out. Had she been in it would have fallen to her duty to have

interviewed him first. As it was she had missed seeing him. It was a

pity. She ought to have seen him. Yes, she would have given half a

month's salary to have seen him----

A bell rang; but it was not Mr. Meakin's bell. It was from the outer

office. She took up the 'phone at once. Could it be----?

"Hello! Oh! Some one to see Mr. Meakin? Who is it? What's that? Austin

Leyburn? What's that? He's dressed funny? All right, send him in to me.

Right."

Monica put up the receiver and waited. It was not Leo, and she was

disappointed. Austin Leyburn. She didn't know the name.

There was a knock at the door, and, in answer to the girl's summons, it

was thrown open by the small boy who piloted visitors.

"Mr. Austin Leyburn, Miss!"

Monica indicated a chair as the door closed behind her visitor. He took

it without hesitation, and she found herself gazing upon a most

extraordinary object. He was obviously a powerfully built man with a

keen, alert face and narrow eyes. He was smiling at her with a

curiously ironical smile which rather annoyed her. But his general

appearance was deplorable. His clothes were so unclean and ragged that,

even among tramps, she never remembered seeing anything quite like

them. They were patched and torn again in a dozen different places, and

it would have been impossible to have described their original color

with any accuracy. Yes, there could be no doubt he was a tramp of some

sort. Yet when he spoke his manner was not that of a tramp. However, as

a precaution, Monica kept her foot over a push button which did not

belong to a dummy 'phone.

"If you'll state your business, I'll inquire if Mr. Meakin will see

you," she said, in her most business-like way. "He's very busy. You

see, the paper will be going to press soon."

"I don't guess I need to worry the boss if you happen to know about

things." The man's manner was sharp, but his smile remained. Monica

became interested. There was nothing of the usual whine of the tramp

here.

"I deal with all inquiries," she said simply.

"Confidential?"

"That depends on the nature of the confidence."

"Ah. Maybe what I'm after won't be reckoned confidential."

"If you'll----"

"Just so, Miss. Well, see here, maybe it isn't a heap except to me. I'm

after a feller who calls himself Leo," he said distinctly. Monica

started. The man's quick, smiling eyes saw the start and drew his

conclusions. "I see you know him. I knew he'd been here. Came this

morning. You see he's after a woman belonging to this city. I guessed

he'd get around. I'm on his trail and want him bad. Maybe you can put

me wise where he's stopping?"

Monica shook her head with a calmness she was by no means feeling.

"I shouldn't tell you if I knew. You're quite right, I know the man--by

name, but that's all. You see, we know many people by name--but there

our information to strangers ends."

"So." Mr. Leyburn eyed her coldly. "Maybe Mr. Meakin, as you call him,

will----"

"Mr. Meakin will tell you no more. In fact, if this is your business

Mr. Meakin will not see you."

Monica pressed the bell under her foot.

The man laughed harshly.

"Well, it don't matter. Guess I'll come up with him sooner or later.

Maybe he'll look into this office again another day." He rose, and his

hard eyes shone with a metallic gleam. "If he does--you can just tell

him that Tug is on his heels. He's looking for him bad. So he best get

busy. Good-day."

The small boy threw open the door, and stood aside to allow the visitor

to pass out. Nor, in spite of the curious threat in the man's words,

could Monica help a smile at the impish manner in which the boy held

his nose as the man passed by him.

The stranger's visit left an unsavory flavor behind him. Monica was

disturbed, and sat thinking hard. She was striving hard to raise the

curtain which shut out her view of the life lying behind all these

people. She was striving to visualize something of that life with which

poor Elsie had so long been associated. A number of vague pictures

hovered before her mind's eye, but they were indistinct, unreal. She

could not see with eyes of knowledge. How could she? Was not this life

belonging to another world? A world she had never beheld, never been

brought into contact with? No, it was useless to try to penetrate those

dark secrets which she felt lay hidden behind the curtain she was

powerless to draw aside.

Yet she knew these things had not come to her to be set aside and

forgotten. They had come to her for a purpose. What was that purpose?

She tried to see with her sister's eyes. What would Elsie have done,

with Leo--threatened? Ah, that was it; that was the purpose. Her

sister's responsibility had devolved upon her. Elsie would have taken

some action to help--Leo. What would she have done?

She thought and puzzled for a long time. Then she pressed the bell

under her desk once more. An inspiration had come.

When the boy appeared she demanded the proofs of the day's

advertisements.

She waited impatiently until the boy returned, and then kept him

waiting while she hastily extracted the one she required from the pile.

She read it over carefully. Leo had worded it to suit her purpose well.

Suddenly she took up her blue pencil. She dashed out the word

"Winnipeg" and substituted "Toronto" in its place. And without another

glance at it handed the papers back to the boy.

"That's all," she said briefly.

But the boy was full of the impertinence of his kind.

"Toronto?" he read. "Say, Miss, ain't that the place they have ice

palaces an' things?" he demanded, with a grin.

Monica was in no mood to answer his questions.

"Take them back," she said sharply.

As the boy slouched off she leaned back in her chair with a sigh of

relief. She had done her best to put the man calling himself Tug off

the track of his quarry.

PART II

CHAPTER I

AFTER EIGHTEEN YEARS

Monica Hanson stood in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom.

For a long time she stood viewing her fair reflection with a smile at

once half humorous, half tearful.

Thirty-five!

It sounded terrible as she muttered the age she knew herself to be.

Thirty-five! Yet the perfect blue eyes were not a day older, as they

looked back at her out of the glass. There was no hardening in their

depths; there were no gathering lines about their fringed lids. Perhaps

there was a deeper, wiser look in them; a look suggesting a wider

knowledge, a more perfect sympathy with the life into which they had

peeped during her years of struggling. But there was no aging in them.

The rich, ripe mouth, too, so wonderfully firm, yet gentle, the broad,

intelligent forehead with its fair, even brows. There was not one

single unsightly line to disfigure these features which displayed so

much of the strong character which lay behind them. Her wealth of fair,

wavy hair, which since her earliest days had been her one little

conceit, her constant joy and pride, was faultlessly dressed, nor had

she ever yet found in its midst one of those silver threads whose

discovery never fails to strike terror into the heart of an aging woman.

No, she beheld nothing in her reflection to cause her a single pang, a

single heartache. Yet her heart was aching; and the pain of it was in

the smile which came back to her from her reflection.

Had Monica only known it, the years had been more than kind to her.

With a little more womanly vanity she would have understood that her

girlish attractions had been increased a hundredfold. Not only had the

years matured her figure to perfections which can never belong to early

youth, but they had endowed her with a beauty of soul and mind, far

more rarely found in one of such unusual physical attraction.

But such ponderings before her glass were useless, perhaps harmful. It

was all so impossible. So she turned away with a little impatient

gesture, and, picking up the letter lying on her bed, she passed

through the folding doors into her sitting-room beyond.

The winter sun was shining in through frosty windows; that wonderful

winter sun which brightens and makes joyous the Canadian dead season,

without shedding sufficient warmth to disturb the thermometer from its

despairing depths of cold.

She crossed to the window, and stood beside the heat radiator while she

read her letter for perhaps the twentieth time. It was quite short, and

intensely characteristic of the writer. Monica understood this. The

lack of effusion in no way blinded her to the stormy passion which had

inspired it.

"Dear Monica:

"I am going to call on you at 4 o'clock this afternoon, if you have no

objection. If you have, 'phone me. I simply cannot rest until the

subject of our talk the other night is settled.

"Yours,

"Alexander Hendrie."

There was a wistful longing in her eyes as the woman looked up from the

brief note. The subject of their talk. He could not rest. Had she

rested, or known peace of mind since that evening? She knew she had

not. She knew that come what might that calm which belongs to a heart

untouched by love could never again be hers. She knew that love, at

last, had come knocking at the door of her soul; nor had it knocked in

vain, in spite of the impossibility of it all. She had not 'phoned.

Instead she had spent two hours over her toilet to receive the man who

was her employer, and had now become her lover.

No one knew better than she the happiness that might have been hers in

her newly found regard for this great wheat grower of Alberta, had

things only been different. She loved him; she had admired him ever

since she came into his employ, but now she loved him with all the

long-pent passion of a woman who has for years deliberately shut the

gates of her soul to all such feelings.

She knew her love must be denied. There was no hope for it.

The trials she had gone through for the sake of her pledge to her dying

sister were far too vividly in her mind to leave her with any hope for

this love of hers. She must crush it out. She must once more steel

herself, that her faith with the dead might be kept.

She dropped upon the ottoman beside the window, and, gazing out on

Winnipeg's busy main street, gave herself up to profound thought. Her

incisive brain swiftly became busy, reviewing the career which had been

hers since--since young Frank, her beloved boy, the child who had cost

her a sister's life, had become her one object and care.

Her deep eyes grew introspective, and her pretty lips closed firmly.

She had not traveled an easy road during those years. Far from it. The

rocks prophesied by the kindly doctor had been quickly realized. They

had come well-nigh to wrecking her craft at the outset. Only that its

ribs were so stout, and the heart that guided it so strong, it must

inevitably have been doomed.

So much for her youthful conceit; so much for the boundless optimism of

her years. She was caught among the very first shoals that presented

themselves in the ebb tide of her fortunes six months before the

completion of her contract on the _Daily Citizen_. Would she ever

forget the--yes, tragedy of that moment? She thought not.

Everything had gone along so smoothly. Her fears had been lulled. There

was no sign to point the coming of the disaster. Yes, that was it.

There had been overconfidence. The complications at her sister's death

had been forgotten. There had been no unpleasant developments to remind

her of the pitfalls with which she was surrounded. So she had grown

careless in her confidence. In the warmth of her girl's heart, her

rapidly growing love for the little life in her charge, she found

herself spending every moment of her spare time with the child she

intended to teach to call her "mother."

They were happy days. The joy of them still remained. Nor, for all the

trouble they had caused her, did she regret a single one of them. But

her indiscretion grew, and so the blow fell.

It was on a Sunday. In the afternoon. She remembered it well; a

glorious sunny day in early summer. She was pushing the baby coach

along the sidewalk of the broad country road toward the city. She had

paused to readjust the sunshade over the child's head. When she looked

up it was to discover a light, top buggy, drawn by a fast trotter,

rapidly approaching. Mr. Meakin was driving it, and beside him sat his

little, chapel-going wife.

They saw her and promptly pulled up; and instantly Monica knew that

trouble was knocking at her door. Mrs. Meakin did not like her. She did

not approve of her husband's secretary; and Mrs. Meakin was one of

those narrow, straight-laced puritans, who never cease to thank

Providence that they are so pure.

"Why, it's Miss Hanson," she promptly exclaimed. "And--oh, the lovely

baby. Why----" She looked at Monica's scarlet face and broke off.

Mr. Meakin took up the greeting in the cordial fashion of a man who is

well disposed.

"Say, Miss Hanson, it's a hot day for you to be pushing that coach. You

surely ought to be around an ice cream parlor with one of your beaus.

Not out airing some friend's kid."

But Monica's confusion only increased under the sharp eyes of Mrs.

Meakin, which never left her face.

"A baby can't have too much of this beautiful air," she said helplessly.

"Why doesn't its mother look after it?" demanded Mrs. Meakin.

"She's--she's busy."

Monica's attempts at evasion were so feeble, she had so little love for

subterfuge, that, to a mind as prone to suspicion as Mrs. Meakin's, the

word "mystery" quickly presented itself.

"Whose is it?"

The inevitable question seemed to thunder into the wretched girl's ears.

Whose is it? Whose is it? It was useless to lie to this woman, whom she

knew had no love for her. So on the spur of the moment she did the only

thing that seemed possible, seeing Mr. Meakin was her employer. But she

did it so badly that, even while she spoke, she knew her doom was

sealed.

"She belongs back there." Monica pointed at the distant farm house.

"That house?" cried Mrs. Meakin sharply. "Why, that's Mrs. Gadly's.

I----" She turned abruptly to her husband. "We'd better drive on, or

we'll be late back for supper, and that will make us late for chapel."

With a flourish of his whip, and a cheery good-bye, Mr. Meakin set his

"three-minute" trotter going again, and Monica was left to her dismay.

She knew. She needed no instinct to tell her. It had all been written

in Mrs. Meakin's icy face. The woman would find out all about the baby

she had seen her husband's secretary with. She would smell out the

whole trail with that nose which was ever sharp for an evil scent.

She continued her walk thinking hard all the while, and finally took

the child back to its nurse at the usual time.

Mrs. Gadly met her at the front door, and Monica put a sharp question.

"Has Mrs. Meakin been here?"

"She surely has, mam," replied the woman, smiling. "And a God-fearin'

woman she is. I've known her years an' years. I didn't jest know you

was her good man's secretary. She's a lady, she is; a real, elegant

lady. An' she was all took up with the baby, an' the way I'd looked

after him. She said as it was a great thing for a woman who 's lost her

baby to have the care of another woman's child, kind o' softens the

pain. An' when I told her as you paid me so liberal for it----Why, mam,

you ain't faint? Ah, it's the sun; you best come right inside and set

down."

It had been a terrible moment for Monica. She knew that her career in

San Sabatano had suddenly terminated. The God-fearing Mrs. Meakin would

have no mercy on her, particularly as she was her husband's secretary.

She returned to her apartments that evening with her mind made up to a

definite course; and, on the Monday morning following, before she went

to her office, she looked up her contract with the _Daily Citizen_. She

took it with her. She knew that the thing she was about to do was a

tacit admission of the child's parentage. But she intended it so to be,

since truthful explanation was denied her.

Mr. Meakin was amiability itself. But there was evident relief in the

sigh with which he accepted the return of the girl's contract.

"I'm real sorry, Miss Hanson, real sorry," he said sincerely. "But I

guess you're right, seeing things are as they are. You see, Mrs.

Mea--you see, San Sabatano has notions. I'd just like to say right

here, though, I'm the loser by your going. I'm the loser by a heap. An'

whenever you're wanting a reference I'll hand you a bully one. Just you

write me when you need it. Meanwhile the cashier'll hand you a check

for salary, right away."

Yes, whatever his wife's attitude toward her, Mr. Meakin stood her good

friend, for, on her departure, the cashier handed her a check for three

months' salary--which she had not earned!

After she left San Sabatano her fortunes, for a while, became more than

checkered. Her "ups" were few, and her "downs" were considerably in the

ascendant. For a long time her youth prevented her obtaining work in

which there was any scope for her abilities and ambitions, consequently

the salaries were equally limited in their possibilities. Often she had

to accept "free lance" stenography and typing, and not infrequently

auxiliary clerk work of a humdrum and narrowing order. But to none of

these things would she definitely commit herself, nor would she permit

them to shut out the sun of her ambitions. She would keep on working,

and watching, and waiting, for that opportunity which she felt was

bound to come in the end.

Thus, with each reverse in the stern battle she was fighting, she grew

wider in her knowledge of life as it was. Her upbringing had blinded

her, and her own simple honesty and faith had further narrowed her

focus. But these things were passing, and her view widened as the

months lengthened into years.

But her trials were many. Not the least of them was when, as Miss

Hanson, it was discovered she was always accompanied by a boy with blue

eyes and fair hair, practically the color of her own. Nor was there any

chance of quieting the voice of scandal, when it was known that the

particular child always called her "mother."

Twice this occurred in boarding houses of an ultra-respectable tone,

which, on the whole, was not so damaging as it was annoying. But when

her supposed offence attacked her livelihood, as, on more than one

occasion, it very soon did, it was with heartache and grief that Monica

realized that a drastic change must be brought about.

She knew that, for his own sake, she must temporarily part with the

boy. It was imperative that she earn the money necessary for his

education, and, with this scandal attaching to her, that would very

soon be made impossible. Furthermore, she realized that he was rapidly

growing to years of childish understanding when it would be hopeless,

and even dangerous, to attempt to answer the multiplicity of questions

regarding his supposed father which flowed from his lips, without

giving a damaging impression to his young mind. Later, when he grew up,

she would tell him the false story which she had hardened her heart to,

and trust to Providence that it might satisfy, and have no evil

consequences.

It was a terrible blow to part from him. She loved the boy, whom she

had had christened Frank Burton, with all the profound affection of her

ardent nature. He was possibly more precious to her than her own son

might have been, if only for the fact of the pains she was at to keep

him, and the trials which his upbringing brought her.

Then, too, she was never quite without a haunting fear that at any time

some unforseen circumstance might arise and snatch him from her care.

Besides these things, the boy inherited all his mother's generous

nature; all her loyalty; and, in a hundred other ways, reminded her of

the sister she had loved. To Monica he was the sweetest creature in the

world, and the parting with him came well-nigh to breaking her heart.

But it proved itself for the best. It almost seemed as if Frank's going

were in some way responsible for the change of fortune which so quickly

followed. Within a month, Monica secured an excellent position in a

Chicago wheat broker's office at the biggest salary she had ever

earned. Furthermore, she remained in this place for a year, with

unqualified success. Thence she went to another wheat operator's

office. Then on, from post to post, always advancing her interests, and

always in the wheat world. Truly the boy's going away to school seemed

like the first stepping-stone to the successful career she so ardently

desired.

So Frank's education was completed in the manner Monica most desired.

Her experience in the world of wheat inspired her with definite ideas

as to his future; ideas in which, fortunately, he readily concurred.

No one knew better than Monica the fortunes to be won from the soil,

and she was at pains to impress on his young mind that such fortunes

were far more honestly and easily earned than in the commercial world

to which she belonged.

Therefore at the age of fifteen Frank repaired to an agricultural

institution to learn in theory that which, later, he was to test in

practice.

It was during his career at the agricultural college that Monica first

became the secretary of Alexander Hendrie, the greatest wheat grower

and operator in the west of Canada. He was a man she had known by

reputation for several years, ever since she first stepped within the

portals of the wheat world. She had never come into actual contact with

him before, but his name was a household word wherever wheat was dealt

in. Besides being a big operator on the Winnipeg and Chicago markets,

he owned something like thirty square miles of prairie land in Alberta

under wheat cultivation, and was notorious for his scrupulous honesty

and hard dealing. It was a saying in the world of which he was the

uncrowned king that it was always safe to follow where he led, but only

to follow. Of course he was a millionaire several times over, but there

was no ostentation, no vulgar display with him. He lived a sparing,

hard-working life, and in such an employ Monica felt that she had

reached the goal of her career.

The manner of her meeting with him was curious, and almost like the

work of Fate. But the manner of her engagement as his secretary was

still more curious, yet characteristic of the man.

It happened on the railroad. She was returning from the west coast with

her then employer, Henry Louth, one of the most daring of the Chicago

wheat men. Perhaps a better description of him would have been

"reckless," but the newspapers reported him as daring--until after his

death.

Like many another speculator in the past, this man had become

disastrously involved in a wild endeavor to corner wheat. But he found,

as others had found before him, instead of completing the corner he

hoped to make, he had only created a Frankenstein which threatened him

with destruction. So far did he suddenly find himself involved that

only financial assistance on an enormous scale could have saved him

from ruin. His thoughts turned at once to Alexander Hendrie, who was

then in Vancouver. He was the only man who could afford him adequate

help. There was nothing for it but a desperate rush across the

continent on his forlorn hope, and he undertook the journey at once,

accompanied by Monica.

But like the majority of forlorn hopes inspired by ill fortune, the

journey ended in dire disaster. When Louth put his proposition to the

millionaire he learned to his horror that this man was actually the

head of the syndicate who had been his undoing. It was an absurd

blending of comedy and tragedy, yet the situation was wholly

characteristic of the methods of Alexander Hendrie. The work had been

carried out with all the subtlety of the astute mind which had lifted

the man to his present position. It had been carried out by secret

agents, and never for one moment had his name been allowed to figure in

the affair. But it was Hendrie who was responsible for the shattering

of the edifice of monopoly Louth had so recklessly attempted to set up;

and the latter set out on his return journey a broken and beaten man.

Monica would never forget that journey, and all it meant to her. While

the train was held up by a heavy snowfall at a place called Glacier, in

the Rocky Mountains, Henry Louth, in his private car, took the

opportunity of shooting himself. The sensation, the hubbub, the

excitement the affair caused was intense; and Monica attended him

during his dying moments, afterwards watching at his bedside until his

body was removed by the authorities.

It was during this latter period, when the excitement had died down,

and all was quiet again, that a large man entered the car from another

part of the train. He came straight to the bedside and looked gravely

at the dead man. Then he turned to the beautiful woman beside the bed,

and looked at her with unsmiling eyes.

She knew him at once, and returned his look unflinchingly. It was

Alexander Hendrie. She recognized the strong, rugged face of the man,

and his abundant fair hair.

In a moment a cold resentment at the intrusion rose up in her, and, for

the life of her, she could not restrain the impulse to give it

expression.

"Well?" she inquired. "Are you satisfied?"

"How?"

The man displayed no emotion. His ejaculation was the expression of a

mind preoccupied.

"You--you are responsible for this."

Monica's challenge came with biting coldness. But Hendrie only shook

his head.

"Wrong. Guess you don't understand. Maybe most folks--who don't

understand--will say that. But I'm not responsible for--that." He

indicated the dead man with a contemptuous nod. "I was on a legitimate

proposition to prevent the consumers of wheat being plundered. I'm

losing money by what I've done. Guess he hadn't the grit to stand the

racket of his dirty game. Men like him are well out of it."

Monica dropped her eyes from the steady gaze of the iron man before

her. Somehow she felt ashamed of her impulsive accusation. In his

concise fashion he had given her a new understanding of what had

happened.

"I hadn't seen it that way before," she said, almost humbly.

Hendrie nodded.

"You were his secretary," he said, with a subtle emphasis.

"Yes."

Again the man nodded.

"I've heard of you."

Then he turned as if about to go. But he did not go. He paused, and

again his steady eyes sought hers.

"Guess he's dead. I need another secretary. You can have the job."

This was Monica's first encounter with a personality which had a

strange and powerful attraction for her.

Two weeks later she found herself in her new position, established in

the millionaire's palatial offices in Winnipeg at, what was for her, a

princely salary.

At the end of nearly two years she was still with him, a privileged,

confidential secretary; and at last the woman in her was crying out

against the head which had for so long governed her affairs. The woman

in her had been too strenuously subjected in her eighteen years of a

commercial career. She had shut her ears to every cry of rebellion for

the sake of her quixotic pledge. But now they were too loud, too strong

to be any longer ignored, and their incessant pleading found an almost

ready ear.

Alexander Hendrie had offered her marriage. He had done more. This

apparently cold commercial machine had shown her a side of his nature

which the eye of his world was never permitted to witness. He had

thrown open the furnace doors of his masterful soul, and she had

witnessed such a fire of passionate love that left her dazed and

powerless before its fierce intensity.

And she--she had needed little urging. The wonderful attraction of this

personality had ripened during her two years of service. She no longer

worked with every faculty straining for the handsome salary he gave

her; she worked for the man. Her whole heart was wrapped up in his

achievement. Yes, she knew that he stood before even her love for the

boy whom she had taught to call her "mother."

That was her trouble now. That was the one all-pervading drop of gall

in her cup of happiness. Dr. Strong had warned her, and now she was

torn by the hardness of her lot as she gazed upon the frowning crags

which loomed up on her horizon.

She rose and crossed the room to her bureau. She picked a letter up

that was lying on the top of it. It was the last letter she had

received from young Frank, from the farm he was on, not far from

Calford, just outside the little township of Gleber. She read it

through again. One paragraph particularly held her attention and she

read it a second time.

"I've met such a bully girl. Her name's Phyllis Raysun. She's just

about my own age. It was at a dance, at a farm twenty miles away. We

danced ten dances together. Oh, mother, you will like her. She's fine.

Pretty as anything, with dark eyes and dark hair----"

Monica went back to her seat at the window. There was a smile in her

eyes, but there was trouble in them, too. She understood that Frank was

grown up. He was grown up, and like all the rest of young people his

thoughts were turning toward girls and matrimony.

Frank was still in ignorance of the facts of his birth. She, Monica,

was his "mother," so far as he knew, and he understood that his father

was dead. This was the belief she had brought him up to. This was the

belief she hoped to keep him in. But now, all too late, she was

realizing through such letters as these that a time must soon come when

he would want to know more; when the preliminary lies her sister had

forced her into must be augmented by a whole tissue of falsehood to

keep the secret of his mother's shame from him.

Her determination to shield her sister was still her principal thought.

At all costs her promise to the dying woman must be kept. There should

be no weakening. She would carefully prepare her story. Lies--it would

all be lies. But she could not help it. She felt they were lies for

which there was a certain justification, lies which possessed no base

object, but rather the reverse.

But now had come this fresh complication in the person of Alexander

Hendrie. Here was something she had never even dreamed of. He became

something more than a complication. He was a threat. She could not

marry him. She must definitely refuse him. And then----

Despair took hold of her and wrung her heart. Marriage she knew was

forever denied her. She had known it while she dressed herself and

prepared to receive the man she loved that afternoon. She had known it

even while she rejoiced in her own attractiveness, and the thoughts of

the love she had inspired.

She turned to the window with a deep sigh and stared hopelessly out of

it at the keen winter sunshine.

To contemplate marriage with a man as passionately in love as Alexander

Hendrie, a man as strong, as masterful as he, with the existence of her

boy to be explained away, would be rank madness. It was hopeless,

impossible. It could not be.

No, she knew. She needed no prompting. Her course lay clear before her.

She dared not sacrifice the hard struggles of those eighteen years for

this love which had at last come into her life. She knew now how she

had sacrificed herself on the altar of affection when she pledged

herself to the care of her sister's child. That sacrifice must go on to

the end, come what might. It was hard, hard, but she resolutely faced

the destiny which she had marked out for herself.

That was why she had not telephoned to her employer to put him off.

That was why she had specially prepared her toilet to receive him. She

would definitely refuse to marry him. But she would rather lacerate her

already wounded heart by the painful delight of an interview, than shut

out of her life this one passionate memory under the cold seal of an

envelope.

It was her woman's way, but it was none the less sincere, none the less

strong.

CHAPTER II

ALEXANDER HENDRIE

Had Monica only known it her weakness lay in the very strength of that

loyalty which held her to her promise to her dead sister. She was far

too honest to deal successfully in affairs which demanded the smallest

shadow of subterfuge. At the best she could only hope to lie

blunderingly, and to blunder in falsehood leads to sure disaster.

So she had no real understanding of that which lay before her, the

endless troubles she was preparing for herself and those belonging to

her. The pity of it. One could almost imagine the Angel of Truth

wringing his hands, and weeping for the mistaken honesty which clung to

a quixotic promise given eighteen years ago to a dying woman.

It was a nervous, troubled woman who started at the clang of the bell

at her outer door. She turned with terrified eyes to the silver clock

which stood on her bureau. It was four o'clock. Four o'clock to the

minute; and instinctively her hands went up to her hair, and nimble

fingers lightly patted it.

For a moment she stood irresolutely staring before her. She seemed in

desperate doubt, as though laboring under desire to greet her visitor,

while instinctively fearing the outcome of his visit. The next moment

her silken skirts rustled as she hurriedly passed out to her front door.

Alexander Hendrie followed her into the sitting-room, and promptly its

femininity gave way to the atmosphere which his personality seemed to

shed upon all that encountered it.

It was not an essentially refined personality, it was too rugged, too

grimly natural, too suggestive of Nature in her harsher moments to

possess any of the softer refinements of life. A bald, broken crag set

in the midst of a flower garden of perfect order would rob its

surroundings of its delicate charm and trifling beauties. So it was

with the man, Hendrie, in the essentially feminine room which was

Monica's care. He dwarfed the refinements of it with a magnetic claim

for his own rugged picturesqueness.

He was a man of something over six feet in height. There was not an

ounce of superfluous flesh upon his muscular, erect form, which was

clad in the simple fashion of a well-tailored man who takes but little

interest in his clothes. But these things were almost lost sight of in

the absorbing interest of his rather plain face.

An artist painting the picture of a Viking of old would have reveled in

such a face, and such a wealth of waving fair hair. He would have

caught the look of confidence, the atmosphere of victory which lay in

every detail of the strong mold in which his features were cast.

It was a face full of faults, yet it was such a combination of strength

and mentality that no eye trained to the study of physiognomy could

have resisted it. The lines in it were pronounced. Yet every line was a

definite indication of the power behind it. There was a contemplative

light shining in the keen gray eyes which told of perfect control of

all emotions; there was a definite indentation between the fair, ample

brows, which suggested a power of concentration. The nose was broad and

pronounced, with curiously sensitive nostrils. The cheekbones were lean

and broad. The mouth was broad, too, but firmly closed, and quite free

from the least suggestion of animal sensuality. Yet it was a hard face;

not hard in the sense of cruelty, it was hard in its definite, almost

relentless purpose.

Monica realized something of all this as she brought a large rocker

forward for his use; and her heart failed her as she remembered the

mission that had brought him to her apartment.

"You're pretty comfortable here, Monica," he said, glancing round with

a faintly approving smile, as he dropped into the rocker.

The woman followed his glance with a responsive smile.

"Thanks to you," she said readily, without noting one detail of the

tastefully arranged furnishings which had brought forth his comment.

The man's brows went up in swift inquiry.

"How?"

Monica sat down. She was glad of the support, but her manner was

perfectly easy.

"The generous salary you pay me--of course."

Hendrie shook his head.

"I never pay generous salaries. Those who receive my salaries earn

them."

Monica laughed. Slowly confidence was returning.

"That's so like you," she said. "I wonder if I earn $5000 a year. I

have often worked twice as hard for half the sum."

"Quite so. But what was the work? From my point of view you earn the

money, and perhaps more, by carrying the confidence I always know I can

place in you. But, say, don't let's discuss the economy of commerce.

Guess I came here on a different errand."

Monica averted her gaze. She looked out of the window she was facing.

"Yes," she said, with a sudden return of all her old apprehensions.

The man leaned forward in his chair. His hands were clasped together,

and his forearms pressed heavily on his knees. There was a faint flush

on his cheeks, and the usual contemplative light had passed from his

eyes, leaving them alight with a growing fire of passion.

"Tell me," he cried suddenly, a deep note in his voice. "Have you

anything to say to me? Anything about our talk the other night?"

Monica kept her eyes averted. She was summoning all her courage, that

she might the more successfully bruise and beat down her own love for

this man.

She shook her head without daring to face him. She knew, she felt the

heat of passion shining in his gray eyes.

"It--it--can't be," she said, stumbling fatally.

She waited, hardly knowing what to expect. As the man remained silent

the beatings of her heart seemed to have suddenly become so loud that

she thought he must surely hear them; and hearing them, would

understand the cowardice she was laboring under.

Had she dared to look at him she must have seen the marked change her

refusal had brought about. The same passionate fire was in his eyes,

there was the same flush upon his cheeks. But there was an added

something that was quite different from these things, something which

she might have recognized, for she had witnessed it many times before

in her intercourse with him. It was the fighting spirit of the man

slowly rising, the light of battle gathering.

He smiled, and his smile was strangely tender in a man of his known

character.

"Is that all?" he asked at last. "Is that your--final word?"

"Yes," she almost gasped, and desperately faced him.

Then she abruptly rose from her seat and moved toward the window. She

had seen more in his eyes than she could face, and still remain true to

her decision.

"But's--it's insufficient, Mon."

The man rose from his chair and followed her. He came near, and stood

close behind her. She could feel his warm breath on the soft flesh

which was left bare by the low neck of her costume. She trembled, and

stood helplessly dreading lest he should recognize the trembling. Then

she heard his low voice speaking, and her whole soul responded to the

fire that lay behind his words.

"I love you, Mon. I love you so that I cannot, will not give you up. I

love you so that all else in my life goes for nothing. All my life I've

reveled in the constant joy of anticipation of the success I have

achieved. All my life I have centered my whole soul on these things,

and trained brain and body for a titanic struggle to the top of the

financial ladder. And now, what is it, if--if I can't win you, too?

Mon, it's simply nothing. Can't you understand what I feel when I say

that? More than all the wealth and position I've dreamed of all my life

I want you--you. What is it? Why? Tell me why it--can't be."

But Monica could not tell him. She knew she could not; and she knew

that she could not go on listening to the strong man's pleadings

without yielding.

Suddenly, in something like desperation, she turned and faced him.

"I tried to make it plain to you the other night," she cried, with a

complaint that made her voice almost harsh. "I tried to tell you then

that I could not marry you. But you wouldn't listen to me. You laughed

my refusal aside. You told me you would not give me up. I can only

reiterate what I tried to tell you then. Why--why urge me when I say

I--I cannot marry you?"

"Cannot?"

"Yes--cannot, cannot!"

In desperation Monica added emphasis to her negative.

"There can only be one reason for 'cannot,'" said Hendrie, with an

abrupt return to calmness. "Are you married? Have you a husband living?"

The woman's denial flashed out without thought.

"I am not married. I never have been married."

In a moment she realized the danger of so precipitate a denial. The

man's face lit more ardently than ever, and he drew closer.

"Then you must take that word back, and say you--'will not.' But you

can't say that," he smiled gently. "Why should you? Yes, I know you

don't dislike me. You've always seen me as I am. I'm no different. Say,

Mon, I'm not here to bully you into marrying me. I'm here to plead with

you. I who have never in my life pleaded to man or woman. I want you to

give me that which I know no money can ever buy, no position can ever

claim. I want your love. I want it because I love you, and without you

nothing is worth while."

He was very near her now. He was so near that Monica dared not move.

She could only stand helplessly gazing out of the window. As she

remained silent he urged her again, placing one powerful hand gently

upon her shoulder.

"Tell me, do you dislike the hard, unscrupulous financier that men are

only too ready to villify?" he asked, with a gentle smile of

confidence. "Do you?" His hand moved till it dropped to the woman's

soft, rounded upper arm.

"Mon," he continued, "I want you so much. Tell me you don't--dislike

me."

Monica's courage was swiftly ebbing. The task she had set herself was

too hard for her. She was too simply human to withstand the approach of

this great love. The touch of the man's hand, so gentle, so almost

reverent, had sent the blood coursing through her veins in a hot,

passionate tide. All her love for him surged uppermost, and drove her

headlong to a reckless denial.

"No," she cried, in a low voice. "How could I dislike you? What does it

matter to me what men say of you? You have been the essence of goodness

to me--oh!"

The exclamation came without fear, without resentment. It was the

suddenness of it all. In a moment she lay crushed in the man's powerful

arms; his tall figure towered over her, and his plain face looked

ardently down into hers while he poured out a passionate torrent of

words into her willing ears.

"Then I'll take no refusal," he cried, with a ring of triumph and joy

in his deep voice. "Look up, Mon, look up, my dear, and tell me that

you don't love me. Look up, and tell me with your eyes looking right

into mine, and I'll believe you, and let you go. Look up, my darling,

and tell me. You can't--you can't. Say--it's useless to try. Quit it,

Mon, quit it. You love me, I know. I feel it here, right here in my

heart, here, Mon, here," he cried triumphantly. "Right where your

beautiful head is resting."

He moved one hand from about her, and deliberately lifted her face so

that he could gaze down upon the eyes hidden beneath the deeply fringed

lids.

"Come, Mon," he cried tenderly. "Speak up. Say, I can't just hear you.

I want to hear you say you don't love me, you hate me for this. No?

Then you must kiss me."

He bent his head, and drew her face up to his. And an exquisite joy

flooded Monica's heart as he rained burning kisses upon her lips, her

eyes, her hair.

So they remained for many minutes. He, speaking words which were ample

caresses, she, listening like one in a wonderful, heavenly dream.

But at last she stirred in his arms, and finally released herself.

Then, with flushed face and bowed head, she flung herself upon the

ottoman beside her with something almost like a sob.

Hendrie waited for a moment. Then he drew up a chair and sat down, and

deliberately removed the hands in which her face was buried.

"What is it, Mon?" he inquired anxiously, but in his firm, decided way.

"I--I don't know," she cried, with the desperate helplessness of a

child. "You--you've made me love you, and--and it's all wrong--all

wrong."

Hendrie smiled confidently.

"Is it? Ah, well, you do love me. That's all that matters--really."

She stared at him with suddenly widening eyes. Then she, too, smiled a

tender, shy smile that still was full of trouble.

"I'm afraid--I do," she said. "But I didn't mean you to know----"

"Afraid?"

Hendrie's smile was good to see. But it passed quickly, and he went on

in the manner of a man always accustomed to dictate.

"Now listen, Mon. We are going to be married without unnecessary delay.

How soon can you be ready?"

In a moment Monica realized the utter folly of what she had done. In a

moment it swept over her, threatening and almost paralyzing her

faculties. She paled. Then a deep flush leaped into her cheek, and, in

a fever of apprehension, she pleaded for a respite.

"No, no, not yet," she cried, with a sudden energy which quite startled

her lover. "I cannot marry you until--until---- You see," she blundered

on, "there are so many things. I--I have responsibilities. There

are----"

Hendrie mercifully broke in upon her, and perhaps saved her from

betraying in her hysterical apprehension those very things she wished

to keep from him.

"Don't be scared, Mon," he said quickly. "It's for you to say. It's

right up to you. I shan't rush you. See. Think it over. I've got to go

west to-morrow. Guess I'll be away a week. Say, this day week. You'll

get it all fixed by then. I'll get right back and you can tell me when

you'll marry me. You see, I just want you--whenever you're ready."

It was impossible to withstand him, and, in desperation, Monica

realized that it was worse than useless to pit her reason against a

love she desired more than all the world. She felt utterly helpless,

like one swept off her feet by an irresistible tide. There was a

recklessness, too, in her blood now, a recklessness flowing hotly

through veins which for so long had been left unstirred in their

perfect calm, and somehow the joy of it had intoxicated her reason and

left her unable to adequately control it.

Later it would be different. When he had gone she would be able to

think soberly, and she knew she would have to think hard to repair the

damage of these moments. She would wait till then when the toll was

demanded of her, and now--now? These moments were too sweetly precious

to deny. She would not, she could not deny them. So, while she knew

that every fraction of the penalty would be demanded of her later, she

thanked her God for this love that had come to her, and abandoned

herself to its delight.

CHAPTER III

THE PENALTY

It was a changed woman who restlessly paced the narrow limits of her

sitting-room four days later. Monica was awaiting another visitor;

again she was awaiting the ominous clang of the bell at the front door.

But her feelings were very different now. The timid shrinking, the mere

thrill of troubled apprehension with which she had awaited the coming

of the man who had changed all those things into a wild, reckless joy,

was nothing to the desperation with which she contemplated the coming

visit. She knew that the penalty was about to be exacted, the toll, for

the stolen moments when she had permitted the woman in her to taste of

the sweets which surely she had a right to.

The sober moments she had anticipated had come; oh, yes, they had come

as she knew they inevitably must come. She had faced the consequences

of the weakness she believed herself to have displayed in all their

nakedness, and she saw before her such a tangle, the contemplation of

which had set her head whirling, and filled her heart with despair.

She was torn between her loyalty to the living, and her duty to the

dead. She was torn between that which she knew she owed to herself, and

all those other obligations which could be summed up as part of the

strong moral side of her nature. She was seeking a central path which

might satisfy in some degree each of the opposing claims. She was

committing that fatal mistake of seeking the easiest road, with the

full knowledge that it was a mistake. She had tasted life, and now she

was powerless to continue the sacrifice she had for such long years

marked out for herself.

The habit of years was strong upon her. There was something almost

superstitious in the way she clung to the promise she had so rashly

given her sister. She could no more outrage that than she could deny

the love that had come to her so late. Therefore she saw nothing but

that perilous middle course open before her.

She had sent for her boy, the man--yes, he was a man now--whom she had

been at such pains to bring up with lofty aspirations, and a fine sense

of love, and honor, and duty. She told herself she was going to lie to

him, lie to him with all the heartless selfishness of an utterly weak

and worthless woman. She tried to smother her conscience by reminding

herself that she had always seen the necessity of ultimately lying to

him, and now only the motive of the lies was changed. She told herself

these things, but she did not convince herself. She knew that

originally her contemplated lies were that he might be kept from the

knowing of his mother's shame, and as such might even have found

justification in the eyes of the Recording Angel. Now it was different;

their motive was purely one of self, and for such there could be no

justification.

So she was desperate. All that was best in her was warring with the

baser human side of a really fine nature. She suffered agonies of

torture while she waited for the coming of the man who would gaze at

her with wide, frank, trusting eyes, while she lied something of his

simple faith and youthful happiness away.

Was there wonder that she dreaded his coming? Could it be otherwise?

She could see no other course than the one she had decided upon. She

was blinded by her newly found love for the man, Hendrie; she was

blinded by her promise to a dead woman. Frank must be persuaded into

the background. He must remain hidden, lest the breath of scandal reach

Hendrie, and she be robbed of the happiness she so yearned for. He must

be made the sacrifice for her selfish desires.

In the midst of her desperate thought, the signal rang out through the

apartments. Oh, that bell; how she hated its brazen note. But now that

the moment of her trial had come there was no shrinking, no hesitation.

She passed swiftly to the door and opened it, and, in a moment, was

engulfed in a bear-like embrace by a great, fair-haired young giant

who, tall as Monica was, quite towered over her.

"Why, mother," he cried, as he finally released her, "I never had such

a rush to get here so soon. Guess your wire set me on the dead jump. I

drove twenty-five miles to the depot in under three hours, to catch the

east-bound mail, and nearly foundered old Bernard's best team. But I'd

made up my mind to----"

Monica's eyes shone with admiration and love.

"That's so like you, Frank, dear," she cried. "Come right in and sit

down. You're such an impulsive boy. But I'm glad you've come--so glad."

The delight at the sight of her beloved boy had almost died out of

Monica's eyes as she finished speaking. It had all come back to

her--the meaning of his visit.

Frank flung himself into the same rocking chair in which Alexander

Hendrie had sat, and gazed up at the beautiful woman he called "mother"

with a radiant smile on his handsome, ingenuous face.

"Gee, I'm tired," he exclaimed. "Two nights and a day in the train. I

didn't come sleeper. I didn't want to rush you too much. So I just

dozed in the ordinary car where I sat."

In spite of everything Monica's delight in this fatherless boy was

wonderful. All her love was shining in her eyes again as she exclaimed--

"Oh, Frank! You didn't come sleeper? Why not? You shouldn't have

considered the expense."

The boy laughed joyously.

"That's so like you, Mon, dear," he promptly retorted. He always called

her "Mon" in his playful moods, declaring that she was far too young

and pretty to be called "mother." "You really are an extravagant woman

to have a growing and expensive family."

"Growing?" Monica laughed happily. "I hope not. Goodness! You always

find it more convenient to sit down when you're talking to me."

The boy nodded.

"That's because I'm tired--and hungry," he said lightly. "You see I

haven't eaten since breakfast. Got any lunch?"

"Lunch? Of course. Oh, Frank, really you're not to be trusted looking

after yourself. Of course I've a lunch ready for you. It's just cold. I

don't trust the janitor's cooking except for breakfast."

"Bully! I know your lunches. Come along."

The boy sprang from his seat, and, seizing Monica about the waist, was

for rushing her off to the dining-room.

Monica abandoned herself to the delights of the moment. The boy could

not have been more to her if he had really been her son. Her eyes were

full of a maternal adoration. He was so tall, she thought; and his

bright, shrewd, good-natured blue eyes full of half-smiling

seriousness. Was there ever such a face on a boy? How handsome he was

with his finely cut, regular features, his abundant fair hair, which,

since he had been on the farm, had been allowed to run riot. And then

his hugely muscular body. Eighteen! Only eighteen! Little wonder, she

thought, this Phyllis Raysun was ready to dance so often with him.

"You're much too boisterous," she chided him, smiling happily.

"Never mind. Mon," he cried, "take me to the ban---- Oh, I forgot. Your

wire was 'rushed.' You wanted to see me at once. That's why I nearly

killed Bernard's team. There's--there's nothing wrong, is there?"

The blue eyes were serious enough now. He had come to a standstill,

with his arms still about Monica's waist, half way across the room.

But now it was Monica's turn to urge. All the joy had gone out of her

eyes. He had reminded her of the tissue of falsehood she had prepared

for him. No, no, she could not tell him yet, and, with all a coward's

procrastination, she put him off.

"I'll--I'll tell you about it when you've eaten," she said hastily.

"We've--we've got to have a serious talk. But not--now. Afterwards."

Frank gave her a quick, sidelong glance.

"Righto," he said simply. But a shadow had somehow crept into his eyes.

So deep was the sympathy between these two that he promptly read

something of the trouble underlying her manner.

*****

Frank was seated on the lounge beside the window. His attitude was one

of tense, hard feeling. His blue eyes were full of bitterness as they

stared out at the coppery sheen of the telegraph wires, which caught

the winter sunlight, just outside the sitting-room window.

Monica had just finished speaking. For some minutes the low pleading of

her voice had reached him across the room. She was as far from him as

the limits of the room would permit. Such was her repulsion at the lies

she had to tell him that she felt the distance between them could not

be too wide.

Her story was told. She had branded herself with her sister's shame.

The curious twist of her mind held her to her promise, even to this

extent. Now she waited with bowed head for the judgment of this youth

of eighteen who had been taught to call her "mother." And as she sat

there waiting she felt that her whole life, her whole being was made up

of degraded falsehood.

The story was as complete as she could make it. The work was done. Her

sister's name, and ill-fame, had been kept from her son.

As the moments passed and no word came in answer, Monica's apprehension

grew, and she urged him. She could face his utmost scorn better than

this suspense.

"That is all, Frank," she said, with a dignity she was wholly unaware

of.

The man stirred. He stretched out his great limbs upon the couch and

drew them up again. Then he turned his eyes upon the waiting woman.

They were unsmiling, but they had no condemnation in them. He had

fought out his little battle with himself.

"So I am a--bastard," he said, slowly and distinctly. "Frank; oh,

Frank! Not that word."

The boy laughed, but without any mirth.

"Why not? Why be afraid of the truth? Besides, I have always known--at

least suspected it."

Monica suddenly buried her face in her hands. He had known. He had

suspected. And all these years she had endeavored to keep the secret

from him. The thought of it all hurt her as much as if the shame of it

were really hers.

Presently he left his seat and came to her side. "Don't worry, mother,

dear," he said, with one hand tenderly laid upon her shoulder. "You

see, we never talked much of my father. You were never easy when you

spoke of him. I guessed there was something wrong; and being young, and

perhaps imaginative, I found the truth without much guessing. Still I

didn't ask questions. It was not up to me to hurt you. What was the

use. I knew I should hear some day, and quite made up my mind how to

act." He smiled. "You see, if you told me I knew I could bear it

almost--easily. I should have far less to bear than you who told it,

and--and that showed me how small a thing it was for me--by comparison.

If it came through other sources I should have acted differently,

particularly if the telling of it came from--a man."

He paused, and Monica looked up at him with wondering admiration.

"I want to tell you, mother," he hurried on, blushing painfully with

self-consciousness, "that only a great and brave woman could have told

her son--what you have told me. And--and I honor you for it. I want to

tell you it's not going to make any difference between us, unless it is

to increase my--my love. As for me--I don't see that it's going to give

me sleepless nights, so--so just let's forget it."

Frank's manner became hurried and ashamed as he finished up. It seemed

absurd to him that he should be saying such things to his mother. Yet

he wanted to say them. He intended to say them. So he blundered as

quickly and shamefacedly through them as he could.

To his enormous relief Monica sighed as though the worst were over. But

her sigh was at the wonderful magnanimity of this huge boy. He started

to return to the lounge. Half way across the room he came to a sudden

stop, and a look of perplexity drew his brows together. In his anxiety

for his mother he had forgotten. Now he remembered. Suddenly he turned

back.

"You didn't send for me so urgently to tell me this?" he demanded.

"This would have kept."

Monica shook her head decidedly. She caught a sharp breath.

"It would not have kept. It--it had to be told--now."

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I am going to be--married."

"Mother!"

There was no doubt about the man's dismay. He stood there hardly daring

to believe his senses. His mother was going to be married

after--after----

"But, mother, you don't mean that? You're not serious," he cried, his

ingenious face flushed, his whole look incredulous.

Something of the woman's resentment against the unworthy part that had

been forced upon her suddenly found expression.

"Yes, I mean it," she cried sharply. "Of course I mean it. I am in no

mood to trifle. Why else should I have sent for you now to tell you the

miserable story you have just listened to, unless it were that my

coming marriage made it imperative?"

The flush deepened upon the man's face.

"But you can't," he cried, with sudden vehemence. "You daren't! Oh,

mother, you must be mad to think of marriage now--I mean with--with my

existence to be accounted for."

"That's just why I have sent for you."

Monica sprang from her seat and ran to him. She reached up, and placed

both hands upon his shoulders and gazed pleadingly into his face.

"Don't fail me, Frank. Don't fail me," she cried, all her woman's heart

stirred to a dreadful fear lest, after all, she should lose the

happiness she was striving for, had lied for, was ready to do almost

anything for. "You don't know what it means to me. How can you? You are

only a boy. It means everything. Yes, it means my life. Oh, Frank,

think of all the years I have gone through without a home, without any

of those things which a woman has a right to, except what I have earned

for myself with my own two hands. Think of the loveless life I have

been forced to live for all these years. Frank, Frank, I have given up

everything in the world for you, and now--now I love this man--I love

him with my whole soul."

Her head was bowed, and the agitated boy led her back to her seat. He

was beginning to understand things. His honest eyes were beginning to

look life in the face, and to see there phases quite undreamed of in

his youthful mind.

"I think I am beginning to understand, mother," he said simply. "Tell

me more. Tell me what you want of me. I--you see, all this is a bit of

a shock. I don't seem to know where I am. Who is the man?"

"Alexander Hendrie."

"Hendrie? The man you work for? The man who owns all those miles of

wheat up our way? The millionaire?"

Frank's eyes shone with a sudden enthusiasm as he detailed the

achievements of the wheat king. For the moment he had forgotten the

reason of the mention of his name.

"Yes, yes." Something of his enthusiasm found an echo in Monica. "Isn't

it wonderful? Isn't it wonderful? Can you wonder that I love him? Such

a king among men. All my life I have longed for achievement in the

commercial world. To me it is all that is worth while. This man has it.

He is it. I have been his chief secretary for two years. I have had a

most intimate knowledge of all his affairs, of the man. I have helped

in my little way toward his success. I love this man, and he loves me.

He will not hear of my refusing him. I intended to because of you,

but--but he is too strong for me. He has bent my will to his, and I--I

have yielded. Nor was it all unwillingly. Oh, no. I was ready enough to

yield in spite of----"

"Does--he know of my existence?" Frank demanded. His eyes were bright

with alertness.

Monica's eyes widened.

"Of course not! If he knew of you my poor dream would be shattered for

ever. That is the terrible part. That is why--why I have had to tell

you everything."

"I see."

The man flung himself on the couch and clasped his hands behind his

head. He was thinking hard. Bit by bit all that was in his mother's

mind was coming to him. He let her go on talking while he readjusted

his new focus.

"Listen to me. Let us look at this thing from your point of view. You

know all we have striven for in setting you up in life. We have been

scraping and saving that you should be properly equipped. Now we are

saving to buy you an adequate farm. You have got to do big things with

that farm. You must go further than merely making a living, and marry,

and bring up a large family. You must rise. You must become a wheat

king, too. If I marry Alexander think of what it will mean to you. I

shall be able to do these things for you almost at once. You shall

start on the best farm money can buy. There will be no stinting. You

can have everything. And you will rise as I want you to; as you want

to. You, too, will become a power in the wonderful, wonderful field of

commerce. Oh, when I think of it it makes me desperate at the thought

of losing it all."

Frank remained lost in thought for some moments longer. Then he

suddenly looked up as though he had come to a final decision.

"Look here, mother. I suppose I haven't had experience enough to grasp

the moral side of this thing. I--I suppose there is a moral side to

it," he said, with something almost like helplessness. "But it seems to

me that--that Hendrie's eyes must never light on me, as--as any

relation of yours. Is that it? You want me to know just how the

position stands, and then hustle into the background, into my hole,

like--like any gopher."

Monica sighed. The ready understanding of the boy was saving her worlds

of painful explanation.

"I'm afraid that's what it comes to, Frank, though it sounds dreadful

put that way. It sounds as if we were conspirators scheming to get the

better of Alexander. Yes, it sounds awful. And yet----"

Frank gave the first sign of impatience.

"Does it matter what it sounds like? I don't think so," he said

sharply. "You love this man, mother, and you want to marry him. Very

well, marry him. I will never jeopardize your happiness. It is small

enough return for all the sacrifices you have made for me. I promise

you Hendrie shall never know you are my mother. I promise you never to

come near----"

"No, no, Frank. I don't want that," Monica cried desperately. "I could

not bear that. I must see you sometimes, and later, when--when things

have settled down----"

Frank shook his head.

"You are taking a grave risk, mother," he said earnestly. "Far better

let me pass out of your life--altogether."

"No, no! I would rather never marry than that. Promise me that you will

come and see me, and I will see you whenever opportunity offers.

Promise me, or----"

"All right, mother," replied the man, with his gentle, affectionate

smile. "You go ahead. You can always rely on me for anything. And I

give you my word of honor your husband shall never know that I am your

son."

*****

That night Frank Burton leaned back in the upholstered seat of the

ordinary car on the west-bound train. He made no attempt to read the

_Winnipeg Free Press_ which lay open on his lap. He was busy forming

conclusions. One of them was that life was by no means the simple

affair it had seemed to him two days ago.

But he came to a more important conclusion than that. He tried to view

things from his mother's standpoint, from the point of view of her

feelings, and, while he deplored the gravity of the risk she, as a

woman, was taking, he acknowledged that he would have done the same

himself.

He thought of Phyllis Raysun--his Phyllis--and went hot and cold as he

tried to picture what his life would be if he were never to see her

again. He knew, in the recklessness of his youthful courage, he would

take any risk rather than lose her.

Yes, love was a great and wonderful thing. He had just made the

discovery. His interview with his mother had opened his eyes to the

state of his own feelings. Love? Why it was more than worth any risk.

To him, in the first flush of his eighteen years, it was the very

essence of life. It was all that really mattered. And he almost laughed

when he thought of the shock he had experienced when he had been

deliberately told he was a--bastard.

CHAPTER IV

THE BLINDING FIRES

Hendrie stood with one foot on the burnished rail of the anthracite

stove which augmented the heating apparatus of Monica's sitting-room.

He was smoking a cigarette in the pensive manner of a perfectly

contented man. His eyes idly wandered over the simple but dainty

furnishing of the room, while his mind, that wonderful mechanism with

which he had carved his way to a mighty fortune, was busy dreaming

dreams of the future, which, for once, contained no thoughts associated

with the amassing of his immense wealth.

He was contemplating rather the spending of money than the making of

it. He was thinking pleasantly of those contracts which he had already

given out for the colossal alterations which were being made in the

mansion he owned out West, upon his wheat lands. He was thinking of the

palatial residence which he had just purchased here, in Winnipeg, and

of the wonderful decorations that he had already arranged should be

executed by the finest decorators in New York.

He intended that nothing should lack for the delight and luxury of his

bride. His whole being was permeated with a passion such as he had

never believed himself capable of. And, for the moment, he was tasting

the ripe delights of a wonderfully successful career. He loved more

madly than any youthful lover; he loved for the first time in his

strenuous life, and the exquisite joy of being able to give out of his

overflowing storehouses intoxicated him.

He was a fine-looking figure as he stood there in his perfectly fitting

evening clothes. His spare frame suited the refreshing smartness of

such a costume, which softened the harsher lines of his build, and even

seemed to add to the fascination of his rugged features.

He was awaiting Monica's pleasure while she arrayed herself in the

adjoining room. Nor did he display the least impatience. He was rather

enjoying the delay than otherwise. It afforded him those moments of

delightful anticipation which rarely enough find their equal in

realization. He watched her beautiful personality moving through

luxuriously conceived pictures of their future life together. He saw

her the head of his princely establishments, the woman of gracious

presence and perfect form, a dazzling jewel in the crown of social

success he intended eventually to wear. Nor were these dreams the

outcome of mere selfish vanity. It pleased him to think that she was to

become that perfect pivot upon which his life should revolve. He knew

she was a good woman, a phrase he used only in the loftiest sense. He

felt that to serve her, to minister to her happiness, was a wonderful

delight and privilege, and that, in living for it, he had not lived in

vain.

No, he was not impatient. There was no reason for impatience, even in

face of that truly feminine delay to which Monica was treating him. He

had come for the verdict she had promised him, and he knew that it was

to be favorable to his desires. So he had made his arrangements with

the decision of a man who is unaccustomed to denial. They would dine

out together, and afterward spend the evening at the theater.

He threw his cigarette end into the stove. He was about to light a

fresh one when a sound caught his ear. He suddenly dashed the unlighted

cigarette after the other, and stood erect, waiting. Yes, the soft

rustle of skirts moving toward the dividing doors was unmistakable.

Monica had completed her toilet, and was coming to him.

A frank delight shone in his steady eyes as they turned to the folding

doors. His lips were parted in a smile. Such was the ecstasy of his

feelings that it seemed as if the whole earth, the whole universe were

acclaiming his happiness.

Her hand was upon the door handle. He strode hastily to her assistance,

and flung the doors wide. Nor was his action one of mere conventional

politeness. It was the impulse of one who felt that the future could

hold no happier service than the care of this woman's well-being.

Monica was in full evening dress, an exquisite picture of perfect

womanhood. From the crown of her beautiful head, with its wonderful

halo of soft, waving fair hair, to the soles of her satin slippers

there was not a detail in her figure or gown that could offend. In

Hendrie's eyes there was nothing on earth comparable with her.

Her eyes shone with suppressed excitement, and her usually delicately

tinted cheeks were a trifle pale. Her bosom, so deliciously rounded,

rose and fell a shade more rapidly than usual with the emotions of the

moment, but these were the only outward signs she gave of the great

love stirring her woman's heart.

Hendrie stepped forward.

"Mon!"

In a moment she lay panting in his arms, and his kisses melted the

pallor of her cheek.

"Mine! Mine!" he cried, with a deep note of emotion in his voice. "Mine

for ever!" he went on, his powerful arms crushing her yielding body to

him.

There was no verbal answer. Monica remained passive. The joy of those

protecting arms had left her speechless. But her warm lips were

nevertheless eloquent, and he was satisfied.

After a few delirious moments his embrace relaxed. Quite abruptly his

hands unclasped about her. He raised them to the warm flesh of her

shoulders, and, gently grasping them, held her at arms' length from him.

His head was bent forward, and his passionate eyes searched her face,

but they could not penetrate the fringed lids which were lowered before

her eyes lest he should see too deeply into the secrets of her woman's

soul.

"Mon, my Mon," he cried, in a low voice. "Look up. Look up into my eyes

and tell me. Look up, and tell me you--love me, with all your soul.

Look up, and tell me that you'll give up all the world--everything--for

me. I can't do with less," he went on hotly. "If you could only see

into my heart you'd understand. But you can't. There's nothing and no

one in the world for me but you, and I want you--all. D'you understand,

Mon? I want no less, and you must tell me now--now--that this is your

love for me, as it is mine for you."

He paused, waiting for his answer, but remained gazing with devouring

eyes upon the beauty that so ravished his senses. At last the eyelids

slowly lifted. The doors of the woman's soul were opened, and he gazed

within. And while he gazed her opening lips thrilled him as his ears

drank in the answer that came from them.

"I love you, dear," she murmured, with a softness indescribable. "I

love you--best in all the world."

Then a shy smile lit her fair face, and she clung to him, hiding it

against his breast.

"Best in all the world," he repeated ardently. "Mon, it's good to hear.

So good. Say, and you're _my_ best in all the world. You always will

be. You are before all things in my life."

Then came long, silent moments, moments in which heart beat to heart

and no spoken word but must have robbed them of something of their

rapture. They were moments never to come again as long as both might

live. With all the strength of mature years they loved for the first

time, and the ripeness of imagination swept them with a perfect storm

of delirious joy. They were moments when soul is laid bare to soul, and

every nerve and sense is tuned in perfect sympathy. They were moments

when the glad outpourings of two hearts mingled in a common flood which

swept unchecked, unguided, speeding on to that far dreamland of perfect

bliss.

Such moments are mercifully brief, or the balance of mind would soon

stand in mortal jeopardy. So it came that later on the harmonious

flood, speeding distantly from its source, lessened its frantic speed,

and gently fell to a stream of calm delight.

They sat together talking, talking joyously of all those things which

concerned the merging of their two lives. For Monica all her troubles,

all her self-inflicted tortures were past and done with. There were no

shadows. There was nothing on the horizon of her life to mar the sheen

of a perfect, sunlit sky.

For the man those moments meant the crowning of his life's ambitions,

the crowning of all that was best in him. He asked no more of the gods

of fortune. So the tension of the force which always spurred him was

relaxed, and, for the time, at least, he lay supine in the arms of his

own dreaming senses, basking in the realms of Love's pleasant sunlight.

Then the spell was finally broken. Sanity was reawakened by the ticking

clock, which stood among the trifling ornaments upon Monica's desk. The

man became aware of its hands. The irresistible march of time would not

be denied. He nodded at the accusing face without any enthusiasm.

"It's nearly seven," he said, with a smile. "Shall we go, or shall

we----?"

His voice was caressing, and its caress was hard for the woman to

resist. She knew that it was only for her to shake her head, and these

moments of delight would be prolonged indefinitely.

The temptation was great. Then, with all a loving woman's understanding

of such things, she decided that the sparing of such moments would keep

the store longer.

"We'd better go," she said decidedly. Then she deferred to him. "Don't

you think so?"

Hendrie smiled happily. It was a new pleasure to find himself obedient

to another's whim.

"Yes," he said, promptly acquiescing. "You run along and get your

wraps, while I go and see if the car is ready downstairs."

With a final embrace Monica hurried into her bedroom.

Hendrie prepared to depart downstairs. But a final glance at the clock

arrested him, and he stood staring at the desk.

Slowly a flush crept into his lean cheeks, and the softness of his

steady eyes gave place to the usual cold light with which the man was

accustomed to face his world. The coldness changed again to a curious

sparkle--a sparkle which would not have found its way there with any

other eyes to witness it.

He took a step toward the desk and picked up an embossed silver

photograph frame and stared down at the picture it contained. For a

moment he only noted the details of the face it portrayed.

It was the picture of a man, a handsome, powerfully built young man,

dressed in flannels. The sweater he wore enhanced his wonderfully

athletic figure, and added a fine setting for the well-poised head. The

photographer had done his work well, for never had Alexander Hendrie

looked upon a more perfect picture of magnificent manhood.

The glitter in his eyes hardened, and slowly a deep intense fire grew

in their depths. His brows drew together, and he glowered with

something like deadly hatred upon the offending picture. Suddenly he

replaced it upon the desk, and, with a nervous thrust, his hands sought

his trousers pockets, while he deliberately took a step toward the

door. But he went no further. He swung about, and picked up the frame

again.

At that moment Monica re-entered from the bedroom.

A sudden terror leaped into her eyes as she recognized the silver frame

in his hand. One swift glance of his hot eyes left her terror apparent

to him. He needed no more. A furious rage mounted to his brain. It was

a rage of jealousy. The first passion of jealousy he had ever known,

and he felt as though he were going mad.

But a powerful restraint, the habit of years, served him. With one jerk

of his muscular fingers the back of the frame was torn out, and the

photograph removed. Then the frame fell to the floor, and its glass was

shattered.

"Who's picture is this?" he demanded.

Monica strove to steady her shaking limbs. She cleared her throat.

"Why--that's--that's the son of an old friend of mine," she cried

desperately. "I've known him all his life."

The man deliberately tore the picture across. He tore it across again.

Then he walked over to the stove. He opened it. One by one he dropped

the fragments of Frank Burton's picture into the heart of the glowing

coal. Then he reclosed the door.

The next moment Monica was in his arms, and his eyes were devouring her

beautiful, frightened face.

"Guess you'll know him no more," he cried, with a laugh, which only

seemed to accentuate the fury of his jealousy. "No more. There's just

one man in this world for you now, and that man is----"

He broke off and released her. Then, with a sudden return to his normal

manner, and all sign of his mad jealousy passed, he led her toward the

door.

"Say, there's going to be no more shadows around, no more shadows

to--spoil things. The car's waiting--ready."

CHAPTER V

IN THE SPRINGTIME

A gray twilight stealing across the sky heralded the coming of day. It

was spring upon the flooded prairielands of Canada; a season which is

little more than a mere break between an almost sub-tropical summer and

the harshest winter the world knows.

In the shadows of dawn the country looked like one vast marshland,

rather than the rich pastures and fertile wheat country, which, in days

yet to come, will surely fill the stomach of the whole human world.

Wide stretches of water filled the shallow hollows; those troughs

between the mountainous rollers of grass, where the land rose like the

swell of a wind-swept ocean.

These wide expanses of water were all that was left of snow to the

depth of several feet; and in their turn would soon enough be licked up

by a thirsty summer sun. This was the annual fertilizing process which

left these hundreds of thousands of square miles capable of a harvest

which might well set weeping with envy the toil-worn husbandman of

older countries.

Just now it was the feed ground of migratory visitors from the

feathered world. Also it had consequently become the happy

hunting-ground of every man and boy in the neighborhood capable of

carrying a gun. They were all there, waiting in perfect silence,

waiting with a patience which nothing else could inspire, for the

golden light of day, and the winging of the unsuspecting birds.

The dim, yellow streak on the eastern horizon widened, and the clacking

of perhaps a hundred thousand tongues screamed out their joy of life.

Doubtless the affairs of the day were being discussed, quarrels were

being satisfactorily adjusted, courtships were in progress, hasty meals

and fussy toilets were being attended to. Doubtless in such a vast

colony as had settled in the long hay slough, which looked like a

broad, sluggish river, the affairs of life were as important as they

are among the human denizens of a city. The clatter and hubbub went on,

and left the rest of the world indifferent, as such clatter generally

does.

Old Sam Bernard and his pupil, Frank Burton, were among the waiting

guns. The light was not yet sufficient, and the geese had not yet begun

to rise. They were both armed with ten-bore, double-choke guns, the

only weapons calculated to penetrate the heavy feathers of such

magnificent game. Both were lying full-length upon the sodden highlands

which lined the slough, thrilling with the inspiring tension of keen

sportsmen. Their half-bred spaniels crouched between them, their silky

bodies quivering with joyous excitement, but their well-trained minds

permitting no other demonstration. It was a moment worth living for,

both for men and dogs.

At last there came a heavy whirring sound down at the water. In a

moment a great gray bird sailed up, winging in a wide circle toward

Frank's deadly gun. It was the signal waited for. The dogs beat a

tattoo with their feathered front feet. A thrill shot down the two

men's spines. Both raised their guns, but it was the sharp crack of the

younger man's which sent the bird somersaulting to the ground.

Now the whole length of the slough became alive with whirring wings and

snapping guns. The panic of the birds was complete. The air was full of

cumbersome speeding creatures, winging their way across the danger zone

in their unhappy quest of safety. Everywhere they paid the heavy toll

demanded of them; and in less than half an hour five hundred brace and

more had fallen to the forty-odd guns waiting for them.

But the shoot did not finish there. That was the first rush. That was

the pot hunting. The real sport of the morning came with the scattering

and high flying of the terrified birds, shooting which required the

greatest keenness and skill. Here the older hand had all the best of

it, for coolness and judgment alone could fill the bag. The shoot went

on well into the morning, and not until the birds became so wild that

they utterly refused to come within range did the counting of the bag

begin.

By ten o'clock Sam Bernard and his pupil were returning home to the old

man's farm in a buckboard laden down with nearly a hundred birds. It

had been a great shoot, and Frank's enthusiasm was almost feverish.

"It's the greatest game," he declared. "Forty-seven brace! Say, Sam,

shall we get any more of 'em to-morrow?"

Sam flicked the mare with the whip as he shook his gray head.

"Guess not," he said, slowly rolling a chew of tobacco into the other

cheek. "They've smelled powder, an' I'd sure say it's a bokay they

ain't yearnin' to sniff again. They'll be miles away by mornin'."

"Seems a pity," murmured the blue-eyed giant beside him.

The old man's eyes twinkled.

"Maybe so," he observed. "I used to feel like that. Guess I don't now.

"You mean a second go wouldn't be so--fine."

The gray head nodded.

"Guess when I die I don't fancy no resurrectin' racket. I can't say but

what I've lived most every day of my life--but ther's nothin' on this

earth worth repeatin'--not even shootin' up a flock o' foolhead geese."

Frank's eyes became pensive.

"P'raps you're right."

The farmer chirruped at his horse.

"It's jest a notion," he said indifferently. Then he pointed out ahead

with his whip. His wife was standing waiting for them at the door of

the farm house.

"There's the gentlest soul living," he observed, with a smile. "Guess

she couldn't wring a chicken's neck to save her life. But she'll sure

handle these birds, an' reckon 'em up, with as much delight as a

cannibal nigger smacks his lips over a steak off his pa's quarters."

This man who was teaching him the business of farming was always a

source of amusement to young Frank, and he laughed cordially at the

absurdity of his comparison. Nor could he help watching the old

farm-wife as they drove up. True enough the sight of the well-filled

carry-all gladdened her eyes.

"Guess I don't need to ask no fool questions about your sport," she

cried. "Say, ain't they great? Look at 'em, all bustin' with fat.

They'll make real elegant eatin'. They surely will. How many?

Forty-seven brace? Why don't you say it right? Ninety-four birds. The

pore harmless birdies. I'd surely say you're the two worstest villains

on two legs. But they'll make elegant eatin'. They will that."

The two men exchanged smiling glances as they unloaded the buckboard.

Then, as the choreman took it away to the barn, Mrs. Bernard remembered

what was, perhaps, the most interesting thing in the life of the

Canadian farmer. A neighbor had brought out their mail from Gleber that

morning. She dived into a capacious pocket in her ample print skirt,

and her russet face smiled up into Frank's blue eyes.

"My, but them birds has surely set me daft an' forgettin'," she cried.

"Here's your mail, boy Frank," she added, pulling out a bulky envelope.

"Jest one letter. An' it's a female writin' on it. Always a female

writin'. You surely are some with the gals."

Frank took his letter with a smile at the old woman's genial chaff. As

he was about to pass into the house to change his wet clothes Sam

called out--

"You don't need to hurry. Jest read your mail, an' when you're through

changin', guess we'll get right on down to the forty-acre patch. We'll

need to finish seedin' there this week. Say----"

"Yes." Frank paused in the doorway.

The old man grinned as he glanced in the direction of the cold

storehouse, whither his wife had gone with some of the birds.

"It don't make no difference to a woman," he said. "Don't matter if it

was your Gran'ma instead of your Ma that was writin' you, she'd guess

it was a sparkin' letter from some gal. Women is queer most ways."

"Sure, Sam," Frank replied soberly. "Guess that's why we like 'em."

"Like 'em? Well, I'd smile."

Up in the attic, in the pitch of the roof, which served Frank as a

bedroom, he sat down on the side of his bed to read his letter. The

little place was homely and clean, but there were no comforts. There

was not even a chair. Just the bare necessities, and they were ample

for a youth as plain and cleanly living as its present occupant.

For some moments the letter remained unopened in Frank's hand, and it

was, perhaps, the first time in his life that he had reluctantly

contemplated his mother's handwriting. He certainly was reluctant now.

It was not that he was not at all times delighted to receive word from

her, but he knew, and was apprehensive of the contents of this bulky

package. It was the first letter he had received from Monica since her

marriage to Hendrie, which he knew had taken place nearly a month

previously.

How many times had he tried to convince himself of his pleasure in his

mother's contemplated happiness? How many times had he argued and

debated with himself, pointing out the naturalness, the desirability of

it from a worldly point of view? How much his mother deserved the

happiness he knew was now hers. He looked at the whole thing without

thought of self; he looked at it with all the generosity of a goodly

nature; he looked at it with eyes just beginning to open upon the life

moving about him; and though he reassured himself again and again, he

knew that he regretted her action, and regretted it more than all for

her own sake. It oppressed him with a sense of coming disaster which he

could not shake off.

He had not had an easy time since his flying visit to Winnipeg. Far

from it. His devotion to his mother had fought and conquered the

natural resentment and bitterness her story of his birth had inspired.

But the effect of that battle remained. He knew that he was not as

other men, he knew that he was not entitled to the same privileges as

they. In a measure he was an outcast among his kind, and the finger of

pitying scorn must always be leveled at him wherever the truth of his

parentage became known.

It was a painful blight under which to set out to face the world, and

he felt like the leper of old, driven by the rest of a wholesome world

to hide in the dim recesses of a wilderness, whither the eyes of man

might not see him, and contact with his fellows became impossible.

These were his feelings, but he had no thought of putting such ideas

into practice. Nor had he any intention of allowing them to embitter

him. He was young, his life, and a great capacity for its enjoyment,

lay all before him. He would forget. He would make himself forget. He

would live like all those others he saw about him. He would work, play;

he would love. For in spite of the accident of his birth all these

things were part of the life given him.

At last he tore open the envelope, and, in a moment, became absorbed in

its contents. Here were the same warm words of affection he was

accustomed to. The same ardent desire for his welfare; and, through it

all, and through the sober accounts of her marriage, and the progress

of her new life, which was all she could desire, ran that thrilling

note of joy which told him of the completeness of her happiness.

And yet he was not satisfied.

The shadow was there lurking about him. It was in the corners of his

sunny room, it floated about his head like an invisible pall, the

presence of which depressed him. Nor could he rid himself of its

oppressive weight.

The last page of his letter he read twice over, and, at the second

reading, he knew the source whence the shadow had sprung. The danger

for his mother lay in him. In his simple existence. He knew it. Not

only did he know that her danger lay in him, but he knew that some sort

of disaster would come through him. He rose and paced the floor, and as

he paced he swore to himself that he would destroy his life rather than

she should ever suffer through him.

After a while, his feelings became relieved, and he turned again to

that ominous last page, so full of kindly thought for him.

"I believe I am on the track of the very farm for you. It is a fine

place, my agent tells me, dear boy. It consists of a whole section of

land, with more to be acquired adjoining. Furthermore, it has three

hundred and twenty acres already fenced, and some excellent buildings.

It also has a water front of half a mile on Fish Creek with plenty of

excellent timber. This is going for $7000. The agent assures me it is a

gift at the price. It was built by two rich English boys who got tired

of it, and went back home. Now, I shall be at Deep Willows, our great

farm, on May 15 _by myself_. Alexander has to be in Chicago then. He

wanted me to go with him, but I persuaded him to let me go to Deep

Willows by myself that I might enjoy exploring its magnificence. This,

of course, was just an excuse so that I could meet you there and

discuss the farm, and see about these things. You must run over as soon

after that date as possible. It's less than thirty miles from Gleber,

so you can easily manage it."

There was more of it, much more, but Frank did not read further. He

looked up with troubled eyes. Here, here was the threat overshadowing

them both. He saw it in the subterfuge by which his mother was seeking

to meet him. He saw it in the fearless manner in which she deliberately

refused to shut him out of her life. Why not send him the money, and

let him conduct his own affairs independently of her? It would, at

least, be safe. And, in the midst of all his trouble, absurdly enough,

he remembered Sam Bernard's remark: "Women is queer most ways."

He smiled in spite of himself, but his smile did not for a moment ease

his anxiety for his mother.

Suddenly he heard the familiar voice of Sam calling up the narrow

stairs to him--

"Ho, Frank! You ready?"

Frank thrust the letter in his pocket, and, regardless of the fact he

had not yet changed his clothes, hastily called back--

"Coming right along!"

Downstairs the old man's twinkling eyes greeted him.

"Guess your mail took a heap o' readin'--you ain't changed."

Frank smiled back at him.

"No," he said abstractedly, for he was thinking of other things.

"Jest so," retorted the old man promptly. Then, with a shrug: "Anyway,

love letters are warm enough to dry most things. Say----"

"It was from my mother."

"Ah."

"And I want to ask you if you'll give me the afternoon off. I'd like to

go across to the Raysun's."

The old man eyed him shrewdly.

"I didn't reckon to, lad," he said, after a moment's thought. "You see

the seedin' needs to get on. But I guess you best go. Letters from your

Ma generly need talkin' over with your best gal--'fore you're married."

The old man's quiet geniality was quite irresistible, and Frank thanked

him warmly. The more surely because he had come very near to guessing

the purpose he had in making this visit. But his purpose was rather in

consequence of, than to discuss his mother's letter. It was a purpose

he had impulsively decided upon for no better reason than that all

subterfuge was utterly repulsive to him, and he felt that before it was

too late Phyllis must be told the painful truth about himself.

In some measure his sudden decision comforted him, as he thought of the

secret fashion in which it was demanded of him that he should visit his

mother. At least there should be no such lack of openness between

himself and the girl he hoped some day to make his wife.

CHAPTER VI

LIFE THROUGH OTHER EYES

Phyllis Raysun was quite a remarkable girl when her parentage and

simple, yet strenuous, upbringing were considered. Her beauty was quite

decided, and was admitted even by those female souls who were really

fond of her. She was dark, with large, dark eyes, deeply fringed with

black lashes, almost Celtic in their depth and sleepy fire. And with it

all she wore an expression of keenness and decision at all times. She

was tall, of a height which always goes so well with a purposeful face

such as hers; and the delightful contours of her figure were all the

more gracefully natural for the absence of corsets. But wherein lay the

unusual side of her personality was the unconventional views of life

she already possessed at the age of eighteen years. The breadth of them

was often quite disconcerting in one so young, and frequently it made

her the despair of her plump and doting, and very ordinarily helpless

mother.

Perhaps her mother's helplessness may have accounted in some measure

for Phyllis's unusual mental development. It may have had a pronounced

influence upon her, for they two were quite alone. Years ago, when she

was an infant, her father had died, leaving her mother in sorely

straitened circumstances.

From her earliest years Phyllis had had to think for herself, and help

in the struggle against poverty. Then, as she grew older, she realized

that they possessed a wholly neglected property which should yield them

a living. So she set to work on the farm, and, little by little, she

wrested from the soil that profit, which, as the years went on,

gradually lifted them both from the depths of penury to a frugal

comfort. Now the farm was nearing prosperity, and, with the aid of a

hired man, Phyllis worked it with all the skill of an expert and widely

experienced farmer.

Her mother was simply a chorewoman; a capable enough woman in this

lowly capacity. She could never hope to rise above it. Nor was Phyllis

ever disturbed by the knowledge. She valued the usefulness of her

mother's work too well, and, besides, she loved the helpless old body,

and delighted in the care of her as though she were some small child of

her own.

Phyllis had spent her morning out seeding, as every other farmer in the

district was doing, while her hired man was busy with plough and team

breaking the last year's fallows. The work was arduous and monotonous,

but the girl felt neither of these things. She loved her little

homestead with its hundred and sixty acres, and she asked nothing

better than to tend it, and watch, and reap the results. She was robust

in mind and body, and none of the claims of this agricultural life came

amiss to her.

But during the past six months a new interest had come into her life in

the shape of a blue-eyed male giant of her own age; and from the moment

she first set eyes upon him an added glow lit the heavens of her

consciousness. She did not recognize its meaning at first. Only she

realized that somehow the winter days were less dark and irksome, and

an added zest became apparent in the everlasting looking forward.

But by degrees he became an intimate in her life, and, finally, almost

part of it. It was a wonderful time for Phyllis. Through it all he was

always associated with the first apparition she had had of him. In her

dreaming mind, as she went about her work, she always saw him as she

had seen him then, sitting on the back of a beautiful East-bred, golden

chestnut horse, disconsolately viewing the distance with questioning

blue eyes, seeking a direction he had absolutely lost.

That was her first meeting with Frank Burton, and somehow she had been

glad, from the first moment she set eyes on him, that hers had been the

opportunity of relieving him from the dilemma in which he had found

himself.

Since then their friendship had ripened quickly. The pulses of youth

had been quickly stirred, and almost before Phyllis was aware of it

that glorious early spring day had dawned when the great golden sun of

love had burst upon her horizon, and turned a chill, snow-clad world

into a perfect poet's dream of delight.

Without a second thought she engaged herself to the boy, and the boy

engaged himself to her. They loved, so what mattered anything else in

the world? Their blood ran hot in healthy veins, and the whole wide

world lay before them.

Phyllis was returning at midday with the old mare that hauled her

seeder. As she came she was reckoning up the time which the rest of the

seeding would take. This year an added twenty-five acres was to be put

under crop, and time in spring was always the farmer's nightmare. She

had completed her figures by the time she drew near the house, when,

looking up, with satisfied eyes, she beheld the figure of the man,

whose presence never failed to raise a smile of delight in her eyes,

standing at the door talking to her mother.

"Ho, Frank!" she cried out joyously.

The man turned at once and answered her greeting, but the smile on his

handsome face had little of the girl's unqualified joy in it. Her

sensitive feelings quickly detected the lack, and she understood that

there was something amiss. Frank came swiftly across to her, and

relieved her of the mare, which he led to the barn while Phyllis walked

at his side.

"I just felt I had to come over, Phyl," he said impulsively. "I

couldn't pass another night until I had seen you and told you all.

I'm--I'm utterly miserable. I----"

They had reached the barn and Phyllis halted.

"You put the mare in, and feed her hay," she interrupted him quickly.

"Dan will feed her oats and water her when he comes in."

Her manner was studiously matter of fact. She had realized at once that

Frank's condition must not be encouraged. So she remained outside the

barn, and waited for him.

The boy found her sitting on the tongue of the wagon which stood close

by, and the misery in his eyes deepened as he surveyed the charming,

pensive face he loved so dearly.

"Come and sit here, Frank. Then you can tell me about it."

Phyllis looked up at him in that tender, mothering way she had learned

in her years of care for her only parent.

The man obeyed, and, for the first time since he had left Sam Bernard's

farm that morning, a genuine smile of something like contentment lit

his hitherto somber face.

"Phyl," he cried suddenly, "you--you make me feel better already.

You--oh, it's wonderful the influence you exercise over me. I----"

He broke off, and, seizing her two hands, bent over and kissed her on

the lips.

"That's better," the girl exclaimed happily, when he had released her.

"When two people really love each other they can generally manage to

set the worst of any shadows scooting off to the dark places they

belong."

The man smiled in spite of himself.

"But--but it's serious. It really is. It's simply awful."

The girl's eyes were just a shade anxious, but her manner was lightly

tender.

"Of course it is. It surely is. Say, Frank, everything's awful that

makes us unhappy. And I guess something's made you real unhappy. Now,

just get very busy and tell me all about it."

The man sat with his great body drooping forward, and his hands

clasped, and hanging between his parted knees.

"Unhappy? It's--it's worse than that. I--I came over here to tell you

that--that you can have your promise back--if you want it."

It was out. He had blurted it clumsily he knew, but it was out. And now

he sat fearing to look up into the truthful eyes he loved so dearly.

Phyllis drew a sharp breath. She looked straight ahead of her for one

brief moment while her sunny cheeks paled. Then the soft color came

back to them, and, presently, a very tender, very wise pair of eyes

studied his dejected profile.

"And if I don't want it--back?" she said gently.

Frank raised his miserable eyes and looked straight into hers.

"But you will when you know all," he cried, almost passionately. "I

know it. I feel it. I know that a good, honest girl like you could not

bear disgrace. No disgrace has ever touched you, and, through me, no

disgrace ever shall. When I asked for your promise I did not know all I

know now. If I had I would rather have cut off my right hand than

attempt to win your love. And now--now I know that I had no right to

it. I have no right to any good woman's love. I--I have no right to

anything. Not even to my name."

"Frank!"

Another sharp intake of breath came with the girl's exclamation.

"Yes, I mean it," the boy went on, with passionate misery. "I have

known it for six weeks, and I should have told you before, but--but I

hadn't the courage, the honesty. I--I have no legitimate father. I--I

am a bastard."

He made his final statement with his eyes upon the ground. To see this

great, honest boy bowed with such a sincerity of misery was too much

for Phyllis.

"You didn't _win_ my love, Frank," she said, with eyes that were

tenderly smiling. "I gave it to you--quite unasked. I gave it to you

such a long--long time ago. I think I must sure have given it you

before ever I saw you. And--and as for my promise, I guess that was

given most at the same time--only I just didn't know 'bout it. I don't

think I could take my promise back if I felt that way. But I don't--not

if you'd like to keep it."

"Phyl, Phyl!" The boy's eyes were shining, but his sense of right made

him protest. "You don't know what you're doing. You surely don't. Think

of it. I--I have no real name. Think what folks'll say when they know.

Think of the disgrace for you. Think of your girl friends. Phyllis

Raysun marrying a--bastard. Oh, it's awful."

"You do love me, Frank, don't you?"

The girl's question came so simply that Frank turned in astonishment.

The next moment she was in his arms, and the joy of his hot kisses

pervaded her whole body.

"Love you? Love you?" he cried. "You're all the world to me."

Presently she released herself from his embrace and smiled up into his

face.

"Then what in the world else matters to--us?" she demanded frankly.

Then she went on, looking straight before her at the tumbled-down sod

house which had been her home ever since her birth.

"Listen," she said. "You are illegitimate. I won't have that other

word. It's brutal, and it's not right anyway. Do you ever think of our

poor little lives? I do--often. Guess I've thought so much I wonder

folks make all the to-do they do about lots of things that can't

possibly matter. What is life? Why, it's a great big machine sort of

thing that none of us, the wisest, don't know a thing about. Why is it?

Where does it come from? What is it? Is it? No, not the wisest man in

all the world can answer one of those questions right. He can't. He

can't. And yet everybody gets busy making crazy little regulations for

running it. Do you see? We're built and developed by this wonderful,

wonderful machine thing, and then we turn right around and tell

anybody, even, yes, the wonderful machine thing that made us itself,

how we should live the life which has already been arranged for.

"Frank dear," she hurried on eagerly, "it's almost funny, only it's all

so plumb crazy. Do you ever go to Meeting? I mean church?"

"I'm afraid I don't," Frank admitted ruefully.

"I do," cried the girl. "Oh yes, I do." Then she laughed. "It's more

funny than you'd expect, if--if you only think about it. I always think

a lot when I go. It makes me think, but not in the way the parson would

have me. I always start thinking about him. It seems so queer, him

standing up there talking Bible stuff, and telling you what it means,

just, for all the world, as if he'd wrote it, and knew all about it;

just as if he was a personal friend of that great machine thing that

keeps this world buzzing around and sets us feeling, and doing, and

happy, and miserable. Then he gets paid like any hired man for talking

to us all, just as if we were silly folk who couldn't think just as

well as him. But he don't really think far. He just tells you what he's

told to tell you by those who pay him his wages, and if he told you

anything else he'd lose his job, and maybe have to plow for a living,

and then be told by some other feller every seventh day he was a fool

and a sinner.

"Then you go to another church--or meeting house. It used to make me

real bad one time. But it doesn't now, because I'm getting to

understand better. Well, at the other place they tell you all

different. And while you're listening it makes you think the other

feller's a fool, and--and ought to be making hay, or maybe eating it.

Then you get mazed up with so much contradiction about Life, and God,

and all the other things, so you find another church. Then that feller

gets up and tells you that none of the others have got it right--no one

else in the world but him, as the representative of his particular

religion. And he asks you to help him send out missionaries, and

things, to tell everybody that don't think the same as him they're

fools and worse, and--and--they're all going plumb to hell--wherever

that is.

"Now what does it all come to, Frank?" she cried, with eyes glowing and

cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. "Why, just this. We're born into this

world, which is a wonderful, wonderful place, through none of our

doing. A big God, somewhere, gives us our life, and implants in us a

wonderful sense of right and wrong, and we've just got to use it the

best we know. We don't know anything beyond the limits of understanding

He's given us, and He doesn't intend us to know more. He just seems to

say, 'Go right along and work out your own salvation; and when you've

done, I'll come along and see how you've been doing, and, maybe, I'll

fix it so your failures won't happen in the newer lives I set going.'

That's how it seems to me. So you don't need to listen more than you

want to what other folks, no wiser than yourself, tell you of what's

right and what's wrong. You don't; because they don't know any better

than you--and that's a fact. So when you come and tell me you're

disgraced, just because your pa and momma weren't preached at by a

feller all dressed in white, and they didn't have bells ringing, and

she didn't have a trousseau, and the folks didn't get around and make

speeches, and pile a shower of paper stuff down their backs, I say

you're not. None of it matters. Nothing in the whole wide world

matters--so long as we don't let go our hold on that sense of right and

wrong which the good God gave us. That's all that really does matter to

us. It's no concern of ours what folks who came before us did, or the

doings of folks who're coming after. We've got to do our work. We've

got to love and live till it pleases our great big God to tell us to

stop. And I'm most sure if we do that, and hold tight to our sense of

right and wrong, and act as it prompts us, we're just doing His

Will--as He wants us to do it."

Frank sat staring in wide astonishment at the girl's flushed face and

bright, enthusiastic eyes. But the effect of her words, her

understanding of things, upon him was none the less. He felt the great

underlying truth in all she said, and it brought him a measure of

comfort which his own lack of real thought had left him without.

"Phyl!" he almost gasped.

The girl broke into happy laughter.

"Say, Frank," she cried, "don't tell me I'll--I'll go to hell for it

all. I--I couldn't stand that--from you."

The boy shook his head. He, too, joined in the laugh. He felt he wanted

to laugh. It was as though she had suddenly relieved him of an

intolerable burden.

"I wouldn't tell you that, Phyl," he said, with heavy earnestness.

"You'll go somewhere, but it won't be--to hell."

"And--and you don't want me to take my promise back?" she asked him,

her gray eyes sobering at once.

"No, dear, I just love you more than ever." He sighed in great

contentment. "And we'll get married as soon--as soon as mother buys me

the farm she's going to. She's written me about it to-day."

"Ah, yes, that farm." Phyllis rested her chin upon her hand, and gazed

out at the old house abstractedly.

"It's to be a swell place," the boy went on.

"I'm so glad, Frank," she replied absently. Then she recalled her

dreaming faculties. "And--your momma's giving it to you? She must be

very rich."

Frank flushed and turned his eyes away.

"She has a good deal of money," he said awkwardly.

The girl seemed to understand. She questioned him no further.

"She must be a good and kind woman," she said gently. "I hope some day

I may get--to know her."

"I----"

Frank broke off. The promise he was rashly about to make remained

unspoken. He knew he could not promise anything in his mother's

name--now.

CHAPTER VII

HAPPY DAYS

Angus Moraine was a dour, hard-headed business man such as Alexander

Hendrie liked to have about him. He was also an agriculturalist from

his finger-tips to his back-bone, and the millionaire's great farm at

Deep Willows owed most of its prosperity to this hard, raw-boned

descendant from the Crofters of Scotland.

When he heard of his friend and employer's forthcoming marriage he

shook his head, and his lean face took on an expression of added

sourness. He saw visions of his own sphere of administration at Deep

Willows becoming narrowed. He felt that the confidence of his employer

was likely to be diverted into another channel. This meant more than a

mere outrage to his pride. He knew it might affect his private pocket

in an adverse degree. Therefore the news was all the more unwelcome.

Pondering on these matters while on a round of inspection of the

far-reaching wheat-lands which he controlled, he abruptly drew up his

sturdy broncho in full view of a great gray owl perched on the top of a

barbed wire fence-post. He sat there surveying the creature for some

moments, and finally apostrophized it, feeling that so uncanny and

secretive a fowl was an admirable and safe recipient for his

confidences.

"It's no sort of use, my gray and ugly friend," he said, in his wry

way. "Folks call Master Alexander the Napoleon of the wheat world, and

I'm not saying he isn't. But Napoleons generally make a mess of things

when they marry. Their business is fighting, or--they wouldn't be

Napoleons."

Quite apart from his own interests he felt that Hendrie was making a

grave mistake, and, later on, when he learned that he had married his

secretary, his conviction became permanent. This time his disapproval

was directed at the map of Alberta, which hung upon his office wall. He

shook his bony forefinger with its torn and dirty nail at the silent

witness, his narrow eyes snapping with angry scorn.

"Female secretaries are pernicious," he cried angrily. "They're worse'n

a colony of gophers in a wheat patch. You want a temperature of forty

below to keep your office cool with a woman working in it. Hendrie

always hated the cold."

But his apprehensions did not end there. Later he learned that Deep

Willows was to be Monica's future home, and the place was to be

immediately prepared for her reception.

This time the telephone over which he had received his instructions got

the full benefit of his displeasure.

It was cold and calm, and thoroughly biting.

"I'll need to chase a new job, or the old one'll chase me," he

muttered, and the thermometer of his feelings for women, as a race,

dropped far below the zero at which it had hitherto stood.

But there was far too much of the old Crofter's blood in Angus's veins

to let him relinquish the gold mine which Hendrie's affairs were to

him. However he disliked the new conditions of things he kept his

feelings to himself, or only permitted their expression before silent

witnesses. With all the caution of his forefathers he awaited

developments, and refrained from any precipitate action; and, later on,

he was more than glad he had exercised such restraint.

The necessary preparations were duly put in hand, and Angus supervised

everything himself. Every detail was carried out with that exactness

for which Hendrie's manager was noted. He spared no pains, and that was

his way. His native shrewdness had long ago taught him how best he

could serve his employer's interests, and, consequently, his own.

Implicit obedience to the millionaire left him with enormous pickings,

and the building up of Hendrie's miniature world of wheat had left him

comparatively a rich man, with small agricultural interests scattered

all over the north-west. He was not the man to turn and rend the golden

calf he worshiped, nor to attempt to cook his own tame golden goose in

the fire of his displeasure. Besides, deep down in his rugged heart, he

was utterly devoted to his employer. So he gave Monica and her husband

a royal welcome to Deep Willows.

After all Monica was not permitted to explore Deep Willows by herself.

Hendrie contrived to get his business in Chicago temporarily adjusted,

and, as a surprise, explained at the last moment to his bride that he

could not bring himself to permit her going to Deep Willows for the

first time without him.

The news at once pleased and terrified Monica. Her thoughts flew to

Frank, and her appointment with him, and it became necessary at once to

despatch a "rushed" wire to put him off. When this had been done she

felt more at ease, and abandoned herself to her pleasure in the thought

that, after all, her husband was to accompany her to the home which she

had decided should be theirs.

But it left her with a fuller understanding of the difficulties and

dangers with which she was beset. She realized that an added caution

was needed. That it would be so easy to make a slip, and so run the

risk of wrecking her newly found happiness.

Yes, there was no denying it, she was utterly happy during those first

weeks of her married life, and frequently she found herself wondering

how she had had the courage to face the long years of her spinsterhood.

It had been worth waiting for. She had married the man of her choice,

the one man in all the world who appealed to her as the very essence of

all that was great, and strong, and lovable in manhood. Here was no

weakling to appeal to her sense of motherhood, but a powerful,

commanding, yes, even ruthless personality, upon which she could lean

in times when her woman's heart needed such strong support.

Then, too, she saw a side of his character which the world was never

likely to see, and her pride and delight in the privilege were wholly

womanly. To her he was the lover, tender, passionate, strong. And his

jealous regard for her was an added delight to her woman's vanity and

love.

The thought of his power in the world, his Napoleonic methods of openly

seeking his adversary in the world of finance and crushing him to his

will only made the intimacy of their lives all the sweeter to her. She

was ambitious, ambitious for him, ambitious to stand at his side on

every plane to which he soared.

Then came her arrival at Deep Willows; and at once she learned to her

delight the chief reason of her husband's accompanying her.

[Illustration: Then Came Her Arrival at Deep Willows]

She had expected a fine farm, built as farms were built in this new

country. She had expected a great place, where comfort was sacrificed

to the work in hand. She had expected the rush and busy life of a great

commercial undertaking, wonderful organization, wonderful machinery,

wonderful, crude buildings for the surer storing of crops. But, though

she found all the wonders of machinery, all the busy life she had

expected, all the buildings, she found something more, something she

had not been led to expect in a man of Hendrie's plain tastes.

A miniature palace was awaiting her. A palace standing in its own wide

grounds of park-like trees and delicious, shaded gardens. She found a

home in which a king might have dwelt, one that had been designed by

one of the most famous architects of the day.

It was set on the banks of a river, high up on a rising ground, whence,

from its windows, a wide view of the almost illimitable wheat-fields

spread out before the eyes, and, directly below, lay the roaring falls

where the water of the river dropped churning into a wide gorge. Truly

the setting of this home was as nearly perfect as a prodigal nature

could make it.

The land in its immediate vicinity had no regularity; it was a tumbled

profusion of natural splendor, perfectly trained in its own delightful

disorder. The farm buildings were nowhere visible from the house or

grounds. They were hidden behind a great stretch of woodland bluff so

that nothing should spoil the view from the house. All that was visible

was the wheat, stretching away in every direction over the undulating

plains as far as the eye could see, centering about this perfect heart,

and radiating to a distance of something like five miles.

Such was the home which Monica's love for Hendrie had brought her; and

the man's joy in offering it for her acceptance was a thing to remember

all her life.

There was that light of perfect happiness in his gray eyes as he stood

in what he called the office, but which was, in reality, a library

furnished with every luxury unlimited wealth could command. He held out

a long blue envelope on which her name was inscribed.

"Now, Mon," he said, in a sober way which his eyes belied, "I guess

you've seen most all, and--and I've been real happy showing it you.

Make me happier still by taking this. When you've read the contents,

just have it locked away in your safe deposit. It's--it's a present for

a good girl."

Monica drew out the papers and gasped out her delight when she

discovered that they were a deed of gift to her of Deep Willows. The

house, furniture, and the grounds as separate from the farm.

"It's--it's too much, Alec!" she cried. "Oh, I can scarcely believe

it--scarcely believe it."

The man's face was a study in perfect happiness as he feasted his eyes

upon her beautiful flushed face. The power to give in this princely

fashion touched him more nearly than perhaps any other feeling, next to

his love for her.

But his commercial instinct made him laugh.

"You'll believe it, dear," he said dryly, "if ever you get busy paying

for its up-keep out of your marriage settlement."

That night Monica realized that the culminating day of her love and

ambitions had drawn to a close. Such a day could never come again, such

moments could never be experienced twice in a lifetime. Her good

fortune had come at last, come in abundance. She was the wife of one of

the country's richest and most successful men. His love for her, and

her love for him was perfect, utterly complete. She owned a home whose

magnificence any prince might envy. What more could she hope, or wish

for? All that the world seemed to have to offer was hers. It was all

too wonderful--too wonderful.

Then, strangely enough, in the midst of her content, her thoughts

mechanically drifted to other scenes, other days. They floated back to

the now dim and distant struggles that lay behind her, and at once

centered round a blue-eyed, fair-haired boy whom she had mothered and

watched grow to manhood.

She slept badly that night. Her sleep was broken, fitful; and every

time she slept it was to dream of Frank, and every dream was of

trouble, trouble that always involved him.

A week later the call of business took Hendrie away. Such were his

interests that he could never hope to remain for long in any one place.

He went away after a brief, characteristic interview with Angus Moraine.

It occurred in the library.

"Angus," he said, "I want you to get a grip on this. Henceforth my wife

represents me in all matters to do with this place. She's a business

woman. So I leave her to your care. But remember, she's--me."

At that moment Angus Moraine's cup of bitterness was filled to

overflowing. He had seen it coming from the outset, and he cursed

softly under his breath as the millionaire took his departure.

With Hendrie's going, Monica's thoughts were once more free to think of

that other interest in her life. Nor was she the woman to abandon any

course she had once embarked upon. If it had been Hendrie's pleasure to

give to her, it was no less her pleasure to complete the equipment of

Frank, which had been her life's endeavor. Now, with all the means

ready to hand, she decided to act at once. So, to this end, she wrote

him full and careful instructions.

*****

Some days later a stranger registered at the Russell Hotel, in Everton,

which was a small hamlet situated on the eastern boundary of Hendrie's

farm. He was tall and young, blue-eyed and fair-haired, and he

registered in the name of Frank Smith.

On the same day Angus Moraine received word from Monica's order, "small

hell" reigned among his foremen the day. She said she intended to

explore the country round about; she wanted to see something of its

people.

With the coming of this order Angus understood that he was no longer

master at Deep Willows, and his resentment was silent but deadly. He

had foreseen the position. He had foreseen this ousting, he told

himself, and now it had come. At no time was he an easy man, but he was

reasonably fair and just to those who worked under him. It was only in

moments when things went wrong with him that the harsh, underlying

cruelty of his nature was displayed. Things had gone wrong with him

now, and, on the day he received Monica's order, "small hell" reigned

amongst his foremen and overseers. Just now he was going through an

unhappy time, and he was determined that something of it should be

passed on to those within his reach.

After a long day of arduous work he finally threw off the yoke of his

labors, and prepared for his usual evening recreation. He had a fresh

horse saddled, and rode off down the river towards Everton.

Here it was his nightly custom to foregather, and, in his choice, he

proved something of his Scottish ancestry. He rarely missed his evening

whisky in the office of the little hotel. It was his custom to sit

there for two hours or so, reading papers and sipping his drink,

listening to, but rarely taking part in, the gossip of the villagers

assembled. The latter was partly from the natural unsociability of his

disposition, and partly from pride of position. Here he was looked upon

as a little king, and he was as vain as he was churlish.

He drew near his destination. In the dusk the few odd lights of Everton

shone out through the bluff of trees, in the midst of which the village

was set. The man's habit was very strong. He always rode at a rapid

gallop the whole of the six miles to the village, and he always drew

his horse down to a walk at this point, where the private track from

the farm converged with the main trail. The main trail was an old

trading route of the Indian days which cut its way through the heart of

Hendrie's land. It followed the south bank of the river and crossed the

water at this point. It was for the purpose of avoiding this ford that

the private road had been brought into existence.

Likewise, at this point, Angus always filled and lighted his pipe, a

rank-smelling briar, well burnt down on one side. There was always

reason for what he did. He rode hard to give himself ample time for his

evening's recreation. He walked his horse at this point to cool him

off. He lighted his evening pipe here because he was beyond the range

of the fields of wheat, and though there was no fear of fire at this

season of the year, he preferred the habit to the risk of inadvertently

setting fire to the crops when they were ripened.

He pulled up his horse and struck a match, and, instantly, in the

stillness of the evening, became aware of approaching wheels. He heard

horses take the water at the ford; and so unusual was the phenomenon at

this hour of the evening that he looked down the converging trail to

see who was driving into the village.

He heard voices, and so still was the evening that their tones came to

him distinctly. Two people were evidently in the vehicle; a man and a

woman.

The horses had ceased to splash. He heard them coming up the slope,

and, almost unconsciously, he drew back into the shadow of the trees.

This left him with his view of the other trail shut off, but, ahead, he

could see the convergence, and when the vehicle passed that point it

would be in full view.

He waited. The horses were abreast of him, beyond the trees. Suddenly

the sound of their hoofs died out. They had come to a standstill, and

he heard voices again.

"Oh, Mon, it's been a glorious day. You are good to me. Was there ever

such a woman in the world?"

It was a man's voice speaking. Angus had caught the name "Mon," and his

ears strained doubly hard to hear all that passed between them. Now the

woman was speaking. He heard her laugh, a laugh he perfectly well knew.

"Don't talk like that, you silly Frank," she cried. "But it has been a

day, hasn't it? We've had it all to ourselves, without one single cloud

to mar it. You'll be all right now. You can get back to the hotel and

no one will be the wiser for our meeting. I'll write you when it is

safe to come over again. It must be soon. I want you with me so much,

and it is perfectly safe when Alec is away. Good night, dear boy."

Angus heard a sound and recognized it. She had kissed the man.

The blood mounted to his head. Then it receded, leaving him cold. He

sat quite still.

A moment later he heard the man walking toward the junction of the

roads. Then he heard the scuffle of horses' hoofs as the vehicle was

turned about. And again he heard the animals take the water.

Still he sat on.

Presently he beheld a tall, burly figure in tweeds emerge from the

other trail. He was a powerfully built man, and, even in that light, he

could see the thick, fair hair under the brim of the stranger's prairie

hat.

"So that's your game, mam, is it?" he muttered. "I guessed Hendrie had

made a mess of things marrying his secretary. I--wonder."

He waited until the man had gained considerable distance. Then he

lifted the reins, and permitted his impatient horse to walk on towards

the village.

CHAPTER VIII

ANGUS HEARS SOME TALK

Angus Moraine's whole attitude toward Monica underwent a sudden change.

That his feelings changed is doubtful. His feelings rarely changed

about anything. However, where before an evident, but tacit antagonism

underlaid all his service of the new mistress of Deep Willows, now he

only too readily acquiesced to her lightest wish, and even went far out

of his way to obtain her confidence, and inspire her good feeling

toward him.

The unsuspicious Monica more than appreciated his efforts. He was her

husband's trusted employee, he was a big factor in her husband's

affairs, and it seemed good that she should be taken thus readily to

the bosom of those who served the man she loved.

Her days were hours of delight that were all too short. Yet with each

passing moment, she felt that she was safely drawing nearer the

completion of those plans which she had long ago designed for Frank.

She knew that when finally settled, they would leave her without the

tiniest shadow upon her horizon.

The affairs of the farm she intended purchasing were well in hand. She

and Frank had inspected it together, and both had approved. Now it was

only for the lawyers, whom Monica had been careful to let Frank employ

to complete the arrangements, and for the money she must provide to be

forthcoming.

In the meantime there was much to discuss, much to plan for the future,

and, with Hendrie away, Monica did not hesitate to see Frank as often,

perhaps more often than was necessary. Her husband always kept her

posted as to his movements, and thus she was left perfectly safe and

free for the repetition of these clandestine visits.

Had she only known that Angus had recognized her and witnessed her

parting from Frank after inspecting the new farm, her peace of mind

would have known none of the ease it now enjoyed. But she remained in

ignorance of the fact, and the astute Scot was determined to give her

no cause for suspicion. Thus had he adopted his fresh attitude, but for

what more subtle reason it would have been difficult to say.

The change in his manner extended in other directions. It did not

affect those who worked under him, but, to those whom he met during his

evening recreations, it came well-nigh as a staggering surprise.

For some evenings no one commented upon it. Perhaps his geniality was

so extraordinary that men doubted their senses, and wondered if it were

not a delusion brought on by their mild, nightly potions. But it

continued with such definite persistence that remark at last found

expression.

The first mention of it came from Abe Hopkinson, who dealt in dry-goods

and canned "truck." He was sitting with his feet thrust upon a table in

the office of the Russell Hotel early one evening. For some time he had

been reflectively chewing. Suddenly his face flushed with emotion. He

could stand the doubt no longer.

"Say," he cried, thumping one heavily shod foot upon the well-worn

blotter, and setting the inkstand rattling, "wot's hit old

leather-belly?"

His inelegant inquiry was addressed to the company generally. Pete

Farline, famed for his bad drugs and antiquated "notion" department,

breathed a deep sigh of relief.

"I'm glad you ast that, Abe," he said. "I've been troubled some.

Guessed I'd have to hit the water-wagon a piece."

Sid Ellerton looked up from the pages of a cheap magazine.

"Meaning the whisky souse from Scotland, via Deep Willows?" he asked

vaguely, and returned to his reading.

A fair-haired little man, by name Josh Taylor, who spent his winter

days dissecting frozen beef, and his summer evenings in his butcher's

store smashing flies on the sides of beef with the flat of a knife,

mildly reproved him.

"Guess you read too much fiction, Sid. It makes you ask fool questions.

Who else would Abe be talkin' of but that haggis-faced moss-back from

the Hebrides? Ain't he made us all feel queer these days an' days? Say,

he's gettin' that soft I get around dead scared he'll get a fancy to

kiss me."

Abe grinned over at Josh's hard face, with its unshaven chin, and his

hair standing rigidly on his bullet head.

He shook his head.

"I'd say Angus is soft, but----"

A titter went round the room as Abe broke off. He had just seen the

reflection of Angus Moraine in the broken mirror which adorned the

opposite wall. He was standing in the doorway. Abe sat wondering how

much of their talk the Scot had overheard when that individual's voice

terminated the moment's merriment.

"Feeling good, boys?" he inquired, in his new tone of amiability.

Pete hastily jerked his feet on to the top of the cold stove, assuming

a nonchalant air.

"Feelin' good, Mr. Moraine?" he exclaimed. "Why, I'd say. Say, this

tarnation country's settling that rapid I had a new customer to-day.

Guess I'm figgerin' to start a drug trust."

Angus smiled with the rest as he moved across to his usual seat, a

rigid armchair under the lamp bracket on the wall. The table bell was

within his reach, and he struck it, and picked up an illustrated Sunday

paper more than a month old.

"Who was your customer?" he asked indifferently.

"Why, a guy that's been gettin' around a heap lately. He stops in this

house when he comes. Dresses in fancy store clothes, and wears fair

hair and blue eyes. Guess he's maybe twenty or more. Calls himself

Frank Smith. He was buyin' fancy perfume for a lady."

Sid looked up.

"First got around soon after Mrs. Hendrie come to the farm," he said,

and lost himself promptly in the pages of his magazine.

"I've seen him," Angus said quietly, without lifting his eyes from the

absorbing colored illustrations. "A flash-looking feller."

"That's him," cried Pete quickly. "He ain't unlike Mr. Hendrie, only

bigger. Guess he's a deal better to look at, too. Maybe he's a relation

of the lady's."

"Maybe," muttered Angus indifferently. Then, as the hotel proprietor,

who was also bartender and anything else required in the service of his

house, appeared in answer to the bell, he ordered whisky, and nodded

comprehensively at the company. "Take the orders," he said shortly.

But this was too much. Such a sensation could not be endured without

some outward expression. Pete's feet fell off the stove with a clatter,

and kicked the loose damper into the iron cuspidor. Abe swallowed his

chew of tobacco and nearly choked. Sid Ellerton dropped his magazine,

and, in his endeavor to save it from the splotches of tobacco juice on

the floor, shot the chair from under him. Unfortunately the chair

struck Josh violently on the knee as it overturned, and set the hasty

butcher cursing with a fine discrimination.

However, these involuntary expressions of feeling subsided in time for

each man to give his order, and Lionel K. Sharpe, the proprietor,

precipitated himself from the room with his head whirling, and a wild

fear gripping him lest Mr. Moraine's bill should be disputed at the end

of the month.

Abe took a fresh chew, and Pete's feet returned to the top of the

stove, but Josh's knee still ached when the drinks arrived. Nor did

poor Sid's loss of interest in a love story, so hopelessly smeared with

tobacco juice, prevent him brightening visibly as he received his

refreshment.

The little man raised his glass to his lips and toasted his host.

"Here's 'how,' Mr. Moraine, sir," he said, with a smile, feeling that,

after all, there were still compensations for the loss of a besmirched

love story.

The chorus was taken up by the rest of the company, and they all

solemnly drank. Somehow there was a pretty general feeling that it was

not a moment for levity.

"Smith stopping here now?" inquired Angus, setting his glass down a

moment later.

Abe turned to the tattered register.

"Booked in yesterday," he said, thumbing down the page which contained

the list of a whole year's guests. "Ah--paid," he added, running his

eye across to the "remarks" column. "Guess he's gone. I'd say that

perfume was a parting gift to his lady friend, Pete."

"And who may she be?" inquired Angus, innocently turning the page of

his paper.

No one answered him. An exchange of glances went round the room,

carefully leaving the manager out.

Presently Angus looked up.

"Eh?" he demanded.

Abe cleared his throat.

"Guess I don't know of any female running loose around here. They've

most all got local beaus," he said, while he shifted his position

uncomfortably.

Sid caught his eye and shook his head.

"Can't say," he observed. "I see him once with a gal. They wer' a long

piece off. She was tall an'--an' upstandin'. Didn't just recognize her."

"Guess I see him with her, too," put in Pete, almost eagerly. "Seen him

several times with her. They were way out riding. I was too far off to

see them right."

"She was tall, eh?" said Josh reflectively. "Guess that's who I met on

the trail driving with him. Maybe she belongs to one of the farms."

"Maybe," muttered Angus dryly. "Anyway, I don't guess it's up to us to

worry our heads gray over him and his lady friend. But it's good to see

folks coming around. This place is surely going to boom, fellers. It's

going to be a great town. Hendrie's working on a big scheme that's

going to bring the railway through here, and set values going up sky

high. Don't say I told you nothing. I've closed a deal in town lots for

myself, and if you've got any spare dollars I'd advise----"

He broke off and looked across at the doorway as another townsman came

in. It was Charlie Maybee, the postmaster.

"Evening, boys. Evening, Mr. Moraine," he cried, his genial face

beaming cordially on everybody. "Say, Mr. Moraine, I guessed maybe I'd

find you. I got some mail here for Mrs. Hendrie. It's local, and

addressed to the post-office. We don't get mail much that way, so I

thought I'd hand it to you. It'll save the lady comin' along in for it."

He produced the letter and handed it to Angus while accepting his

invitation to drink.

"Mailed locally?" the manager inquired casually.

"Yes, This morning."

"Ah."

The keen-eyed Scot intercepted another exchange of meaning glances, and

looked from one to the other with some severity.

"Say," he cried, with a sudden and studied return to his usual dour

manner, "some of you boys seem to be saying one thing and--thinking

another. Maybe you know something about this letter."

An instant denial leaped to everybody's lips, but Angus was playing his

part too well for these country town-folk. He maintained his atmosphere

of displeasure and suspicion, and finally the impulsive butcher cleared

his throat.

"Pshaw!" he exclaimed nervously. "What's the use beatin' around? We're

all good friends right here, an' we all feel that we owe Mr. Hendrie a

mighty lot for what he's doing for this city. An', I guess, when

there's things goin' on that don't seem right by him it's up to us to

open our mouths. We don't know a thing about that letter, Mr. Moraine,

but it just fits in with things we do know--all of us. We know that

just as soon as Mr. Hendrie disappears from the farm some other feller

appears, and his name's Frank Smith, and he mostly gets around riding

and driving with Mrs. Hendrie. That's what we know."

The butcher's forehead was beaded with perspiration as he came to the

end of his statement, but he stared defiantly round at the disapproving

faces of his friends.

Angus fixed him with a stern eye.

"You surely do know a lot," he exclaimed, with angry sarcasm. "And I

want to tell you that I know a lot--too. This is what I know. What

you're saying is a damned scandal. Do you get me? A damned scandal," he

reiterated. "And if I told Mr. Hendrie he'd have you all for criminal

libel--or worse. Now, see here," he went on, after a dramatic pause, "I

tell you plainly--if I ever hear another breath of the like of this

yarn going around I'll see that Mr. Hendrie has you all lagged for a

pack of libelous rascals who ought to be in penitentiary."

He finished up his angry denunciation by bringing his clenched fist

down on the table bell with a force that brought Mr. Sharpe flying into

the room on the dead run, and left the shamefaced townsmen glowering

upon the flaming face of their unfortunate comrade.

But the sensations of the evening did not end here. Angus furnished

them with another, even greater than those which had preceded it.

"Take the orders--again!" he cried, as though hurling a challenge, and

daring any one to refuse his hospitality.

And such was the apprehension his manner inspired in the hearts of the

gathered scandal-mongers, that all selection was reduced to a general

call for whisky, that being the only refreshment their confused brains

could think of under such a dreadful strain.

CHAPTER IX

THE WHEAT TRUST

Monica leaned forward in her saddle as her well-trained broncho came to

a stand. She set her elbow on her knee, and the oval of her pensive

face found a resting place in the palm of her hand. Thus she sat gazing

out over the golden world, which rustled and rippled in the lightest of

summer zephyrs, chanting its whispered song of prosperity to the

delight of her listening ears.

Summer was nearing its height and a perfect day shone down upon the

world. There was no cloud to mar the perfect azure of the sky, or

shadow the ripening sun. The lightest of summer breezes scarcely

stirred the perfumed air, which she drank in, in deep breaths, her

whole being pervaded with the joy of living.

Everywhere about her spread out this rippling sea of golden wheat. Far

as the eye could see, in the vague heat haze which hovered over the

distant line of nodding grain, it washed the shores of an indefinite

horizon, a monument to one man's genius, a testimony to the unflinching

determination with which he faced the world and wrested from life all

those things his heart was set upon.

A great pride stirred within her. It was a worthy labor; it was

magnificent. Was there another man in the world comparable with this

great husband of hers? She thought not. His was the brain which had

conceived the stupendous scheme; his was the guiding hand which had

organized this vast feeding-ground of a hungry world; his was the

courage that feared neither failure nor disaster; his was the driving

force which carried him on, surmounting every difficulty, or thrusting

them ruthlessly from his path.

What other schemes yet lay behind his steady eyes awaiting the moment

of decision for their operation? She wondered; and wondering smiled,

confident in the knowledge that he had yet worlds to conquer, and that

she would share in his victories. It all seemed very, very wonderful to

this woman who, all her life, had only known desperate struggles for

her bare needs.

Suddenly she sat up and flung her arms wide open, as though in a wild

desire to take to her bosom the whole world about her. Then she laughed

aloud, a joyous, happy laugh, and set her horse galloping toward her

home. She loved it all, every acre of it, every golden ear, every red

grain that grew there. She loved it because of--him.

Her delight culminated as she reached the house. As the man-servant

stepped forward to assist her to dismount he gave her the only

information that could have added to her happiness at such a moment.

"Mr. Hendrie is home, ma'am," he said. "He's in the office, awaiting

your return."

Monica sprang to the ground with an exclamation which, even to the

well-trained footman, conveyed something of her feelings, and ran into

the house. In a moment, almost, she was in her husband's arms, and

returning his caresses.

"I made home sooner than I hoped, Mon," he said, the moment of their

greeting over.

The woman's smiling eyes looked up into his face.

"Yes. And I'm so glad. You said not until Thursday next, and this is

only Saturday. You were full of a tremendous business in your letter

last Tuesday. Something you couldn't trust to paper."

The man smiled, but his powerful features wore that set look which

Monica had long ago learned to understand meant the machine-like

working of the brain behind it on some matter which occupied his whole

attention.

"That's it," he said, in his sparing manner when dealing with affairs.

"Trust."

"Trust?" Monica echoed the word, her eyes widening with inquiry.

Hendrie nodded.

"This has been a secret I've kept--even from you," he said. "From the

moment you promised to be my wife, why, I just determined to turn all

my wheat interests into one huge trust. I determined to organize it,

and become its president for a while. After it's good and going--maybe

I'll retire from active service and--just hand over the rest of my life

to you, and to those things which are, perhaps, more worth

doing--than--than, well, growing wheat."

The woman's face was a study in emotion.

"Oh, Alec," she cried. "You--you are doing this for--me?"

"I'm doing this, Mon, because I guess you've taught me something my

eyes have been mostly blind to. I'm doing this because I'm learning

things I didn't know before. One of them's this. The satisfaction of

piling up a fortune has its limit. Maybe I've reached that limit.

Anyway I seem to be groping around for something else--something

better. Guess I'm not just clear about things yet. But--well, maybe,

seeing you've made things look different, you'll help me--sort it out."

While he was speaking Monica had turned away to the window which looked

out upon the beautiful stream far below them. Now she turned, and all

her love was shining in her eyes.

"Oh, Alec," she cried earnestly, "I thank God that this is so. With all

my heart I thank Him that this wonderful new feeling has come

through--me."

After that the man's attitude changed again to the cool, yet forceful

method which had made him the financial prince he was. Nor, as she

noted the swift changing of his moods, could Monica help remembering

that other change she had once witnessed. That moment when on the

discovery of Frank's picture in her apartments he had been changed in a

flash from the perfect lover to a demon of jealous fury. She felt that

she had untold depths to fathom yet, before she could hope to

understand the mysteries of this man's soul.

She listened to him now with all her business faculties alert. Once

more he was the employer, and she the humble but willing secretary.

"I have practically finished the preliminaries of this trust," he said.

"When it's fixed there'll be a bit of a shout. Bound to be. But I don't

guess that matters any. What really does matter is the result, and how

it's going to affect the public. My principles are sound,

and--wholesome. We're not looking for big lumps of profit. We're not

out to rob the world of one cent. We are out to protect--the public as

well as ourselves. And the protection we both need is against those

manipulators of the market like Henry Louth, and other unscrupulous

speculators. In time I'm hoping to make the trusty world-wide.

Meanwhile eighty per cent of the grain growers of this country, and the

northwestern states across the border, are ready to come in. For the

rest it's just a question of time before they are forced to. Such will

be the supplies of grain from our control in a few years that we can

practically collar the market. Then, when the organization is complete,

and the wheat growers are universally bonded together, there's going to

be no middle man, and the public will pay less for its bread, and the

growers will reap greater profits. That's my scheme. I tell you right

here no one's a right to come between the producer and the consumer.

The man who does so is a vampire, and has no right to exist. He sits in

his office and grows fat, sucking the blood of both the toiler in the

field and the toiler in the city. He must go."

Monica clasped her hands in the enthusiasm with which Hendrie always

inspired her. She knew he was no dreamer, but a man capable of putting

into practice the schemes of his essentially commercial genius.

"Yes, yes!" she cried. "It is immense. I have always known that if only

a man with sufficient courage and influence and capital could be found

some such scheme might be operated. And you--you have thought of it all

the time. It has been your secret. And now----"

"Now? Now I'm going to ask for your contribution." Hendrie smiled. "Ah,

Mon, I can't do without you. I am going to set you a task that'll tax

all your capacity and devotion to me. You've got to run this great farm

of ours. Oh, you haven't got to be a farmer," he said quickly, at sight

of the woman's blank look. "You will have the same army of helpers

under you that Angus has. It will be for you to see that the work is

done. Guess yours will just be the organizing head. I'll need Angus in

Winnipeg. He is a man of big capacity for the work I need. You see, I

know I can trust him in things that I could trust to no other man."

Hendrie rose from his seat at the writing table, and pressed a bell.

"I'll send for him now," he explained.

Monica came to his side, and laid a shaking hand upon his shoulder.

Habit was strong in her. She could not altogether forget that he was no

longer her employer. She approached him now in something of the old

spirit.

"Could not I do the work in Winnipeg?" she asked timidly. "Would it not

be wiser to leave Angus----?"

Hendrie's keen eyes looked straight down into hers.

"We are battling with hard fighting men who demand cent per cent for

their money, and can only get a fair interest," he said. "They must be

dealt with by men as hard as themselves. No, it's not woman's work.

Angus is the hardest man of business I know. I can trust him. Therefore

I require him--even in preference to you."

Monica bowed her head. She accepted his verdict in this as in all

things.

"Yes," she said simply. "I think I understand." Then she went on in a

thrilling voice. "But I am glad there is work for me to do. So glad.

Oh, Alec, you are making me a factor in this great affair. You have

allotted me my work in an epoch-making financial enterprise, and I--I

am very thankful."

Her husband stooped and kissed her. Then he patted her on the shoulder,

as he might have done when she was his secretary.

"Good, Mon," he said, in the calm tone of approval Monica knew so well.

Then he went back to his seat.

At that moment Angus Moraine appeared in the doorway. His coming was

swift and silent, and, for the first time since she had known him, his

cold face and colder eyes struck unpleasantly upon the woman who was to

supersede him.

Hendrie looked up, and, in one swift glance, noted all that Monica had

seen in the manager's face without being in the least affected by it.

He knew this man better than it is generally given to one man to know

another. He adopted no roundabout methods now.

"I'm going to take this place out of your hands, Angus, my boy," he

said easily. "I want you in Winnipeg. I have a big coup on, which I

will explain to you later. The essential point is that I want you in

Winnipeg. You must be ready in one month's time. The appointment will

be to your advantage. Get me?" Then he smiled coolly. "A month will

give you time to arrange your various wheat interests about here."

Angus displayed no emotion of any sort. That the change was distasteful

to him there could be no doubt. He had expected some such result with

Monica's appearance on the scene. Nor did the millionaire's knowledge

of his private interests disconcert him. It was not easy to take this

man off his guard.

"Yes," he said simply, and left the other to do the talking.

But Hendrie turned again to his desk as though about to write.

"That's all," he said shortly.

Angus made no attempt to retire. Just for one second his eyes shot a

swift glance in Monica's direction. She was standing at the window with

her back turned.

"Who supersedes me here?" he demanded. There was no warmth in Moraine's

somewhat jarring voice. Monica looked round.

Hendrie raised his massive head.

"Eh? Oh--my wife." And he turned to his writing again.

Angus abruptly thrust a hand into his breast pocket and turned

deliberately to Monica.

"I met Maybee last night--the postmaster," he said, drawing a letter

from his pocket. "He handed me this mail, addressed to the post office,

for you, Mrs. Hendrie. He asked me to hand it to you. Guess I forgot it

this morning. P'raps it's not important--seeing it was addressed to the

post office."

For the life of her, Monica could not control the color of her cheeks,

and Angus was quick to note their sudden pallor as he stood with the

letter held out toward her.

She took it from him with a hand that was unsteady. Neither did this

escape the cold eyes of the man.

Monica knew from whom the letter came. She knew without even glancing

at the handwriting. Why had Frank written? She had seen him two

evenings ago, and settled everything. She was terrified lest her

husband should question her.

"Did he do right--sending it up?" There was a subtle irony in the

Scot's cold words that did not escape the ears of the millionaire. He

looked round.

Without looking in her husband's direction Monica became aware of his

interest. With a great effort she pulled herself together.

"Quite right, Mr. Moraine," she said steadily, now smiling in her most

gracious manner. "And thank you very much for taking such trouble. It

has saved me a journey."

Angus abruptly withdrew. Nor was he quite sure whether he had achieved

his purpose. As he passed out of the house his doubt was still in his

eyes. Nor, to judge by his general expression, was that purpose a

kindly one.

The moment the door closed behind Angus, Hendrie swung round in his

chair.

"Letters addressed to the post office? Why?" His steady eyes looked up

into his wife's face with an intentness that suddenly reminded her of

the dreadful display of jealousy she had witnessed once before.

It was a desperate moment. It was one of those moments when it would

have been far better to forget all else, and remember only her love for

her husband, and trust to that alone. It was a moment when in a flash

she saw the deadly side of the innocent deception she was practicing.

It was a moment when her soul cried out to her that she was definitely,

criminally wrong in the course she had marked out for herself. And, in

that moment, two roads distinctly opened up before her mind's eye. One

was narrow and threatening; the other, well, it looked the broader and

easier of the two, and she plunged headlong down it.

She smiled back into his face. She held up the letter and waved it at

him. She was acting. She bitterly knew she was acting.

"Ah," she cried, with a gayety she forced herself to. "You must have

your big secrets from me, I must have my little ones from you. That's

only fair."

Hendrie smiled, but without warmth.

"Why, it's fair enough, but--I told you my secret."

Monica's laugh rippled pleasantly in his ears.

"So you did. I'd forgotten that." Then she gave an exaggerated sigh.

"Then I s'pose I must tell you mine. And I did so want to surprise you

with it. You have always told me that I am a--clever business woman,

haven't you?"

Hendrie nodded.

"Sure," he said, his manner relaxing.

"You settled one hundred thousand dollars on me when we were

married--all to myself, 'to squander as quickly as you like.' Those

were your words. Well, I just wanted to show you that I am not one to

squander money. I am investing some of it in a concern that is to show

a handsome profit. The letter is from the man who is to handle the

matter for me. Oh, dear, you've robbed me of all my fun. It is a shame.

I--I'm disappointed."

Hendrie rose, smiling. The reaction from his moment of suspicion was

intensely marked. He came over to her.

"May I see it?" he asked.

Monica risked all on her one final card.

"Oh, don't rob me of the last little bit of my secret," she cried. Then

she promptly held the letter out. "Why, of course you can read it--if

you want to."

She waited almost breathlessly for the verdict. If the suspense were

prolonged she felt that she must collapse. A dreadful faintness was

stealing over her, a faintness she was powerless to fight against. But

the suspense was not prolonged, and the verdict came to her ears as

though from afar off.

"Keep your little secret, Mon," she heard her husband say. "It's good

to give surprises--when they're pleasant. Forgive me worrying you,

but--but I think my love for you is a sort of madness--I----" She felt

his great arms suddenly thrust about her and was thankful for their

support.

CHAPTER X

MONICA'S FALSE STEP

Alexander Hendrie spent only two short days at the farm before he was

called away on a flying visit to the seat of his operations at

Winnipeg. But during those two days there was no rest for him; his

business pursued him through mail and over wire, and the jarring note

of the telephone became anathema to the entire household at Deep

Willows.

The announcement of his going came as no surprise to Monica. She was

prepared for anything in that way. She knew that in the days to come

she was likely to see less and less of her husband, the penalty of her

marriage to a man engaged in such monumental financial undertakings as

his. She was careful to offer no protest; she even avoided expressing

the genuine regret she felt. It was the best way she could serve him,

she felt, forgetful of the possibility of her attitude being otherwise

interpreted. To her, any such display could only be a hindrance, a

deterrent to him, and, as such, would be unfair, would not be worthy of

her as a helper in his great schemes.

From the moment she learned that she was to take charge of the farm at

Deep Willows she began to prepare herself; and with her husband's

going, she was left even freer still to pursue the knowledge she had

yet to acquire for her new responsibility. Her time was spent almost

wholly out of doors; and such was her enthusiasm that daylight was none

too early to find her in the saddle, riding round the remoter limits of

the farm, watching and studying every detail of the work which was so

soon to become her charge.

That she reveled in the new life opening out before her there could be

little doubt. Her rounded cheeks and serious eyes, the perfect balance

of her keen mind and healthfulness of body all bore testimony to its

beneficial effects upon a nature eager to come to grips with the

world's work.

She had quite shaken off the effect of that moment of panic when the

preservation of her innocent secret had hovered in the balance. Well

enough she knew how desperately all this happy life of hers had been

jeopardized by the coming of Frank's letter through the hands of Angus

Moraine. Had her husband only taken her at her word, opened it and read

the heading, "Dearest mother"--well, he hadn't. And she thanked her God

for the inspiration of the moment that had prompted her to offer him

the letter to read, and for the power and restraint which had been

vouchsafed her to weather the threatening storm of almost insane

jealousy she had witnessed growing in her passionate husband's eyes.

But it had served her as a lesson, and she was determined to take no

further risks. It was absolutely necessary to see Frank once more to

hand him the purchase money for the farm, and his starting capital. She

dared not risk the mail, and to pay him by check would be to court

prompt disaster. Yes, she must see him that once more, and, after that,

though it might wrench her feelings to the limit, Frank must pursue his

career with only her distant eye watching over him.

So her mind was made up, swiftly, calmly, after a careful study of the

position. She arrived at her decision through no selfishness. Rather

was it the reverse. She was sacrificing herself to her husband and her

boy. To do otherwise was to risk wrecking her husband's happiness as

well as her own, and to start Frank in life with Alexander Hendrie as a

possible enemy would be far too severe a handicap.

Now, as she rode round the western limits of the grain-lands she was

occupied with thoughts of the Trust, nor could her devoted woman's mind

fail to dwell more upon the man than his work.

He had told her that his new aspect of life had been inspired by her,

and the memory of his words still thrilled her. That she was his

influence for good filled her with a great and happy contentment. She

felt that to be such to the man she loved was in itself worth living

for. But he had plainly shown her how much more she could be to him

than that. Could any woman ask more than to be a partner in the works

his genius conceived? No; and in this thought lay the priceless jewel

adorning her crown of womanhood.

She was watching a number of teams and their drivers moving out to a

distant hay slough. Forty teams of finely bred Shire horses moving out

from the farm with stately gait, each driver sitting astride of his

nearside horse's comfortable back. She knew the mowers were already in

the slough, where haying had been going on for days. It was a fine

string of horses, but it was the merest detail of the stud which was

kept up to carry on the work of the farm. And beside all this horse

power there were the steam plows, reapers and binders, threshers. The

wonders of the organization were almost inexhaustible.

The horses passed her by and vanished into a dip in the rolling plains.

Their long day had begun, but unlike Monica, they possessed no other

incentive than to demonstrate the necessity of their existence.

As yet the sun had only just cleared the horizon, and the chill of the

morning air had not tempered towards the heat of the coming day. Monica

felt the chill, and, as soon as the horses had passed her, she lifted

her reins to continue her round.

At that moment she became aware of a horseman riding at a gallop from

the direction of the farm, and, furthermore, she recognized him at once

as Angus Moraine, evidently about to visit the scene of the haying.

She waited for him to come up, and greeted him pleasantly, in spite of

the fact that, since the incident of the letter, her feelings toward

him had undergone serious revision.

"Good morning, Mr. Moraine," she cried, as the man reined his horse in.

"They're out promptly," she added, following the trail of the haying

gang with her eyes.

Angus looked after them, too, and his thin lips twisted wryly.

"They need to be," he declared coldly. "There's one time for farm work

to start, Mrs. Hendrie--that's daylight."

"Yes. I suppose there's no deviation from that rule."

"None. And we pay off instantly any one who thinks differently."

"There's no excuse?"

Angus shook his head.

"None whatever. If a man's ill we lay him off--until he's better. But

they never are ill. They haven't time."

Monica surveyed the Scot with interest. Her husband's opinion of him

carried good weight.

"You run this place with a somewhat steely rule," she said. "These men

are so many machines, the horses, too. Each has to produce so much

work. The work you set for them."

Angus's eyes were turned reflectively upon the horizon.

"You're thinking I'm a hard man to work for," he said. "Maybe I am." He

glanced back at the miles of wheat, and Monica thought she detected

something almost soft in the expression of his eyes. "Yes," he went on,

"they're machines of sorts. But the work any man on this farm has to do

is work I can do--have done, both in quantity and kind. As for the

horses, I'm thinking of building a smaller sick barn. The one we've got

is a waste of valuable room, it's so rarely used." He shook his head.

"There's just one way to run a big farm, Mrs. Hendrie. It's the hardest

work I know, and the boss has got to work just as hard as the least

paid 'choreman.'"

"I think--I feel that," Monica agreed cordially. "The work must be done

in season. And it's man's work."

Angus calmed his restive horse.

"You're right, mam," he exclaimed, with almost unnecessary eagerness.

"It is man's work--not woman's." He looked her straight in the eyes,

and Monica accepted the challenge.

"You mean I am not the fit person to step into your shoes," she said,

with a smile.

Her smile in no way disconcerted the other. He returned her look, while

his hard mouth twisted in its wry fashion.

"P'raps I was thinking that; p'raps I was thinking of something else.

I'll not say you can't run this show. But I'll say a woman oughtn't to."

"And why not?"

Monica's demand came sharply, but even while she made it she realized

the man's hard, muscular figure as he sat there in his saddle, with his

thin shirt open at his bronzed neck, and the cords of muscle standing

out on his spare, bare arms. She understood her own bodily weakness

compared to his strength, and acknowledged to herself the justice of

his assertion.

"Do you need to ask, mam?" Angus retorted, with just a suspicion of

contempt. "Could you handle these guys when they get on the buck? Could

you talk to 'em? Could you talk to 'em the way they understand?"

Monica's eyes flashed.

"I think so."

"Then you're thinking ten times wrong, mam," came the manager's prompt

and emphatic retort. "You'll have hell all around you in a day."

Moraine's manner was becoming more aggressive, and Monica was losing

patience.

"You're not encouraging, but you're quite wrong. I can assure you I can

run this farm with just as stern a discipline as you. Perhaps you have

yet to learn that a woman's discipline can be far harsher, if need be,

than any man's. Evidently you have not had much to do with women.

Believe me, my sex are by no means the angels some people would have

you believe."

"No."

The man's negative came in such a peculiar, almost insolent tone that

Monica was startled. She looked at him, and, as she did so, beheld an

unpleasantly ironical light in his cold eyes. She interpreted this

attitude in her own way.

"You seem to feel leaving your control here," she said sharply.

The man's expression underwent a prompt change. He was her husband's

employee once more. The insolent irony had utterly vanished out of his

eyes.

"I do, mam," he said earnestly. "I feel it a heap--and it makes me feel

bad. That's--that's why I've told you--all this."

Monica's resentment died out before the man's earnestness.

"I don't think I understand you," she said more gently.

"I didn't guess you would." The Scot leaned forward in his saddle, and

his face lit with something like appeal. "You see, mam, you haven't

taken a patch of prairie land and turned it into the greatest

single-handed grain-growing proposition in the world. You haven't

worked years and years fighting men and elements, and beaten 'em, until

you can sit back and reckon your yearly crop to almost the fraction of

a bushel. And if you haven't done these things--why, 'tisn't likely

you're going to understand how I feel.

"I've thought a whole lot since your husband told me he was going to

take me off this farm; and I made up my mind to talk to you. You see,

it's no use talking to Hendrie." The man laughed. "Hendrie? Why, you

reckon I'm a hard man, but I tell you when Hendrie's mind is made up on

anything he's harder than any rock or metal ever found above or below

this earth. I saw you go out this morning, and I guessed you'd be along

to see those teams get to work, so when I was through, back at the

office, I came along quick to have this yarn with you."

"But to what end?" inquired Monica. His earnestness and evident hatred

of leaving the farm had told her all she required. But she wanted to

bring him quickly to his point.

"To what end?" he echoed. "Why, to ask you to persuade your husband to

leave me here. Oh, I'm not going to buck," he went on, at sight of

Monica's coldly raised brows. "What Hendrie says goes with me--always.

He's made me what I am, and I've never known him to make a mistake when

he's promised me benefit. I like him, and so what he says goes with

me--always. But I tell you frankly I hate giving up this farm _I've_

built. Yes, I've built it--not Hendrie. It's been his money--his

scheme. But it's been my work, and I--I just love it. That's all, mam;

at least that's all except, if you fancy doing it, you can persuade

Hendrie to leave me here."

Monica shook her head decidedly; and, after a thoughtful pause, her

answer came quite coldly.

"No," she said, with decision. "I can do nothing in the matter."

In a moment cold anger lit Moraine's eyes.

"You won't--you mean."

Instantly Monica was stirred to a resentment as cold as his own. But

she held herself well in hand.

"How dare you say that to me? I tell you I can do nothing. But, since

you put it that way, I certainly will do nothing. You acknowledge your

loyalty to my husband one minute, and seek to turn him from his

well-considered purpose the next. I certainly will not be party to such

poor service. Prove the loyalty you boast by accepting his orders

without demur, and, if I know anything of him, you are not likely to

suffer by so doing."

Angus displayed nothing of the penitent under Monica's rebuke. His

angry eyes looked straight into hers, and his reply rapped out smartly--

"If you always serve Alexander Hendrie as loyally as I have served him,

and shall continue to serve him, you'll have little enough on your

conscience. Maybe I was foolish to come to you at all. Anyway, I'm

never likely to do so again. And I'll just ask you always to remember I

did come to you and asked a simple favor, which carried with it no

disloyalty to your husband. I want you to remember that, and to

remember you refused me--for no sound reason."

He lifted his reins, and, crushing both heels into the flanks of his

raw-boned broncho, galloped off without waiting for a reply.

Monica looked after him; and, somehow, as her thoughtful eyes followed

him out of sight, his challenge still rang in her ears; just his

challenge, that was all. His veiled, final threat had left her wholly

unnerved.

"If you always serve Alexander Hendrie as loyally as I have served him,

and shall continue to serve him, you'll have little enough on your

conscience."

Whatever had been his purpose the words were not without effect upon

her. They left her feeling uncomfortable, they left her nervous and

irritable, and she felt that her dislike for this man was little less

than his evident dislike for her.

CHAPTER XI

WHICH DEALS WITH A CHANCE MEETING

Monica was more disconcerted than she knew, and finally set her horse

at a gallop across country, regardless of whither her course might take

her. Nor did she pause to consider her whereabouts until the wheat

lands were left several miles behind her, and she found herself

entering the woods which lined the deep cutting of a remote prairie

creek. Here she drew rein and glanced about her for guidance.

She looked back the way she had come, but the wheat fields were lost

behind a gently undulating horizon of grass. Ahead of her, far as the

eye could see, the wide-mouthed cutting of the creek stretched away

toward a ridge of purple hills. To the right of her was the waving

grass of the prairie, miles and miles of it, without the tiniest object

on it to break the green monotony.

She gazed out over the latter with mildly appreciative eyes. Her ride

had done her good. Something of the effect of Angus upon her had worn

off. She almost sympathized with him as she dwelt upon the reason of

his rudeness to her.

Presently she turned about. Her breakfastless condition was making

itself felt, and, anyway, she had wasted enough time. She would return

home and breakfast, and, after that, with a fresh horse, she would

continue her round of the farm.

She was about to put her purpose into operation when the sound of

wheels coming up from the creek below drew her attention. At the same

instant her horse pricked its ears and neighed. A responsive neigh

echoed the creature's greeting, and, the next moment, a single-horse

buckboard appeared over the shoulder of the cutting.

Instead of moving on, Monica was held fascinated by the apparition. The

spectacle of this solitary traveler was too interesting to be left

uninvestigated; and she smiled as she gazed upon the girlish occupant

of the vehicle. The stranger's face was shadowed under a linen

sunbonnet, and her trim figure was clad in the simplest of dark skirts

and white shirt-waist. She was urging her heavy horse with words of

encouragement, alternated by caressingly emitted chirrups from a pair

of as pretty lips as Monica remembered ever to have seen.

"Good morning," Monica cried cordially, as the vehicle drew near. She

sat smilingly waiting for the lifting of the sunbonnet, that she might

obtain a glimpse of the face she felt sure was pretty beneath it.

The girl looked up with a start.

"My!" she cried. Then she remembered. "Good morning--mam!"

The final suggestion of respect came as the speaker realized the

perfect-fitting riding habit Monica was wearing. Her eyes were round

with wonder, but there was no shyness in them. Equally there was no

rudeness. Just frank, pleased astonishment.

"I'm afraid I startled you," Monica said kindly, as the girl drew up

her horse. "You were so very busy coaxing your horse."

The stranger smiled in response.

"He needs coaxing," she said. "The pore feller's pretty old, and we've

surely come some way."

"Not this morning," Monica protested, studying the girl's face with

genuine admiration.

She was not disappointed. The girl was a striking-looking creature. Her

dark hair and brows threw up into strong relief the beautiful eyes

which looked fearlessly up into her face as she made her reply.

"Oh yes, mam," she said calmly. "You see, we started from Toogoods' at

four o'clock. I want to be home by noon. Guess we'll make it tho'. Old

Pete and I have made some long journeys together."

"He looks a good horse," Monica hazarded. She knew little enough of

horse flesh, but she liked the look of this girl and wanted to be

agreeable. "How far have you to go now?"

"Guess it's most twenty-two or thereabouts. Mamma'll be worried some if

I don't make home by noon. I don't like worrying mamma, she's so good,

and--and she's dreadfully nervous."

"An invalid?" suggested Monica.

"Oh, no." The girl's eyes were still absorbed in the details of

Monica's dress. She had never seen anything quite like it before, and

her shrewd mind was speculating as to this stranger's identity.

"Say, where you from?" she asked suddenly, in a quick, decided manner.

"Guess you belong to Deep Willows. Maybe you're Mrs. Hendrie?"

"Quite-right--how did you know?"

The girl reddened slightly as she smiled.

"Why--your clothes. You see, we've all heard you're at Deep Willows."

Monica laughed, and the girl joined in.

"My clothes--folks don't wear riding habits much about here, I s'pose?"

"No, mam."

Monica nodded.

"Now, I may ask who you are. I didn't like to before, but----"

The girl smiled frankly.

"You guessed it would be rude," she said quickly, "so you let me be

rude--instead."

Monica laughed a denial.

"Oh no," she said. "I just didn't think about it."

"But it doesn't matter, mam," the girl went on. "Nothing's rude that

isn't meant rude. I never mean to be rude. I don't like rudeness. I'm

Phyllis Raysun, mam. We're farmers--mamma an' me. Just a bit of a farm,

if you can call it 'farm'--not like Deep Willows."

The girl's unmistakable awe when she spoke of Deep Willows amused

Monica.

But now she scrutinized her with an added and more serious interest. So

this was the Phyllis who had caught her boy's fancy. This was the girl

he described as "bully"--and she was frankly in agreement with him. She

longed there and then to speak of Frank and learn something of Phyllis'

feelings toward him, but she knew she must deny herself.

"I dare say it's a very happy little place for all that, Phyllis," she

said, deliberately using the girl's first name. She meant to begin the

intimacy she had suddenly determined to establish at once. "Who works

it for you? Your father--brother?"

As she watched the changing expression of the girl's face Monica

thought her the prettiest creature she had seen for years.

"Neither, mam." There was a slight hesitation over the use of the

respectful "mam." Monica's use of her own name had slightly embarrassed

her. "There's just mamma and me, and we work it together. We've got a

choreman, but that's all. It's--it's only a quarter section."

"You two never do all the work yourselves--plowing?" Monica cried

incredulously.

The girl nodded. She liked this stranger. She was so handsome, so good.

"Mamma an' me--mam."

Monica's eyes grew very soft. It seemed wonderful to her this courage

in two lonely women.

Suddenly she leaned forward in her saddle, and spoke very gently.

"Would you like to oblige me--very much?" She smiled into the girl's

earnest face.

Phyllis flushed with pleasure.

"Why, surely--mam."

"Then don't call me 'mam,'" Monica said, in a tone calculated to leave

the girl with no feeling of shame at her respectful attitude. Then she

laughed in the way Phyllis liked to hear. "You see, I am just the same

as you, Phyllis--if I do wear a tailored riding habit. We're both

farmers--in our way."

Phyllis blushed, but shook her head with a simple yet definite decision.

"I won't call you 'mam' if you don't like it," she said readily. "But I

can't help thinking there's a big--big difference, if you don't mind me

speaking so plainly."

Monica's interest was sincere.

"Go on, child," she said. "I like to hear you talk. It--it reminds me

of some one I'm--interested in."

The girl's luminous eyes brightened.

"I wasn't going to say much--only----" she hesitated doubtfully, "only

I hear so many folk say there's no difference. Most of them say it sort

of spitefully, and you can see they don't say it because--because they

really believe it. They sort of want to make out they're as good as

anybody else, and all the time most of 'em can't even think right. It's

just conceit, and spite, and envy. And, oh, there's such a big

difference all the time. Take two men. Take our choreman, and

your--your husband. Our man can plow a furrow--but not so straight and

true as I can. I'd say he can clean a barn out right. Maybe he could

drive a team down a straight trail without hurting anything. But that's

all he can do. Say, he hasn't got brains enough to wash himself

wholesome and clean. Then look at Mr. Hendrie. Was there ever such a

great man? He doesn't sit down and shout he's better than other folk.

Maybe he don't think he is. But he gets right up and does things that

come near making the world stare. And it's done out of his own head. He

thinks, and--and does. And if other folks were as good as him they'd be

doing just the same, and there'd be nothing to wonder at in--in

anybody. I wouldn't be rude to you--indeed I wouldn't, but--but there's

a heap of difference between folk, it shows in the result of their

lives."

Monica was startled. She was filled with an intense wonder at this

youthful, humble prairie flower. Where did she get such thoughts, such

ideas from at her age?

She answered her very carefully. She felt that it was necessary--it was

imperative. Somehow she felt that this child's brain, albeit immature,

was perhaps superior to her own.

"Well, Phyllis," she said, "there's a great deal in what you say, but

perhaps we are looking at things from different points of view. I was

thinking of the moral aspect. I maintain a good woman's a good woman,

whatever her station. No clothes, no education can alter that. Every

good man or good woman is entitled to the same consideration, whatever

the condition of--of their lives."

Phyllis watched her new friend eagerly while she spoke. She drank in

her words, and sorted them out in her own quaint fashion. The moment

she ceased speaking she was ready with her answer.

"Sometimes I think I'd like to see it that way," she said, with simple

candor. "Then sometimes, most generally, I think I wouldn't. To me that

sort of makes the good God kind of helpless. And He isn't. Not really.

You've just got to look around and see what He's done to understand

that. Look at the trees, the prairie, the hills, the water. See how

He's provided everything for us all. Well, the way you think makes out

that He's just created us and all this. He's made us all in the same

pattern, and dumped us right down here just for amusement, and sort of

said: 'There you are; I've done my best; just get right to it and see

how you can make out.' Well, when I look around and see all He's done I

kind o' feel we're all working out just as He wants us to. We're not so

much His children as we're His servants, and like all servants we've

got our places, some high, some low. And according to our places we

ought to say 'sir' and 'mam' to those above us, just as we feel all of

us ought to say it to Him. Guess maybe I can't make it all clear--maybe

you'll think me a sort of fool child, but if I live to be a hundred

I'll feel I want to say 'mam' to you, and 'sir' to Mr. Hendrie. And

that's because any one must see I'm not your equal, and never will be."

Monica was left with no answer. She might have answered, but she was

afraid to. She was afraid that any further contradiction of such

obviously wholesome ideas might affect this simple nature adversely.

Therefore she permitted herself only to marvel.

"Who do you talk to about--these things," she asked after a brief pause.

Phyllis flushed. She was afraid she had offended where she had meant no

offense. Monica's tone had been almost cold.

"I don't generally talk so much," she said hastily. "I like to think

most--when I'm plowing, or working on the farm. I talk to my beau

sometimes," she added, with a blush.

"You have a beau," said Monica, with a ready smile. "But of course you

must have--with your pretty face."

"Oh, yes, and we're going to get married soon," Phyllis hurried on,

basking once more in the other's smile. "His mamma's going to buy him a

swell farm and start him right, and we're going to get married. Frank's

awfully kind. He's--he's----"

"Frank? Frank--who?" Monica had no need of the information, but she was

anxious to encourage the girl.

"Frank Burton. He's much bigger than me, and he thinks a heap. I just

love him. I just love him so I don't know what I'd do if I hadn't got

him. He's only a boy. We're the same age, and he's got the loveliest

face."

"And when is he going to get this farm?"

"Soon. Quite soon. Then we'll be married. It's--it's good to love some

one and feel they love you," Phyllis went on, almost abstractedly. "It

makes you feel that you can work ever so. The days get short, and the

nights shorter still. It makes the air all full of things that make you

want to laugh, and sing, and be good to everything--even to spiders

and--and bugs and things. Yes, it sets everything moving quick about

you, and all the time it's just you, because you're full of happiness

and looking forward. The only thing that's slow is the time between

seeing him."

Monica smiled, and Phyllis laughed happily.

The mistress of Deep Willows could have sat on indefinitely talking and

laughing with this frank, ingenious child, but she knew that, however

reluctantly, she must tear herself away. Already the sun was high in

the sky, and Phyllis had to reach home by noon, while she had her round

to complete. So she lifted her reins, and her dozing broncho threw up

its head alertly.

"I think you'll be very happy with your beau, Phyllis," she said,

gently. "You would make any man happy. If this Frank Burton is all you

say he is, and I'm sure he is, I fancy you'll live to see the day when

you have quite lost your desire to say 'mam'--when you speak to me."

The girl shook her head seriously.

"I hope not."

Monica's smile was at thoughts which were quite impossible for the

other to read.

"I hope that day will come," she said. "So there we must agree to think

differently. Meanwhile, may I come and see you, and will you come and

see me?" Her eyes grew almost pathetically appealing. "Will you?" she

urged.

A flush of embarrassment swept over the girl's happy face. In a moment

she was struggling to express her gratitude.

"Oh, ma--Mrs. Hendrie," she cried. "Me come to Deep Willows? I--I--oh,

it would be too much."

"Will you?"

Monica had set her heart on obtaining this girl's promise.

"Oh--yes--if--if----"

"There must be no 'ifs,'" Monica cried. Then she urged her horse nearer

the buckboard and held out her hand.

"Good-bye, Phyllis," she said, lingering over the girl's name

caressingly. "I shall keep you to your word. And I shall come to see

you. Good-bye, my dear," she cried again. "A pleasant journey."

The girl pressed the neatly gloved hand her new friend hold out to her,

and her old horse, after its welcome rest, started off with added

briskness. She was loath enough to go, but she had yet many miles to

travel before noon. She called out a warm good-bye, and waved her small

brown hand.

"I surely will come," she cried, "I'll never--never forget."

Monica watched them go till the rattling old buckboard dropped behind

one of the rising prairie rollers. Then, with a deep sigh, she set off

toward her home.

CHAPTER XII

THE CLEAN SLATE

Monica's chance meeting with Phyllis Raysun was not without its effect

on both their lives. An effect both marked and immediate in each case.

The girl drove on home in a state of considerable elation, and told her

story of the "great lady" to her sympathetic, if not very clever

mother, Pleasant Raysun. She told it not as one might speak of a

passing incident on her journey, but as an important factor in her

uneventful life.

"Mamma," she said, after a thoughtful pause, the story having come to

its commonplace ending, "it likely don't sound great to you; maybe

you'll forget about it, or, if you don't, you'll say I'm just a

sentimental girl whose feelings get clear away with her. And maybe I

am, maybe you're right; but I don't think so. She's a lovely, lovely

woman, and somehow I kind of feel I'm all mixed up with her already. I

don't think folks _make_ friends. Friends are just friends. They are,

or they aren't. Even if you don't know them, they are your friends,

waiting till the time comes when you meet. That's how I feel about Mrs.

Hendrie. I--I'm sure we're friends, and always have been."

Pleasant Raysun was a plump body, whose dark eyes and soft mouth were

strangely opposed in their efforts to display the character behind. She

was just a gentle, soft creature, quite devoid of any attainments

beyond a capacity for physical work, and an adoring affection for the

daughter to whom she looked for guidance.

"Maybe you're right, my dear," she said amiably, "you generally are.

How you know things beats me all to death. Whoever would 'a' guessed

Pop Toogood was sick all this way off like you did? I'm sure I

wouldn't. An' then about buyin' a new plow an' binder by instalments.

Who'd 'a' thought o' that? It surely must be instinc', as you often

say, only wher' you get it beats me. I never had instinc'. Nor did your

pop. Leastways he never showed it me. Sometimes I sort o' know when the

coffee's just right--maybe that's instinc'--which reminds me the hash

must be nigh overbaked."

She rose from her rocker and toddled across to the cookstove, leaving

her daughter to her reflections. She had no power of entering into any

of the girl's thoughts and feelings. Her love for her offspring

extended to an unreasoning admiration for her capacity and beauty, the

only practical expression of which was a simple, loving care for her

creature comforts.

With Monica the effect of that meeting on the trail was marked in a

wholly different manner. She had at last seen this girl whom her boy

had told her of in such glowing terms. She had seen, and she knew that

she approved his choice. As she listened to her talk, as she became

aware of her views upon matters on which she believed so few girls of

her age ever thought seriously, she became more and more convinced that

her boy had blindly stumbled upon the one girl to be his helpmeet in

the upward career they had marked out for him.

Thus she spent the rest of her day with an added light shining in upon

Frank's future, and with it came a swift decision to act promptly, and

carry out her carefully considered plans without any further delay. She

felt it to be best from every point of view. It would be best for

Frank, since it would leave him free to begin his real business of life

at the moment he selected; it would be best for her, since she would

then be free to enter upon her control of the farm with a slate wiped

perfectly clean of the last shadow of the past which marred its surface.

So she sent word to Angus that she required the best team of drivers

and a buggy, since Hendrie's automobile was away, to take her in to

Calford the next day.

Her order was received without enthusiasm, but with considerable

suspicion by her husband's manager. So much so that the company at the

Russell Hotel that night were treated to a more than usual morose

severity on the part of this local magnate. He wrapped himself in an

impenetrable and sour silence, out of which the most ardent devotion to

his favorite spirit could not rouse him.

Monica spent her last hours before retiring to bed in writing a long

letter to Frank. She chose the library, or office, as her husband

preferred to call it, for her correspondence. She preferred this room

to any other in the house. Perhaps it was the effect of her long years

spent in a business career. Perhaps it was because it was so soon to

become the seat of her administration. Perhaps, again, it was the

thoughts of the man who had designed it for his own accommodation that

inspired her liking.

It was a luxurious place, and the great desk in the center of it was

always a subtle invitation to her. The subdued light focusing down upon

the clean white blotting pad, with its delicately chased silver

corners, never failed to please her whenever she entered the room at

night. Just now she felt more satisfaction than ever as she

contemplated ridding herself of this last shadow which marred her happy

outlook.

Her maid had insisted on changing her from her habit, which Monica

warmly regarded as her business dress, to a semi-evening toilet of

costly simplicity. This was a feature of her new life which Monica

found it difficult to appreciate. She had looked after herself for so

long that she rather feared the serious eyes and deliberate devotion to

the conventions of the well-trained Margaret. There was one service

that she could not induce herself to submit to. It was that of being

prepared for her nightly repose. On this point the mistress of Deep

Willows was adamant, and Margaret was unwillingly forced to give way.

Now she took her seat at the desk. She drew a sheet of notepaper from

the stationery cabinet, and, for some moments, sat gazing at it, lost

in pleasant thoughts of the young girl she had met that morning.

It was curious what a sudden and powerful hold this child of eighteen

had taken upon her affections. She thought she had never encountered

any one of her own sex who so pleased her, and she sat there idly

dreaming of the days to come, when this boy and girl would marry, and

she could subtly, almost unnoticed, draw them into her life.

Yes, it could be done; it could be done through Phyllis. Frank was far

too loyal ever, by word or deed, to jeopardize her in her husband's

regard. Everything was simplifying itself remarkably. Fortune was

certainly with her. She smiled as she thought how they would come to

her. A local farmer and his wife, in whom she was interested. Her

husband would be rather pleased. He would undoubtedly encourage her in

her whim. Then, if he should recognize Frank as the original of the

photograph he had once torn up, that would be easily explained and

would be an added reason for befriending the couple--seeing that Frank

would then be married. Oh, yes, a little tact, a little care, and she

would have a daughter as well as a son.

Then she would eventually get Alexander interested in the boy. And when

that was achieved she would begin to develop her plans. Frank might be

taken into some of her husband's schemes, after which it would be easy

stepping upwards toward that fortune she had designed for him.

But she was suddenly awakened to her waste of time, and her own

physical tiredness, by the chiming of the little clock in front of her,

which was accusingly pointing the hour of ten. It reminded her, too, of

the early morning start she must make in the morrow, so she snatched at

a pen to begin her letter.

Habit was strong with Monica. An ivory penholder and gilt nib had no

charms for her, so the humble vulcanite of the stylograph of her

stenography days was selected, and she prepared to write.

But for once her humble friend refused adequate service. It labored

thickly through the heading, "My dearest Frank," and, in attempting to

punctuate, a sudden flow of ink left a huge blot in place of the

customary comma. With a regretful expostulation Monica turned the paper

over and blotted it on the pad, and, after readjusting the pen, went on

with her writing, detailing her instructions swiftly but clearly, so

that no mistake could be possible.

In less than half an hour the letter was finished and ready for

dispatch. So she hurried away to bed, deciding to mail it in Calford

when she arrived there next day.

*****

That night Angus returned to the farm about half-past eleven o'clock.

There was nobody up to receive him, except the man to take his horse.

Nor was his mood improved by the realization that since Mrs. Hendrie's

coming he had been definitely robbed of his high estate. He knew he was

no longer the master of Deep Willows. In the eyes of the staff of

servants, brought from the East, he was one like themselves, a mere

employee. The thought galled him, but he was not the man to publicly

display his chagrin.

He let himself into his quarters which were situated in an extreme wing

of the building, lit the lamp in his office, and flung himself into a

chair. He sat there staring moodily before him, chewing the cud of

grievance which was momentarily getting a stronger and stronger hold

upon him.

He was not the man to submit easily, nor was he likely to display any

recklessness in dealing with the situation. His nature was a complex

affair, which combined many admirable qualities oddly mixed up with a

disposition as sour and spleenful, even revengeful, as well could be.

His grievance now was not against Hendrie; there was a peculiar quality

of loyalty in him which always left Hendrie far above any blame that he

might feel toward others. It was the woman he was thinking of. The

woman who had usurped his place; and all the craft of his shrewd mind

was directed toward her undoing.

Just now he was speculating as to her reason for suddenly taking the

long journey into Calford. He was considering that, and, in conjunction

with it, he was thinking of a telegram which Maybee had handed him. It

was addressed to Monica, and the postmaster had assured him it was from

Hendrie, announcing his unexpected ability to return home to-morrow. At

first Angus had felt spitefully pleased that Hendrie would meet his

wife on the trail, but this hope had been dashed by Maybee's subsequent

information that the telegram had been dispatched from a place called

Gleber, which he knew lay thirty odd miles to the northwest of Everton,

and in an almost opposite direction to Calford. Now he was considering,

while apparently doing his best to deliver the message, how best he

could arrange that Monica should not see it before she went away.

His reason was not quite clear. Only he felt, in the light of what he

knew of Monica's clandestine meetings with Mr. Frank Smith, that she

was not taking this journey with her husband's knowledge. More than

that, he felt that she had no particular desire to advertise it, and

that when Hendrie discovered his wife's absence explanations would have

to be forthcoming.

Angus was a great believer in his own instinct. What he believed to be

intuition had served him well on more than one occasion, and just now

he felt that his peculiar faculties in this direction were particularly

alert.

After some minutes of deep thought he rose from his chair with a wry

smile twisting the corners of his hard mouth. A thought had come to him

which might serve.

He made his way to the library and lit the lamp over the desk, and as

he did so he sniffed vigorously at the air. He detected perfume, and

glanced quickly around him. Then his eyes fell on the blotting-pad

where he was about to place the telegram.

In a moment he saw that the pad had been recently used, and the perfume

told him by whom. He had no scruples whatever. Monica had been writing

letters, and he wondered. He picked up the pad and carefully removed

the uppermost sheet of blotting paper. Reversing it, he held it before

the light, and studied it carefully. Then he replaced it, but, in doing

so, deliberately left the reverse side uppermost.

"Guess you ought to know better, my lady," he muttered, his face

genuinely smiling. "Thick pens are cursed things for telling tales on a

blotting-sheet."

He carefully placed the telegram exactly over the blotted words "My

dearest Frank," which now read as they had been written by his

unsuspecting victim. Then he forthwith hurried back to his quarters,

feeling in a better frame of mind than he had felt all day.

CHAPTER XIII

HENDRIE'S RETURN

Angus Moraine's little plan worked out exactly as he had anticipated.

Monica did not visit the library before her somewhat rushed departure

the following morning. Her preparations had been completed overnight,

and there was nothing left which required a visit to the room, where

the telegram had been deposited.

Her departure took place shortly after daylight, at which hour even the

chance visit of a servant to the library was not likely to occur. Thus

it happened that the envelope and its contents remained in their place

quite unheeded, even by the girl whose duty it was to dust and set the

room in order, until two o'clock in the afternoon, at which hour

Alexander Hendrie returned.

The millionaire's return was the result of an impulse, inspired by

finding himself with something in the nature of a "loose end." His

business of the great trust had unexpectedly taken him to meet a

deputation of local grain-growers at Gleber, just as he was about to

leave Calford for Winnipeg. From thence a flying visit to Deep Willows

was only a deviation of route whereby he might fill in spare hours

which, otherwise, he would have had to spend waiting for the east-bound

mail in Calford.

The idea of surprising Monica had pleased him. He knew the delight it

would give her, and, for himself, every moment spent away from her was

more than begrudged. Absorbed as Hendrie was in his maelstrom of

affairs, it was curious how the human side of the man had developed

since his first meeting with Monica. He was still the colossal

money-making machine, but it was no longer his whole being as hitherto

it had been. There could be no doubt that Monica was now foremost in

his thoughts, and he loved with all the strength of his maturity as

jealously as any school-boy.

Consequently, on his arrival at Deep Willows, his disappointment was of

the keenest when he learned that Monica had, only that morning,

departed suddenly for Calford. However, he was not the man to give way

to such feelings for long, especially with means of alleviating them to

his hand. His decision was prompt. There was only one thing to do. He

would go straight on and join her in Calford, just as soon as

sufficient petrol could be put on board the car. With this resolve most

of his disappointment evaporated, and he passed on to the library,

while a man was despatched to notify Angus of his return.

Angus was on hand. He had arranged that this should be so. He had no

intention of missing his cues in the little drama his own mischief had

inspired. He meant to be an actor in it, though possibly only taking a

small part. For the rest he would stand in the prompter's corner, and

watch the progress of his handiwork.

He responded to the millionaire's summons without any undue display of

alacrity. He left him ample time in the library before presenting

himself. His purpose was obvious and well calculated. When he finally

entered the room, he came almost without any sound, turning the handle

of the door with what seemed unnecessary caution.

Again was his object plain. His first sight of Alexander Hendrie was of

a great man standing before a window examining, with painful intensity,

a large sheet of white blotting-paper. This was as Angus had hoped, but

there was something else that gave him even keener satisfaction.

He was studying the man's head, with its wonderful mane of fair hair.

His face was turned three-quarters toward him, so that the light of the

window shone down on the white surface of the paper.

He had seen Hendrie in most of his moods, he had studied him a hundred

times, but never, in all his long years of association with him, had he

witnessed such an expression as he now beheld.

The fair, rather sunburned complexion was deadly pale, the bushy brows

were drawn harshly together, the lips, contrary to their usual custom

in repose, were slightly parted. But it was the steel-gray eyes of the

man that most held and, perhaps, pleased Angus. There was no light in

them that suggested violent fury. They were cold, dreadfully cold and

cruel, like the steely gray of a puma's. There was pain in them, too.

But it was a pain that did not suggest helpless yielding. On the

contrary Angus recognized the look he had once or twice seen before,

when Hendrie had contemplated crushing some opponent to his schemes.

There was an atmosphere about his whole expression that was utterly

merciless.

Angus moved across the soft carpet without any sound. He halted in full

view of the sheet of paper, bearing its impress of those three

tell-tale words with the culminating blot. So engrossed was Hendrie

that he did not appear to observe his manager's approach, yet he gave

no start, or sign, when the latter's harsh voice broke the silence--

"You sent for me? I'd heard you'd got back."

Then a strange thing happened. Hendrie laughed without looking up.

"Why, yes," he said. "I sent for you. You can tell the man I shan't

need the automobile."

Angus waited, studying the profile of the man beside him. He felt that

something was coming. The stillness, the unnatural calm of the other

was too pronounced.

Presently Hendrie looked up, and Angus mentally rubbed his eyes. The

man was smiling--smiling pleasantly. But he did not put the paper aside.

"Sort of curious," he said, with a half humorous dryness. "You never

think of the blotting-pad you're writing on. It's just there, and when

you've written you just turn your paper over and blot it. You do it a

hundred times, and it never seems to occur to you that you're

doing--something foolish. Guess the folks who used to use sand had more

sense."

Angus nodded. Something told him that his eyes were clear enough now.

He gazed meaningly at the paper.

"Guess Mrs. Hendrie being away, the maids just fancy they can do as

they please."

In a moment the change Angus had been awaiting came. In a flash hell

seemed to be looking out of the millionaire's eyes.

"That's my wife's writing!" he cried, while one great hand gripped the

manager's shoulder with crushing force.

Angus stared into the man's livid face, and, as eye sought eye, he knew

that at last he was gazing into the torn soul of his employer.

CHAPTER XIV

A MAN'S HELL

Desperate, silent moments passed while the terrible eyes of the

millionaire looked into, through, beyond, the almost expressionless

face of his manager. Then, at last, all at once, his hand relaxed its

painful grip upon the man's muscular shoulder, and--he laughed.

His laugh was unaccompanied by any words that justified the abrupt

change. To Angus it brought a feeling of relief. His imagination was

not acute. It is doubtful if he realized the lack of mirth, the hollow,

false ring of that laugh. All he knew was that he felt as though some

living volcano under him had suddenly ceased to threaten, and he was

given a respite. Alexander Hendrie walked across to the desk, and flung

his bulk into the sumptuously upholstered chair that stood before it.

He swung it round, and pointed at a chair near by, and facing him, so

placed that the light fell full upon the face of its occupant.

"Sit down," he commanded, with cold authority.

Angus obeyed, waiting and wondering. Hendrie's present mood was

entirely new to him. He had stirred the fires in this man, and must now

watch, and wait, to see how they burned.

But the result was elusive. Hendrie reached out and drew the cigar

cabinet toward him. With deliberate care he selected a cigar, and

pushed the cabinet within the other's reach.

"Smoke," he said laconically; and Angus fingered one of the priceless

cigars tenderly.

Hendrie pierced the end of his cigar with elaborate care. He lit it.

Then he leaned back in the chair, and, locking his fingers, rested his

elbows upon the arms of it, while his eyes remained upon the

blotting-sheet in front of him.

Presently he looked round, and a swift, cold glance shot into Angus

Moraine's face.

"When I came in here I'd sent for you," he said. "You were in your

quarters--which was not usual at this time." He paused. Then he went

on. "Being in your quarters you could have joined me in thirty seconds.

You came after ten minutes or so. When you came, you came quietly.

Guess you stole into the room--to see what I was doing. Why? Because

you had discovered this blotting-sheet--with its writing. You'd found

it, examined it, and placed it back in the pad _reversed_; and--you

knew it was my wife's writing. Guess you've something to tell me--go

ahead."

The directness of the challenge was so characteristic of Hendrie that

Angus was not wholly unprepared for it. The keen analysis of his

personal attitude disconcerted him, perhaps, but, after a moment's

thought, it left him comparatively untroubled. It was only another

exhibition of Hendrie's wonderful mentality--that mentality which had

carried him soaring above the heads of all his rivals.

"How much d'you want to know?"

For a second Hendrie's cold, gray eyes lit, then his swift command came

with tremendous yet restrained heat.

"All, damn you, all!"

Angus flushed. There was no resentment in him at the other's tone. His

flush was inspired by some feeling of satisfaction.

He pointed at the blotting-sheet.

"Guess that Frank has another name. Leastways I should say it is 'Frank

Smith,' who registers in that name at the Russell Hotel in

Everton--mostly when you're away."

The millionaire's eyes were intent upon the blotting-sheet. He offered

no comment.

"The townsfolk have seen him riding with Mrs. Hendrie--quite a

lot--when you're away. He's a big feller. Bigger than you. He's got

thick fair hair, and is a good-looker."

For a second, Hendrie's eyes lifted.

"Young?"

"Anything up to twenty-five."

Hendrie was no longer contemplating the incriminating paper. He was

gazing at it, and beyond it, searching the cells of memory.

"Go on," he said. His cigar had gone out.

Angus eyed his employer squarely. Strangely enough a a twinge of

compunction was making itself felt. He drew a deep breath. Somehow the

atmosphere of the room had suddenly become oppressive. His cigar had

gone out, too.

"Yes," he said. "I saw that writing. I read it. I left it so that when

you came in you couldn't miss it. I did these things because--of what

I've seen."

"Seen?" Again the millionaire's eyes lifted in the other's direction.

It was only for a second. They were back again in an instant, staring

beyond the blotting-sheet.

"Yes. It was soon after Mrs. Hendrie came here. You had gone away with

the automobile. She wanted a buggy and team. She wanted to study the

country and people she was living among. She was away all day. That

night I went into Everton. I came to the ford. Guess I heard voices

beyond the bluff that separated me from it. One was Mrs. Hendrie's."

"The other?"

"A man's."

Angus paused. The oppressiveness of the room almost stifled him.

"They had spent the day together. The woman was saying what a great

time they'd had together. She was arranging when she would see him

again. They parted. I heard them kiss each other."

Hendrie swung his chair slowly round. He was smiling. Angus was

alarmed. For the first time in his life he experienced a sensation of

fear of another man.

"They--kissed?"

There was no emotion in the millionaire's voice. He might have been

asking a question of merely ordinary interest.

Angus nodded.

"Yes," he said. "I heard them. I wasn't mistaken, I'm dead sure. Then

they parted. Mrs. Hendrie got back across the ford, on to the lower

trail with the buggy. The man traipsed on to the hotel. I saw him. It

was the man who registers there as 'Frank Smith.'"

"A big man, with thick, fair hair, and--a good-looker?"

Hendrie detailed the description as though registering it in his

memory, and comparing it with a picture already there.

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

The millionaire reached for a match and relit his cigar.

"Only this business of going to Calford--with you away. That on top of

the writing. That writing was done last night, I guess, and Mrs.

Hendrie has mailed no letter since. Maybe she's taken it with her.

Maybe she's going to meet him there. Maybe I'm only guessing, but I

thought it time you--knew 'bout things."

Angus breathed a sigh. He had done all he intended to do, and now

he--wondered.

The millionaire was searching his face with his cold, keen eyes, but he

was still smiling. It was that smile which Angus feared. However, he

faced the scrutiny, watching the upward curling of the smoke from the

other's cigar, while he relit and puffed a little unsteadily at his own.

"Well?" he said, after a long silence.

Hendrie withdrew his gaze and turned to his desk again.

"Better not cancel the car. I'll need it after all."

Angus rose.

"That all?"

Hendrie reached for a pen, and dipped it in the ink as though about to

write. He replied without looking up.

"That's all."

Angus moved toward the door. As he reached it the millionaire's voice

stopped him.

"Angus!"

The manager turned. Across the room he beheld a pair of glowing eyes

fixed upon him. He saw nothing else. They seemed to occupy his entire

focus, devouring him with their merciless stare.

"If what you've told me is not true I'll--kill you."

The words were quietly spoken. They were spoken too quietly. They came

coldly to the departing man, and like an icy blast they left him

shivering. He knew they were meant, not as a mere expression of anger,

but literally. He knew that this man would have no scruples, no mercy.

No one who had offended need expect mercy from him--not even the wife

whom he knew he loved above all things in the world.

"They are true," he returned.

The basilisk eyes passed out of his focus as Hendrie's head bent over

the paper before him.

"We shall see."

*****

As the door softly closed behind the manager, Hendrie flung his pen

down upon the writing-pad. He sat back in his chair, and his eyes

stared in the direction of the closed door.

He sat quite still. His hard face had lost no color, there was not a

sign of emotion in it. His cold eyes gazed on a dead level at--nothing.

Never was there an exhibition of more perfect outward control of a

storming brain within. He was thinking, thinking with the lightning

rapidity of the perfect machinery of a powerful brain. He was thinking

along lines all wholly unexplored and new to him, and such was his

concentrative power that no feelings were permitted to confuse the flow.

His whole future was at stake. His whole life. Everything--everything

that mattered.

The time passed rapidly. Still that silent figure sat on. The

automobile was brought round, and a servant announced it. It was kept

waiting.

What agony of mind and heart Alexander Hendrie went through as he sat

there in his splendid library none would ever know. That hell had

opened before his startled eyes, that the wounded heart within him had

received a mortal blow, there could be no possible doubt. But his

sufferings were his own. He had all the brute nature in him which sends

a dying animal to the remotenesses of the forest, where no eyes can

witness its sufferings, where it may yield up its savage spirit beyond

the reach of the pity and sympathy of its fellow-creatures.

CHAPTER XV

PROGRESS OF AFFAIRS

Angus Moraine had done his work. That his motive in enlightening his

employer upon those matters which went on in his absence was largely

spleenful, even revengeful, there could be no doubt. But, curiously

enough, he had kept to the baldest truth. He had neither exaggerated

nor invented. Perhaps he had felt that there was no need for either. As

he marshaled his facts they were so complete, so entirely damning, that

it is doubtful if imagination would have served his purpose better. In

spite of Hendrie's threat against his life he was well enough satisfied

with the effect of his story upon his employer.

Later on, when Hendrie finally departed, he was still more satisfied;

for it was then, as the latter paced the broad, flagged terrace

fronting the entrance to the house, he had walked at his side for more

than half an hour, receiving final instructions, and listening to some

necessary details of future plans.

Hendrie was going away, and Angus was to inform his wife, when she

returned from Calford, that he did not expect to return for at least

two weeks. In the meantime he gave his manager a telephone number in

Gleber! This number would find him at any time, after his wife's return

from Calford. Further, he told him that the only message he required

from him was news of Mr. Frank Smith's reappearance in Everton. He did

not know, as a matter of fact, that he would want it at all, but it

must be sent. Furthermore, on Mr. Frank Smith's reappearance in

Everton, Angus must hold himself on hand at the Russell Hotel.

"See here," Hendrie concluded, in his concise fashion. "You'll need to

be on hand at any moment while this man's around. And--you must know

his movements to the last detail. Get me?"

Angus understood. Nor had he forgotten the coldly delivered threat in

the library.

"Well," the other went on, with a calmness that was still the marvel of

the Scot, "guess I'll get going. I'm going right on to Calford to meet

Mrs. Hendrie. She'd be disappointed if I didn't look her up, having

missed her here. So long."

Hendrie entered the waiting car, and the two men parted without a sign

of that which lay between them. Angus watched the machine roll away

down the winding trail, which followed the bend of the picturesque

river bank. Then, as it disappeared from view, he turned thoughtfully

away, and moved off in the direction of his quarters.

His years of association with the millionaire had taught him much that

the world did not know of that individual's character. There were

times, even, when he believed he knew all there was to know of it.

There were other times when he was not so sure; just as there were

times when some trifling detail brought out a trait that was entirely

new to him. At such times he was wont to admit that the man was

unfathomable. That is what he admitted to himself now. What did he

contemplate? What subtle scheme was in the back of his great head?

There was some definite purpose, he felt sure; some definite and,

perhaps, deadly purpose. And it was demanded of him to play his part in

it, not with eyes wide open, and with full understanding. But blindly

groping--in the dark.

He thought for long as he sat in his office. He considered every detail

of the instructions he had received. But the ultimate object of them

eluded him. However, his mind was made up from the outset. Come what

may, his life was bound up with the life of this man. He would follow

him whithersoever he led, and, since it was necessary--blindly.

*****

The supper-room in the Strathmore Hotel at Calford was a blaze of

light. The string band, screened off behind a decorative display of

palms and ferns, was playing the latest and most popular ragtime. But

the room, with its hundred tables, was less than half full, in spite of

the important agricultural congress that was being held in this capital

of the wheat lands.

The truth was that the late meal was always at an awkward hour in the

hotels which catered for a wealthy transient custom. The east and

west-bound mails met at Calford at eleven-thirty at night, just at the

time when most of the hotel guests were either preparing to start, or

transacting the last few details of their business before departing on

their transcontinental journeys.

But Monica was delighted at this absence of a crowd. For her, it was

one of those happy, utterly unanticipated moments in life which are too

precious to miss. Just as she had retired to her room after dinner, a

chambermaid had announced the arrival of her husband.

Her journey had been taken quite openly. There had been no secrecy

about it. She was here purely on business, the nature of which was her

own. Therefore she had nothing to fear, and was frankly overjoyed at

this unexpected reunion.

Alexander Hendrie was in his best spirits. He explained to her his

journey to Deep Willows, and his subsequent disappointment at not

finding her there. Then, hearing that she had driven over to Calford,

he had followed her at once. The journey, he explained, suited his

purpose well, for he must leave by the night mail for Winnipeg, and did

not anticipate returning home for ten days, or even two weeks.

So Monica spent a happy evening with her husband. His manner was the

brightest she had ever known. He never questioned her presence in

Calford, but took it for granted she was "doing" the stores. He talked

to her of his work and informed her of the progress of the Trust. His

hopes and fears he talked of unreservedly, and Monica felt that never

was a woman so blessed with the perfect confidence of such a husband.

Thus the brief evening was spent until the final meal of the day came

round. Monica required nothing more to eat, and suggested that her

husband's meal should be served in her sitting-room. But Hendrie

demurred, and it was finally arranged that they should adjourn to the

supper-room, where Monica could partake of an oyster cocktail, while he

fortified himself against his journey.

As the meal drew to a close, and the man leisurely sipped his coffee,

he expressed his cordial regrets at his prolonged absences from home.

"It'll soon be over, Mon," he said thoughtfully. "I can see the end of

things looming already. Such separations as ours are not good, are

they? I shall be glad when--things are settled."

Monica gazed happily into his steady eyes.

"I'm simply yearning for that time to come, Alec," she cried, her eyes

shining across the table into his. "But these separations will soon

pass," she went on hopefully, "now that I am going to be so busy. Do

you know, I don't think Angus thinks I'm capable of running the farm?

But I'm just going to show him that I am."

Hendrie's eyes looked a swift inquiry.

"Has he said so--to you?" he asked.

Monica remembered in time. She had no desire to injure the man.

"Oh, no," she declared. "Only--only--I don't think he trusts me. I

don't think he has much of an opinion of women."

At that moment a waiter approached.

"The east-bound mail has been signaled, Mr. Hendrie. She's due in

twenty minutes."

"Thanks." Hendrie nodded and turned to Monica.

"Angus is a curious fellow--but he's very loyal to me. He would never

do anything he considered detrimental to my interests, and he'd surely

see that no one else did. I don't know about his opinions of women,

but"--he smiled--"I think he's sore at leaving the farm."

Monica nodded and smiled.

"I'm sure he is," she said, as they rose from the table.

They passed out into the vestibule where a man stood waiting to assist

the millionaire to the train.

"However, Mon," Hendrie said, smiling inscrutably. "I don't think

you'll find any lack of attention or consideration on Moraine's part

during my present absence. I've left him definite instructions to help

you in your study of the farm. It's my wish you see everything carried

out in the work. And I've told him so. I don't guess he'll make any

mistake. And you, Mon--I want you to learn it all. Even if things

sometimes come amiss, or--or at awkward times, and inconvenience you. I

want you to promise me all this, too."

Monica smiled joyously.

"Promise? Why, of course, Alec," she cried. "Why, if I have to turn out

in the middle of the night it will be no great hardship."

"Splendid." Hendrie smiled, but his eyes avoided the woman's. "Well,

now--good-bye," he said, and held out his hand.

For a moment Monica hesitated. Then she remembered where she was, and

they shook hands like two friends.

"Good-bye--dear," she murmured.

A moment later the waiter was enveloping Hendrie in his light traveling

coat.

With a nod and a wave of the hand he hastily followed the man, and made

his way through the revolving door, which was the hotel entrance to the

railroad depot.

Monica looked after him, feeling a little depressed. It was the first

time since her marriage that her husband had left her with a formal

parting. She knew it could not have been otherwise in the vestibule of

a busy hotel. It would have been different had they supped in

private--ah, well, soon there would be no such partings as these.

*****

In contrast to the brilliant surroundings of the Strathmore Hotel the

humble homestead over which Phyllis Raysun reigned was a crude, even

squalid affair. Poverty was stamped all over it, that is, if lack of

worldly possessions and general dilapidation must be taken as the

hallmark of poverty.

Phyllis did not admit such to be the case. She claimed a wealth which

she would not have exchanged for the lot of a royal princess. She was a

healthy, happy girl, loving and beloved, and she admitted she could ask

no more of the perfect life in the midst of which she found herself.

For her mother's occasional grumbles she would adapt her mental

attitude to a different focus. That weak but amiable creature had

different views. She had lived through that life Phyllis was only just

beginning, and therefore the golden focus of youth was dimmed, and the

buoyant hope of younger life had resolved itself into a yearning for

all those bodily comforts which had somehow passed her by.

At such times when her mother's bitterness and complaint found

expression, Phyllis, with her ready understanding, sought to comfort

her, to encourage her. Some such desire stirred her on a morning when a

neighbor brought her a letter from Frank. It was a letter passed on

from hand to hand, across country, without the service of the mail.

Frank would be over at the midday meal, and Mrs. Raysun was deploring

the poverty of their larder, as she prepared a stew at the cook stove

in their only living-room.

"It makes me fair ashamed, Phyl," the old woman cried in distress, as

she cut up the mixture of vegetables for the simmering pot. "It surely

does. To think of your beau comin' over to a meal like this. And him a

college-bred boy, with elegant manners, and with a ma with thousands o'

dollars. I kind o' feel the shame's all on me--your mother."

Phyllis laughed in her buoyant fashion.

"Is it, momma?" she cried. "Where? How? Oh, you dear old--old goose. If

I was a princess with all the world mine, and I gave half of it to

Frank, I shouldn't be giving him any more than--that stew. The best

we've got is Frank's, and we sure can't do more. And," she added

tenderly, "I guess Frank wouldn't want more." Then she smiled slyly.

"Frank would rather have one of your stews here than oysters on the

half shell in any other house."

"House? House, my dear? Call this hog pen a--house?" cried Pleasant, a

flush of shame dyeing her plump cheeks.

"It's a palace--to Frank and me--when we're eating your stew in it.

Yes, momma, and the meal's a banquet. Oh, don't you see, dear? We're

just two silly folks up to our eyes in love with each other, and--and

nothing matters. Listen, momma. Frank's getting his money right away.

He's located his farm, and he's going to buy it in a week or two. We're

going to get married, and--and we're going to move to the new farm just

as soon as we've harvested our crops here--all of us. You, too. It's a

swell house, just what you like. And we're going to have 'hands' to

work for us, and Frank's fairy godmother looking on and helping us to

be as happy as happy. Oh, momma, we won't grumble a thing. Just let's

remember that we've got to do our best in whatever lot we find

ourselves."

Pleasant Raysun could never resist her daughter's bright hope for long.

The girl never failed to put fresh heart into her. Like all weak

natures, she needed the constant support of a heart stronger than her

own. Phyllis understood this, and the support was never begrudged,

never withheld.

Nor was the girl's declaration lacking in confirmation when Frank

appeared. He had lost the last vestige of any outward signs of the

shame he believed attached to him through his birth. Here again it was

Phyllis who had dispelled the ugly clouds which had threatened to

envelop and stifle him.

Now, as he came, he sniffed the air pervading the kitchen with

appreciation, and Phyllis smiled across at her mother.

"I didn't know I was hungry until now," he declared. "It surely was a

bright thought of mine letting you two know ahead I was coming, Phyl. I

bet five dollars it's a jackrabbit stew. Any takers?"

He looked from one to the other with his happy, open face, all smiles.

Then, as Phyllis shook her head, he pretended disappointment.

"No luck," he said, with an absurd air of dejection.

The girl admonished him in the lightest spirit of raillery.

"You don't want it all--the luck, I mean, not the stew," she said

severely. "Anyway, you're not getting the stew yet. Momma's particular

how long it cooks."

"Not for nigh an hour," smiled Pleasant from the stove.

"Then I'll tighten my belt like a starving explorer," cried the boy.

The old woman turned about, and waved a tin spoon at them both.

"If you're that hungry you can't wait, Frank Burton, I guess Phyl'd

better take you out to the barn an' feed you hay. There's more than

hosses and cattle eats hay."

Phyllis laughed.

"There you are, Frank. That's deadly insult. What you going to do 'bout

it? Do you hear what momma's calling you?"

The youth fingered one ear ruefully.

"They must have grown some," he said doubtfully. Then he looked up with

a laugh. "Guess maybe she's right, though. Come on, Phyl, sweet hay's

not half bad fodder for a hungry---- Say, if you come right along, I'll

tell you all about the farm while I eat it. How's that?"

Phyllis needed no second bidding, and, together, they passed out of the

kitchen.

It was a favorite place of theirs to sit outside the low doorway of the

sod-built barn. An old log served the girl as a resting place, and the

huge youth spread himself on the ground beside her, propping his elbow

on the same log, so that his tawny head was nearly on a level with her

rounded shoulder.

"Phyl," he cried, as soon as they were settled, "mother's a--a trump.

It's all fixed. I've given old Sam Bernard notice I'm quitting. The old

boy's hard hit--in a way. I believe he likes me some. I told him I'd

come along back and help him harvest. And I'm going to help you

harvest, too. But that's afterwards. First I'm going to see mother and

get the money, then I'm going to buy the farm. Then I'm going to see

certain things put in readiness for fall work. Then I'm coming along

back here, and we're going right in to Calford to buy up fixings for

our new home. Then, after harvest, we're--going to get married. How?"

Phyllis smiled down into the eager, upturned face, with that wise

motherly little smile which was so much a part of her attitude toward

those belonging to her, those she loved.

"How? Why, then you're going to come right down to earth and say it all

over again," she said, with gentle eagerness. "Say it all again, Frank,

and say it slowly. I--I don't want to miss any of it. It's all--all too

good to miss. Oh, I'm so happy I want to laugh and cry at the same

time. I--I want to take the whole world in my arms and hug it."

"Won't I do?" suggested the young giant, sitting up promptly.

The girl nodded demurely.

"Perhaps, as--a substitute."

She bent over him, and placing her arms about his great neck kissed him

very tenderly.

She sighed as she released him.

"Now let's be sensible," she said soberly. "Now tell it me all again."

She was promptly obeyed. But again Frank's enthusiasm took hold of him,

and he poured out in a rapid flow all his hopes of their future. He ran

over in brief review the many trifling schemes he had already worked

out in conjunction with the running of their new farm. He rattled on

over numberless developments he proposed. He told her of the beautiful

red pine frame farm buildings, which must have cost as much to build as

he was paying for the whole place. He spoke of the acres of splendid

timber in glowing terms. Then there was the river frontage, and,

yes--actually--the outcrop of a coal seam was jutting right out of its

bank.

When he had finished, the girl's delight was shining in her eyes.

"And--and when am I going to see it all?" she asked, as he paused for

breath.

The man's fair face flushed and beamed.

"Ah," he cried, "that's what I've been saving up. I never suggested

your seeing it before, Phyl, because--because----" his eyes became

thoughtful, "well--I didn't just want to take a risk. You see, I was

'most afraid something might happen to queer things. Guess I wouldn't

disappoint you for worlds. I'd a notion to wait till there was no

chance of anything going wrong with the deal. Say, you're going with me

to pay the money--you and your mother. Then we're going on to see the

farm."

The girl did not answer. She was gazing out at the barren sky-line, all

her happy soul shining in the wonderful light of her eyes. Mutely she

was thanking God for the love of this man, thanking Him for the

wonderful blessings He was pouring upon her. Whatever else might come

in the long years of life before her, the memory of this moment would

live with her to her dying day. She was very--very happy.

After a while she drew a deep sigh, and, reaching out, pointed away to

the distant lines where the sharp horizon of the prairie cut across the

sky.

"Look!" she cried, in a thrilling voice. "Look, Frank, over there in

the East! There's not a cloud anywhere. It's bright, bright. The sky's

just blue with a wonderful color that shines down upon a thankful

world, watching and waiting for the harvest. We're waiting for the

harvest, too. Perhaps ours isn't just the same harvest other folks are

waiting for. Maybe ours is the harvest of our souls. Let it be an omen

to us. Just as it is the omen the farmer looks for. It kind of seems to

me all blessings come from yonder. Guess that's where the sun rises,

bringing with it the hope of the world. Hope and light. Yes, it kind of

seems to me everything good comes out of the East. That's how the Bible

tells us. We don't look west till afternoon, the afternoon of life.

That's because it's full of--decay. That's where a tired sun just hangs

heavily in the sky. A poor old sun, looking kind of sad and weary. It's

got so busy making folks happy in the morning that its plumb beat, and

can't help itself against those banks of black cloud all fixed up with

deep angry light, trying to deceive the poor old thing, and make it

believe they aren't just going to swallow it right up, and stifle it,

and put out its light. No, this is still our morning, so we'll look out

east for all the good things to come. It's very, very bright."

Frank mechanically followed the direction of the girl's happy eyes. But

his own feelings, though no less happy and thankful, had no such means

of expression.

"Yes," he said lamely. "It is bright, isn't it?"

"Bright?" The shining eyes looked down into his handsome

face, and again they smiled with that sweet, motherly

tenderness. "Yes, dear."

Her simple agreement set the other racking his brains to let her

understand that he appreciated her mood. He flushed as he reached for

one of her hands and squeezed it.

"That's how I want to make it for you--always," he said, with clumsy

sincerity. "Just sunshine. We mustn't have clouds."

The girl shook her head.

"But we must, dear," she said decidedly. "Say, Frank, just think what

life would be without them." Her manner had once more drifted into that

curious earnestness that sat so oddly upon one of her years and happy

temperament. "Think of it. A whole long life spent in the glaring light

of a summer's day. It couldn't be done, Frank. It sure couldn't. That

way there'd be no sort of hope, no sort of ambition, and--and our

hearts would be all wilted up with a terrible sickness. No, we want

clouds, too--in their season. Do you know, Frank, it's just in the

dark, dark clouds that hope hides itself. No clouds, no hope. And

hope's just what we live on. Happiness helps to make us strong, but too

much happiness would be the worst misery."

The youth beside her sat up.

"Phyl," he cried, helpless, "you do know an awful lot. Say----" But

Phyllis laughed and shook her head.

"I know I'm dreadfully happy," she cried. Then she gazed seriously into

his eyes. "Tell me, Frank, doesn't it make you think--notions when

you're dreadful happy?"

The other shook his head.

"I just feel--happy," he said. "That's all."

"It does me," Phyllis cried rapturously. "And it's times like this that

I just want to know--know--know, until there's not a thing left--to

know. Do you know, sometimes I've a sort of crazy notion, there's some

one--big--trying to teach me lots an lots. He often seems to be

around--'specially when I'm not out plowing. I'm mostly happy then.

It's somebody very big--and wide--and he's always whispering to

me--just as if he was in the air of these plains----"

Frank threw out one great hand to stay her. A sudden inspiration had

penetrated his simple mind.

"I know," he cried, breaking in quickly. "That's not--somebody. That's

you. That's you, Phyl." He drew himself up on to his knees in the

excitement of his discovery. "That's your soul talking to you, Phyl.

It's feeling so good it must tell you 'bout things. I know. I've had

it. And you sort of listen and listen, and you--you just know what it

says is--is right. And you don't need any one to tell you it isn't,

because--because you know it is----"

"Ho! you two folks, the stew's through!"

Frank swung round at the sound of Mrs. Raysun's voice calling, and he

flushed self-consciously as he realized the ridiculousness of his

attitude. Phyl sprang from her seat and, catching hold of his great

hand, helped him to his feet.

"Come along, dear," she cried, smiling merrily. "Momma's stews are too

good to keep waiting, even if our souls want to tell us a whole heap

that is good for us to know."

Then, as they walked side by side toward the house, she drew a deep

breath.

"Heigho!" she sighed. "And to think in a few weeks we'll have left all

this behind us for a lovely, lovely farm of our own--a beautiful frame

house--folks working for us and--and money in the bank. Say, Frank,

isn't it a beautiful world? It surely is--some world."

CHAPTER XVI

IN THE MOONLIGHT

Angus Moraine flung down his pen impatiently. Leaning back in his chair

he turned toward the sunlit window, gazing through it at the distant

view of golden wheat as a man will who seeks relief from intolerable

thought.

His thought was intolerable. It was growing more and more intolerable

as the days passed and the time drew on when he must hand Deep Willows

over to his successor.

All the best years of his life had been spent in the making of Deep

Willows. All his energy, all that was best in him; these things had

been given freely, without stint, without thought of sparing himself in

the work, and he believed the result to be a worthy achievement.

But it was not yet finished. He doubted if it would ever be finished.

He had dreamed his dreams, and those dreams had carried him into realms

of such colossal fancy that he knew, if he lived to a hundred, the time

would be wholly inadequate for the fulfilment of his ambitions.

The wealth which must inevitably come in the process of the achievement

he had set himself was not the goal he desired to win. He admitted the

use of such wealth, and knew that without it the rest must fall to the

ground. But his dream was of achievement alone. He had no desire to be

remembered for the fortune he had amassed. His absorbing passion was to

be thought of, by coming generations, for an achievement unlike that of

any other.

Deep Willows was the nucleus about which he had hoped to build his

edifice. Vaguely he saw it the center of a world of wheat. He imagined

the whole prairie lands of Canada clad in the golden raiment of a

perfect wheat harvest. Not merely a farm, but a country of wheat,

acknowledging a single control. Nor did it matter to him whose the

control so long as _his was the making_.

This was his dream and now--he saw it fading before his very eyes at

the whim of the man he had so long and so faithfully served. The

thought of it was intolerable. Sometimes, even, rebellion choked all

his friendship, all his loyalty to the man who had made something of

the realization of his dreams possible.

But there was just one shadow of hope left to him. It was very slight,

very vague, and he hardly understood whither it led, he hardly knew if

it were worth serious consideration at all. But the feeling was there;

nor would it be denied. If only he knew what far-reaching scheme, with

regard to his wife, lay in the back of Hendrie's great head he might

feel easier. But he did not know, and, until such schemes were put into

practice, he was not likely to know. Still the fact remained; Mrs.

Hendrie had been appointed his successor, and, since that appointment,

she had fallen from her high place in her husband's regard, or, at

least, was tottering on her exalted pedestal.

The thought gave him some slight satisfaction. If--if only something

would happen in time. If--only. He felt at that moment he would

willingly give half his possessions to be able to search the hidden

recesses of Hendrie's secret thought and find out for certain--what was

going to happen.

He sighed and stirred restlessly, and, as he did so, a horseman rode

past the window and pulled up at his door. Then Angus Moraine did

something quite contrary to his rule. He rose swiftly from his chair,

and, crossing the room hastily, flung open the door. The horseman was a

special messenger he had sent into Everton.

The man was one of his foremen, a young Swede to whom he generally

entrusted any confidential duty.

"Well, Jan?" he demanded, with something like cordiality, as the man

flung out of the saddle.

The Swede dived one hand into the bosom of his loose cotton shirt.

"One letter, boss," he replied, producing an ordinary business envelope.

"Ah. Anything else?" There was eagerness in Angus's inquiry as he took

the letter and read the address in Hendrie's handwriting.

"Guess I took a peek at the hotel register," Jan replied at once.

"Yes?" There was a further quickening of interest in the manager's tone.

"I see the name you wanted. Frank Smith. Guess he registered in at

dinner time."

The narrow eyes of the Scot lit.

"At dinner time?"

"Yep. That's how it was marked. Say----"

"Well?"

"He's a tall guy. Sort o' tow hair. Young. Maybe round about twenty?"

Angus nodded.

"Then I see him, too. He was sittin' in the office."

"Good."

There was no doubt as to Moraine's approval now, and Jan felt he had

done well.

"Anything else, boss?" he inquired confidently.

Angus remained thinking for some seconds. Then he shook his head.

"Nothing," he said finally.

The Swede mounted his horse. As he was about to ride off Angus detained

him.

"Send me over my horse," he said casually. "After that you best get

around and see they're setting those 'smudge' fires right. We're going

to get a chill to-night. We must do what we can to keep the frost out

of the crops."

The man rode off, and Angus turned back into his office.

The manager's mood had entirely changed for the better. A sense of

elation had replaced the desperate irritation of a few moments before.

Was something going to happen at last? It almost looked like it. Frank

Smith had registered at Everton, and here was a letter from Hendrie. A

letter. It was not Hendrie's way to write letters with the telegraph

handy, and the telephone to his hand. He sat down and tore the envelope

open.

It contained eight closely written sheets of very thin paper, and Angus

smiled as he realized the writer's purpose. The envelope had appeared

quite thin. There had been nothing about it to attract attention from

the curious.

Straightening out the sheets he settled himself to the perusal of his

chief's letter. It was very long, and full of carefully detailed

instructions. Furthermore, it was dated at Gleber, and it also informed

him of Frank Smith's arrival in Everton! But these things were only a

tithe of what the letter told him. It told him so much that his whole

interest was fully engrossed, and a curious wonder at the man who had

written it stirred within him. With his first reading of the letter a

wild hope leaped within him, and, by the time he had finished his

second reading, he realized that he need have no further fears of being

banished from Deep Willows.

The "something" he had longed for had happened. The scheming mind of

Alexander Hendrie had revealed itself to him. After all, fortune was

with him, and it was only necessary for him to carry out the

instructions set out in the letter for everything to be as he wished.

But there was no time to indulge in the pleasurable reaction inspired

by his letter. His orders were imperative and demanded prompt

attention. Therefore he refolded the pages and bestowed them safely.

Then, when his horse arrived, he set out at once in the direction of

Everton.

*****

Angus Moraine's fears of a summer frost looked like being realized. The

night closed down brilliantly fine, with a threatening chill pervading

the air. There was no wind, and this was significant. To the

weatherwise the sudden dropping of the thermometer was possible at any

moment, and the farming world might easily awaken on the morrow to find

the harvest prospects destroyed, and the highest grade wheat reduced to

something little better than fodder for hogs.

The full moon shone down upon the golden world with a steely gleam upon

its cold face, leaving the starry sheet of a cloudless sky rendered

almost invisible. It was a dreadfully perfect night, one that might

suit lovers, might inspire the romantic, but was anathema to those who

lived by the produce of the soil.

The village of Everton was very still and silent amid the woodland

shadows in which it lay. The little wooden houses were in darkness, and

no sign of life was visible anywhere, except at the hotel, where the

yellow lamplight still battled feebly with the overwhelming rays of the

brilliant summer moon.

At that moment the whole world seemed to be slumbering peacefully, in

the full confidence that no disturbing elements were abroad. Peace--a

wonderful peace, such as is only known in close contact with the soil,

seemed to reign everywhere. But the mind and heart of man rarely shares

in Nature's gentler moods. In waking hours the great battle of life is

always raging, and in sleep, restless dreaming pursues its victim.

There is little enough of peace for striving humanity.

It was nearly ten o'clock when the glass door of the hotel was pushed

open, and a tall man stood gazing out into the brilliant night. The

doorway was narrow, and he almost entirely filled it up. The yellow

lamplight from behind shone dully upon his fair, bare head, and the

cold moonlight shed an artificial pallor upon his good-looking face.

He stood for some moments thus, and his expression was scarcely happy.

He seemed lost in some thought which gave him little enough pleasure.

Presently he stirred and thrust the prairie hat he held in his hand

upon his head, and drew the brim well down over his eyes. Then with a

hunch of the shoulders, the deliberate movement as of a man spurring

himself to an unpleasant task, he stepped from the doorway out into the

full light of the moon.

He strode off down the trail, white in the brilliant light, at the

rapid, swinging gait of one whose destination is definite, and who is

anxious to reach it with as little delay as possible.

Presently the woodland bluff in the direction of the river swallowed

him up, and even the faint sound of his rapid footsteps became lost in

the silence that seemed to close over him.

Scarcely had the last sound of his retreating steps died out when the

door of a near-by house opened and a man stepped out on to the veranda.

This house, like its fellows, was in darkness. Nor was there any light

by which to judge his appearance, but that which was shed by the moon.

However, this revealed his size, which was much above the average, and

showed him to be a man of years and full proportions.

He waited for a moment, gazing about him, then, as another figure

appeared round the side of the hotel, he quickly left his veranda and

hurried across the intervening space to join the newcomer.

After a few moments' earnest conversation they, too, set off down the

trail. But whereas the first man's movements were devoid of any attempt

at concealment, these two moved cautiously, even furtively, as though

they had no desire for recognition.

Finally the woodland bluff swallowed them up, and all was still again.

But it was not for long. Within ten minutes the hotel door was again

thrust open. This time the figure that appeared was a perfectly

familiar one. It was Angus Moraine, and he was accompanied by the

proprietor of the place. There was apparently nothing unusual about

him, except a marked cordiality. He might simply have been terminating

his customary evening visit of recreation, for, as he appeared a "hand"

brought his horse round from the barn, and stood awaiting the manager's

pleasure to mount.

But for once Angus kept him waiting. His cordial mood would not permit

of a hurried departure, and he stood talking to his companion for some

moments.

"I certainly should think about it, Sharpe," he said earnestly. "Guess

I'm not a feller given to slinging hot air. I'd start to build quick.

Be first. When a place begins to boom you want to be right there,

and--collar the trade before other folks get busy. You want to be the

leading hotel, and if my help in the way of patronage and

recommendation is worth anything to you--why you can have it."

Lionel K. Sharpe listened eagerly.

"It's real kind of you, Mr. Moraine," he said warmly. "But I'm

guessin'' it's a matter of capital. If this place is to boom----"

"Capital?" Angus snorted. "Pshaw, man! It's nothing to raise the

capital."

"No--o." The hotel keeper looked dubious. Then he brightened. "Say,

maybe you don't fancy comin' in on the deal yourself, Mr. Moraine?" He

eyed his guest shrewdly.

The next moment he received a shock. Angus laughed. And his laugh was

the most cordial thing Lionel K. Sharpe ever remembered to have heard

emanate from the manager of Deep Willows.

"Why, I hadn't thought of it," that individual declared, when his mirth

had subsided. Then he became quite serious. "Say, it's not a bad idea

though. You see, I'm here a sort of fixture for life, and I guess it

wouldn't be half a bad scheme putting my odd cents into a bright

enterprise in Everton. Why, yes, I'll think it over, Sharpe, I'll

surely think it over."

He stepped from the porch and took his horse from the patient "hired"

man, who promptly vanished to his rest in the harness room of the barn.

He sprang lightly into the saddle.

"That's a good notion, Sharpe," Angus went on, as he gathered up the

reins. "Guess we'd run a cracking hotel together. Well, so long. We'll

talk it over later. So long."

He turned his horse about and set off down the trail, and, in a few

moments, he, too, was swallowed up by the woodland shadows.

CHAPTER XVII

PAYING THE PRICE

The sumptuous library at Deep Willows held a great fascination for

Monica. She used it in her solitary moments, during her husband's

absences, more than any other living-room in the great house. Perhaps

the attraction was the suggestion of office which the beautifully

carved mahogany desk gave it. There was the great safe, too, let deep

into the wall just behind it, with its disguising simple mahogany door.

There were the elaborate filing drawers, and various other

appurtenances necessary in a room where business was transacted.

Perhaps these things helped to remind her of other days, days that had

been often troublesome, but, nevertheless, of a memory that was very

dear.

But the official atmosphere of the room was very limited. There was

nothing official in the bookcases lining the walls, containing their

hundreds of volumes of modern and classical literature. There was

nothing suggestive of commerce in the bronzes and marble statuary which

adorned the various antique plinths and pedestals. And the pictures,

too, modern certainly, but both oil and water colors were by the best

living masters. Nor were the priceless Persian rugs the floor coverings

one would expect to find on an office floor.

Monica loved the room. There was the character of the man she loved

peeping out from every corner at her, every shelf of the bookcases.

There was a simple, direct, almost severe style about the place, which

reminded her so much of the strength of the man who had taken

possession of her soul.

Something of this was in her thought as she sat there in a comfortable

rocker on this particular night. A book was in her lap, but she was not

reading. There was too much rioting through her busy brain for her to

devour the translation of a stodgy, obscure Greek classic. She had

taken the book from its place almost at haphazard, as women sometimes

will, and her sincere purpose had been to read it. But her purpose

lacked the necessary inclination, the moment the cover had been opened.

She made a beautiful picture sitting there in the soft lamplight. Her

elaborately simple evening gown was delightfully seductive, and the

light upon her fair face surmounted by its crown of waving hair

completed an attraction few men could have resisted. The years had left

no trace of their rapid passing in her outward seeming, unless it were

in the added beauty of her perfect figure. She was happy, very, very

happy, and to-night even more so than usual.

To-night! Ah, yes, she had reason to be happy to-night. Was it not the

night when the culmination of so many little plans of hers was to be

reached? Little plans that had for their inception the purest

affection, the most tender loyalty to the dead as well as the living?

Monica was a woman to draw the most perfect happiness from such

feelings. The mainspring of her whole nature was a generous kindliness,

an earnest desire for all that belonged to the better side of life. She

knew that she was about to launch two young people upon the great rough

sea of life, and the thought that her hand was to pour the calming oil

about their little craft was something quite exquisite to one of her

nature.

Her gaze wandered across at the mahogany door of the safe, and she

smiled as she thought that behind it lay the oil awaiting her

distribution. From the safe her eyes passed on to the clock upon the

desk. Its hands were nearing midnight. She was glad. They could not

move fast enough for her just now.

The whole house was silent. The servants had long since retired; even

her maid, that stickler for her duties, had been satisfactorily

dismissed for the night. Angus had returned. She had just heard him

ride past the house on his way to hand over his horse to the sleepy

stable hand awaiting him. There was nothing--nothing at all to

interfere with her---- Hark!

She started from her seat and darted across to the heavy curtains drawn

over the French window, which she had purposely left open. The sound of

steps approaching had reached her. She stood for a moment with hands

ready to draw the curtains aside. Then she flung them open, and, with a

low exclamation, embraced the fair-haired young giant who stepped in

through the window.

"Frank, oh, Frank," she cried. "My dearest, dearest boy. I'm so

thankful you've come. I knew you wouldn't fail me in spite of--of what

you said in your letter."

The young man gently released himself, and glanced back shamefacedly at

the curtains which had closed behind him.

"That's just it, mother," he said, his honest face flushing. "I--I just

hate this backdoor business. Oh, I know it's all right," he went on, as

Monica shook her head. "I know there's nothing wrong in it. How can

there be? You are my mother. It's not that. It's the feeling it gives

me. You don't know how mean it makes me feel."

"Of course it does, dear," Monica said soothingly. "It is like you to

feel that way. You have always been the soul of honor, and you feel

like a criminal stealing into another man's house. But you are not

trespassing, my dear. Don't you understand? You are entering a house to

which you have every right. Is it not my home, and am I not your

mother?"

"Yes, yes," the man broke in, almost impatiently. "That's where the

trouble comes. You are my mother. What if--if I were discovered? What

if----?"

Just for a moment a slight look of alarm shadowed Monica's eyes. In the

joy at seeing her boy again she had lost sight of the risk this visit

really entailed. But she recovered herself quickly, and protested with

a lightness she did not really feel.

"Don't let's think of it. Alec is away, and the whole household is in

bed and asleep. The last person to go to bed here is Angus Moraine, and

he came in from town a few minutes ago. So----"

"Angus Moraine?" Frank raised his brows inquiringly. "He was at the

hotel. I saw him there. I have seen him often, and--I don't think I

like him."

Monica smiled as she walked across to the safe.

"Sit down at that desk, dear," she said happily, "while I hand you a

wedding present, birthday present, coming of age present, all rolled

into one. Talking of Angus, I don't think I like him either. But there,

we two are very much the same in our likes and dislikes, aren't we?"

Then she glanced back at the huge figure obediently settling itself at

the desk while she fumbled the combination of the lock. "We both like

Phyl Raysun, don't we?" she added slyly.

Frank jumped up from his chair, and his young face had lost its last

look of trouble.

"I'm so glad you like her, mother," he cried. "She's a perfect delight.

She's so--so wise, too. She's simply fearfully clever. You noticed

that. I remember you said so in your letter. And--and isn't she

beautiful?"

The safe door swung open, and Monica drew out a large bundle of notes.

"She's as beautiful as only a lover's eyes can see her," she said, with

a smile. "She's such a delight, and so beautiful, and so wise, that I'm

adding a dowry to the amount I am going to give you to start in

business with. It's just a little extra housekeeping money."

There was no doubt of Monica's happiness at that moment. Her eyes were

shining with the perfect delight of giving to those she loved.

"Seriously," she went on, "I'm very pleased with Phyl--a pretty name by

the way. I'm so glad she is poor, and has been brought up as she has. I

don't think you could possibly have made a better choice. I'm sure

she's a dear girl. Remember, Frank, you must always treat her well. She

adores you, and I want you always to remember that a good woman's love

is something to be treasured above--well, everything. Though I am a

woman, I warn you it is a priceless thing, and something which, in its

unreasoning devotion, in its utter self-sacrifice, in its yielding up

of all its most sacred thoughts and feelings, comes straight from God

Himself. Care for your little Phyl very tenderly, Frank."

She sighed happily and glanced down at the notes in her hand. Then she

went on--

"Now let us consider something much more material. Here is the money,

dear. There are twelve thousand dollars in this bundle for you, and

another five thousand for your Phyl, and all my love to you both goes

with them."

Monica laid the packet of notes on the desk in front of the man, who

stared up at her in wondering amazement.

"Oh, mother," he cried, "this is too good altogether. You surely don't

mean----"

But his protest was interrupted by the sharp ringing of the telephone

bell, and his amazed look was abruptly changed to one of something like

apprehension as he stared at the wretched instrument.

But the sudden emergency found Monica alert. She snatched up the

receiver and placed it against her ear.

*****

Two men moved silently along in the shadow of the house. Their feet

gave out no sound as they stealthily drew on toward the library

windows. They were not walking together. One of them was leading by

some yards, as though he were the principal actor in the scene, and the

other was there simply to obey his commands.

The face of the leader was stern and set, but his eyes were shining

with a desperate passion which belied his outward calm. The other wore

a more impassive look. He was alert, but displayed neither eagerness

nor emotion.

The leader drew near the open French window and paused listening. He

could hear voices; a man's and a woman's, and for a moment, wondered

that the window had been left open.

Then the thought was quickly followed up by others of a very different

nature, while his ears strained to catch the words passing beyond the

drawn curtains. But the sound was muffled, and though the temptation to

draw nearer was great he resisted it. He was waiting--waiting for

something, and the strain upon his patience was very great.

Then suddenly, faint and muffled, he heard the silvery ringing of a

telephone bell. He breathed a sigh as of relief, and, signing to his

companion to remain where he was, moved cautiously forward until he

stood within the opening of the window.

Now he could plainly hear the woman's voice at the telephone. It was

sharp, a little bit unnatural, but it was plainly recognizable and

familiar, and, at the sound of it, the man's teeth shut with a vicious

snap.

"A letter, did you say? Oh! Yes, I heard you pass. I was busy with some

work.... Oh you must see me tonight?... Oh.... Imperative I act on his

instructions to-morrow morning.... I see.... Well, if it's so important

I'll come along to your office.... No, don't come to me.... I'll be

with you in a moment.... You won't keep me more than a few minutes?...

All right.... It's no trouble."

The waiting man heard the receiver being hung up in its place. Then the

woman began speaking rapidly to her companion.

"Oh, Frank, what a nuisance," she cried, in unmistakable annoyance.

"It's Angus Moraine. He's had a letter from Alec. It's full of

important instructions which he wants me to act on to-morrow morning,

so I've got to get them to-night. He says he saw a light in the library

when he passed and was relieved to find I was still up. It is a bother,

dear, just when I wanted to be with you. Still, he says he won't keep

me more than a few minutes. Just think of it, he had intended to come

and see me. Suppose he had."

The man's answer came at once.

"If he had the game would have been up all right."

The woman laughed.

"Yes. But he isn't coming. And to make sure I must hurry. Now don't you

go dear. It's going to be such a long time before I see you again. I

want to make the most of this opportunity. You wait here. I'll be back

directly."

"What if any one comes?" The question came sharply from the man--and

the eavesdropper's lips pursed grimly.

"No one will come," said the woman promptly.

"But suppose----?"

"Well, if you should hear any one coming, if you should hear anything

that alarms your sensitive soul, why, then you have the money, and all

my love, take them both, and go the way you came. In the meantime, in

case----"

The man at the window writhed as he heard the distinct sound of a kiss.

The control he was exercising was strained to its limits. The next

moment the rustle of skirts, and, at last, the closing of a door, told

him all he had been waiting for.

Suddenly he drew the curtains apart and closed them sharply behind him.

CHAPTER XVIII

A MAN'S HONOR

"Well?"

The monosyllabic challenge bit through the silence of the room. It was

hard, cruel, and full of unmistakable menace.

The man at the desk leaped from his seat and faced about, glaring in

the direction whence the voice had proceeded.

[Illustration: The Man Leaped from His Seat and Faced About]

He faced the accusing figure of Alexander Hendrie with a desperate,

hunted look in his widening eyes, and, curiously, in the horror of the

moment, amid the turmoil of alarm that filled his heart and brain, he

found himself surveying the intruder with a closeness of observation

only to be expected in moments of perfect tranquility.

His eyes caught the man's mane of hair, slightly graying at the

temples. He noted the cold gleam of the gray eyes leveled straight at

his. He realized the meaning of the harsh, tightly compressed mouth,

and the gripping muscles of the wide, bull-dog jaw. There was a

peculiar hunch to the man's broad shoulders, which suggested nothing so

much as an animal crouching to spring. All these things he saw, and

read, and he knew that a merciless fury was raging behind the calm mask

of this husband of his mother.

In a flash his own nerve steadied, and a desperate calmness succeeded

the first shock of horror.

"Well?" he retorted, and moistened his parching lips.

To an on-looker, undisturbed by the tension of the moment, a curious

realization must inevitably have occurred. It was the extraordinary

likeness existing between these two. The older man displayed the

maturity of his years in his increasing bulk, but the likeness was

scarcely lessened by it. There was the same hair, the same cast of

feature. The younger man's eyes were blue and his height was greater,

but the breadth of shoulder, the bone and muscle were similar.

Yet neither of them realized the likeness. All their thought was eaten

up by a growing antagonism, antagonism in one that was well-nigh

murderous, and in the other, simply that of a man, who finds himself

pre-judged, found guilty and sentenced for some crime of which he is

wholly ignorant and innocent.

Hendrie caught at the retort with lessening restraint. He pointed at

the open safe and the bundle of notes which Frank still clutched in his

hand.

"Red-handed," he said. Then as the incredulous youth made a movement of

protest, the other's hand slipped round to his hip pocket with a

movement not to be mistaken. "Don't move," he said quickly.

Hendrie's command had instant effect. Frank stood quite still. Then his

appalled amazement found sudden and violent expression.

"Good God!" he cried. "What do you mean? Do you take me for--a low-down

thief?"

Hendrie's eyes never once relaxed their cruel stare.

"What are you then?"

Frank glanced at the open safe, and his horrified eyes came back to the

pile of notes he was still grasping.

"You mean----" he began. Then indignation overcame every other feeling.

"This money was----"

Again he broke off, and this time a cold sweat broke out upon his

forehead. Only just in time did he realize what the admission he was

about to make would entail. Suddenly he beheld the hideous trap gaping

to ensnare him.

To say that his mother, this man's wife, had given him the money, that

her hand had unlocked the safe, that he and she had been in that room

together, would be to betray her secret and yield up to the last man in

the world whom she wished should learn it, the story of--her shame.

His throat had dried up suddenly, and an awful sickness pervaded his

stomach. His imagination became fired. What could he do? The

possibility of such a situation had never entered his head. He was

helpless. Explanation was denied him. He could only stand there, a

convicted felon, caught, as Hendrie had so mercilessly declared,

"red-handed." Not for one moment did he dream of taking the other

course. To betray his mother, the woman who had devoted her life to

him, it was out of the question. His nature was incapable of such a

thing. Cost him what it might--even life itself--her honor was safe

with him.

As the realization of his terrible position came to him, a fresh

anxiety grew; an anxiety that was wholly unselfish. He dreaded lest she

should return. He knew her goodness, her generosity. That painful

secret she had hugged to herself for all these long years would be

promptly yielded up to save him. He prayed that her return to the room

might be delayed until--until----

He looked into the merciless eyes of his accuser whose harsh voice

broke the silence--

"You were going to say it was given you. Go on."

But Frank had no answer. A dogged silence seemed to be the only thing

possible, and Hendrie was left to do the talking.

"You were going to say that that money had been given you by some

one--my wife?" He laughed without mirth. "Guess you'd best finish your

story. Shall I send for my wife to corroborate it? How'd you fancy

that? I'd think a thief would have a better yarn than that. The money

was given you!"

The man's sarcasm goaded his victim beyond endurance, and dogged

silence gave way before it.

"You lie," he cried passionately. "I am no thief!"

The younger man's sudden heat was not without its effect upon Hendrie.

A flush crept over his level brows. It dyed his cheeks, and added a

fresh gleam of malignant hatred to the cold cruelty of his eyes. He

drew a step nearer, and pointed at the chair.

"Sit down!" he commanded. And Frank found himself mechanically obeying.

After a moment's pause, Hendrie went on with a deliberation that

contained an infinitely greater threat than any passionate outburst

could have conveyed.

"You're a thief," he cried. "Do you get me? A thief. You're a low-down,

dirty cur of a thief, not half as good as the man who steals money.

Say, you're the sort of skunk who steals in through back doors chasing

other men's womenfolk. You came to steal my wife. You've been at the

game weeks. You've been watched--both of you--you and your paramour.

Back!"

In a wild fury Frank precipitated himself from his chair to choke the

filthy accusations in the man's throat. But he was brought to a stand

by the shining muzzle of a revolver, held at his body.

He dropped back to his chair.

"Say, you can quit that right here," Hendrie went on. "I'm ready for

any play that way. You see, I fixed this trap for you. Guess I was wise

to your being here. Say, you're going to pay for your gambol, my

friend. Maybe you don't know what you're up against. You're going to

pay--and pay bad. Maybe you don't know what my money can do. It can do

a heap, and I'm ready to spend my last cent so you get the dose I want

you to get.

"But you've made it easy for me. Plumb easy. I find you here with my

safe open, and a pile of money taken from it. A safe robber, eh? The

money in your hand, and you got in through this window. Get me?

Burglary. House-breaking. Safe-robbing. When the law's fixed you right

for that, and you've served your term--then, why, I guess there's more

to follow. Say, you're going to get it good for just so long as we both

live. I'm going to beat you down, down, down, till I've crushed you out

of your rotten existence.

"Oh, I know you've not stolen that money," he went on savagely. "I know

that. I recognize you for the man whose picture I tore up in my wife's

rooms before I married her. You're her lover, I know, but you're going

to be treated just as hard as the law can fix you for--those other

things."

Under the merciless lash of the millionaire's tongue Frank grew

steadily calmer. But it was the calm of despair. Full well he saw the

hopelessness of his position. He had been trapped beyond all chance of

escape, and even ill luck had worked for his undoing. As Hendrie paused

he felt, though he knew denial was useless, that he must make a final

effort.

"I tell you, you are wrong--utterly wrong," he cried desperately. "I

have never stolen anything in my life. As for your wife, if you would

only put this madness out of your head you would see that there is only

one man in all the world she loves, and that man is you. Oh, I know

it's useless to deny anything while you are in this state of mind. But

it is as I say. You can do your worst with me. You can employ your

millions as you choose for my hurt, but I tell you the day will come

when you will regret it, regret the wrong you are doing your wife--me,

and would give your right hand to undo the mischief you have wrought

through this--this insane jealousy."

The millionaire gazed at the earnest young face, and slowly a smile

grew in his eyes, a smile which only rendered their expression more

tigerish.

"Come," he said, in his level tones, "that's better. If what you say is

true guess the whole thing's up to you. You'll have your opportunity in

the prisoner's dock. Just explain things to the court, to the press

reporters, waiting to telegraph the news all over America. Just tell

'em what your relations with the wife of Alexander Hendrie are. Call

her a witness that she gave you that money. Do this. I'll be satisfied

for you to do it. But remember when you get through with the court,

you're not through with me."

He crossed the room and drew the curtains apart while Frank's desperate

eyes followed his movements. There was no thought in the youngster's

mind of anything but the absolute fiendishness in the man's final

proposal. The heartless subtlety of it was tremendous.

Call his mother a witness! Call her a witness with a ravening horde of

reporters gasping for scandal. He understood that Hendrie believed he

would expose her to the shame of this liaison, and so punish her by

such a process. He knew how little the man guessed the awakening such a

course would in all probability bring him.

In that moment Frank saw more clearly than ever the necessity for

silence and submission. But, realizing these things, he saw, too, an

added danger.

"One moment," he said, with studied calmness. He had half read the

other's intention as he moved the curtains. "What will happen

when--Mrs. Hendrie hears of my conviction. Have you considered that?"

The millionaire glanced over his shoulder. A triumphant light shone in

his eyes.

"Guess I've considered everything. Your--paramour--after to-night, will

never see or hear of you again--unless you call her as a witness at

your trial."

He waited for the anticipated outburst. But it did not come. To his

surprise his victim's face was smiling, and the sight of it set him

searching for its cause.

Frank nodded.

"Right," he said, almost cheerily. "You can call your man. I have no

intention to resist--now."

The next moment a man stepped into the room through the parted

curtains. Frank surveyed him almost indifferently. He recognized him as

Douglas, the Sheriff of Everton. It was a recognition that told him,

had he needed to be told, that the millionaire's purpose was no "bluff."

His heart sank, but his determination remained unaltered. He thought of

Phyllis, he thought of the farm he was to have purchased, he thought of

a hundred and one things, and, though he gave no outward sign, he felt

he could almost have wept.

Presently he was roused by their touch as the cold irons were slipped

upon his wrists, and he heard Hendrie delivering his charge to the

sheriff.

Then he found himself standing up. Somebody passed him his hat. Then he

knew that he was walking beside the sheriff, and passing out of the

room by the window through which he had entered it.

*****

Alexander Hendrie gazed after the two retreating figures until the

ground seemed to swallow them up as they dropped down to the lower

level of the river-bank, where the trail for Everton ran along it. Then

he turned back to the room.

He crossed swiftly to the safe and closed it. He thrust the packet of

money into an inner pocket of his coat. Then he set the chair at the

desk straight. After that he passed out through the window, carefully

closing it behind him.

*****

Ten minutes later a high-powered automobile was approaching Deep

Willows by the Everton trail. It only had two occupants. The chauffeur

was in the driving seat. Behind him, surrounded by his baggage, and

enveloped in his heavy traveling coat, sat Alexander Hendrie.

CHAPTER XIX

THE RETURN OF ALEXANDER HENDRIE

"Guess he won't make home to-night, mam."

Angus Moraine broke the silence which followed on the protracted, but

absorbing discussion which had just taken place in the stuffy precincts

of his office.

Monica smiled. She was sitting in a well-worn chair, Angus Moraine's

own particular chair, which he had placed for her beside his desk in

the full light of the lamp, and directly facing him.

"It's impossible to say," she replied, with the confidence of her

understanding of the man under discussion. "If business does not

interfere, and the mood takes him, Mr. Hendrie will be home to-night."

Her manner was delighted. She was feeling very happy. Such had been her

interest in Angus's news, and the earnest discussion of affairs

involved in her husband's letter to his manager, that, for the moment,

all thought of Frank waiting for her in the library at the far end of

the house had passed out of her head.

She had visited this man with no sort of feeling of friendliness, with

nothing but resentment at the interruption, but the moment she entered

the tobacco-laden atmosphere of his room, and glanced at the long

letter which Angus promptly handed her, all her displeasure vanished,

and she became fully interested.

Nor was the change to be wondered at. The letter was one which had been

written with the express purpose of interesting her. It was not the

brief, terse letter of a business man. Every word had been carefully

considered. The writer's whole object had been to afford food for

discussion, that his instructions to Angus, to keep her there for a

definite time, might the more easily be carried out.

The paragraph which chiefly held her interest had been subtly placed by

the writer at the opening of the letter.

"There is a big labor movement afoot," he wrote. "It is normally the

bonding of all agriculturalists, and has for its stated purpose their

protection against employers. This may be so. But I have a shrewd idea

that the primary object is the furthering of the Socialistic movement

that is causing so much harm to the world's industries, and is

fostering the deplorable discontent prevailing in labor circles all the

world over. However, with such a movement afoot, it is, of course,

quite impossible to forecast what unpleasant developments the near

future may have for us at Deep Willows.

"In removing you, and leaving Mrs. Hendrie in control of my interests

there, I am confident enough of successful operation in the ordinary

way. But under these new conditions I do not feel so sure. It seems to

me that the necessity for the strength of a man's controlling hand in

dealing with the situation will soon make itself apparent. Therefore it

is better to anticipate. Such anticipation will cause a change of plans

which, for some reasons, I reluctantly intend to make, and, for others,

leaves me well enough satisfied.

"I shall, therefore, require you to remain at Deep Willows, and I will

ask you to see Mrs. Hendrie at once, convey her my compliments, and

urgently request her to join me in Winnipeg by the first east-bound

mail. I must confess this change falls in with the present trend of my

business as well as, I need hardly say, my personal inclinations. I

find that affairs will keep me pretty well tied to Winnipeg and its

surroundings, to say nothing of the tours I shall soon have to make

from these headquarters. There is also a great deal to be done on the

social side. It is becoming more and more necessary to entertain

largely, and this, of course, I cannot do without my wife's

co-operation. So, perhaps, all things considered, the change will turn

out for the best.

"I am sorely pressed for time or I should have written Mrs. Hendrie

fully on the subject. But, as this would have entailed two long letters

of explanation, and since it is imperative to write you upon other

matters relating to the work in hand, I must ask you to convey my

apologies to my wife for thus sending her instructions through a third

party. Any way, this letter is only precautionary lest I should not be

able to reach Deep Willows as I hope to."

Just for one moment, while reading, Monica had experienced the

slightest feeling of pique that her husband should have chosen Angus as

the recipient of his instructions for herself. But such smallness was

quickly banished as she read on to the end of the letter, through a

perfect maze of intricate orders and countermandings of affairs

connected with Deep Willows. She realized that it would have been

perfectly ridiculous to send this letter to her, and as he was "sorely

pressed for time" the excuse was more than sufficient.

So she readily entered into the discussion which followed her reading

of the letter. Even if he did not reach Deep Willows she was to rejoin

her husband _permanently_, and this was far more to her taste than to

work apart from him, even though she knew it was in his best interests.

In the discussion Angus surpassed himself for interest and amiability,

and Monica found herself wondering how it was she had hitherto had such

a dislike for him. Had she only known it the man was only carrying out

secret instructions, which became all the more easy since the change of

plans had left him free from the nightmare of leaving Deep Willows,

which had pursued him for so many days.

Yes, Angus found it very pleasant, very easy talking to this

brilliantly handsome woman, whose physical charms might well have found

warmth in an iceberg. And, curiously enough, now that her husband was

aware of what he believed to be the laxity of her morals, he no longer

viewed them with so much resentment.

So pleasant did he make himself, so interesting in his wide knowledge

of her husband's affairs, that Monica found herself talking on and on,

with no thought of the rapidly passing time. She was utterly absorbed

in the man whose life she shared, absorbed to the exclusion of all

else--even the waiting Frank.

Now they were considering Hendrie's possible return that night. Angus

had done his work, and was waiting, sitting there expectantly till the

time of the final development which was yet to come.

"It'll need to be a 'special,' mam," he said, with a smile.

Monica laughed lightly.

"Then let it be a 'special.' That, and his automobile, will serve him

well enough. You see----"

She broke off listening. Faintly, but quite distinctly, the low purr of

a high-powered car penetrated the dense atmosphere of the office.

Angus started up. He, too, heard the sound, and he turned to the

waiting woman.

"Guess it was a 'special' all right. Say----"

He broke off as his narrow eyes took in the expression of Monica's

face. He ran to her side as though to support her.

"You're faint, mam!" he cried. "It's the heat of this room. It's----"

But Monica shook him off. Her face was deadly pale, and she stood

supporting herself against the arm of her chair. Her eyes were alight

with a dreadful alarm, as she gazed incredulously at the hands of the

clock on the desk.

It was half-past one, and all this time Frank had been waiting in the

library for her. The thought of her folly and carelessness was

maddening. She would never, never forgive herself if harm came through

it. Harm? It must not. She must get away at once. She must give him

warning.

Then she remembered her companion. His sharp eyes were upon her. With a

great effort she pulled herself together. It would be fatal for him to

realize the truth of her feelings. She forced herself to a reassuring

smile.

"It's nothing," she said, passing one hand wearily across her forehead.

"Just the heat of the room."

Angus's face remained a picture of concern, and she was satisfied.

"I'll go and open the front door," she said, with studied calmness.

"Everybody is in bed. I----"

Angus had turned to the door, and now opened it. In doing so Monica's

attempt to leave the room was frustrated, for he raised a warning hand,

and she found herself forced to listen as well.

Presently his eyes met hers.

"Guess you don't need to worry with that door," he said. "He's coming

along over the upper trail. He'll pass us here."

So Monica had no alternative. She must remain. And this knowledge threw

her into a fresh fever of apprehension. She searched for further

excuse. But none was forthcoming. Her tumultuous brain refused to serve

her, and, in a few moments, there came the ominous metallic clank as

the clutch was released, and the breaks drew the millionaire's machine

to a standstill at the door.

It was too late. Already her husband's voice could be heard talking to

the chauffeur.

"Hand me that suit case and leave the rest in the car," he said. "You

best get to bed, and be ready for an early start tomorrow."

There was nothing left for Monica but to go out and meet him.

In spite of her trouble it was good to see her husband again. But even

while she listened to his greeting the thought whirled through her

brain, had Frank heard his arrival, too? Had he made good his escape?

"Why, Mon, this is great. I hadn't expected it."

Hendrie spoke heartily. There was no mistaking the delight of his

manner, and the troubled woman felt a thrill of satisfaction, even

though danger was pressing.

"Gee, I've moved some to get here," he went on. Then he came up to her

as she stood in the doorway, and, under the watchful eyes of Angus,

embraced her warmly.

For a moment he stood her off at arm's length.

"But what are you doing up at this hour?" he demanded, with pretended

severity. Then he turned to his manager with a laugh. "Keeping late

hours with you, Angus, my friend? It won't do."

"You've got your own letter to blame for that, Alec," retorted Monica.

"If you must send messages to your wife through Angus--you must expect

the--unexpected." She laughed in spite of her anxiety.

Hendrie responded with a smile.

"Well, as long as he's told you everything I'll forgive him--this time.

Say,"--he drew out his cigar case and carefully selected a cigar. His

eyes were shadowed for a moment, and their expression was hidden from

his wife--"will you be able to start East first thing to-morrow.

It's--important."

There was emphasis in his last remark, and the eyes he raised to his

wife's face were gently commanding.

Monica took him literally. She was only too glad to be able to fall in

with his wishes.

"Why yes, dear," she said at once. "We can go on ahead, and Margaret

can pack up and follow later. That will be quite easy."

The command died out of the man's eyes as he surveyed her. She was

very, very beautiful as she stood there in the lamplight. Her

fascination for him was enormous. Then her readiness to please him. No

one but a man afflicted with his insane jealousy could have doubted her

perfect, utter devotion to him.

But Hendrie was an unusual man. His extraordinary powers were so

abnormally developed that perhaps there was a slight lack of balance.

The driving force which urged him left him little margin for the more

subtle understanding of human nature. He lived at fever heat. He had no

desire to seek understanding through tolerance. It was for him to

dominate. It was for him to bend, and even break, those who ran foul of

his will.

"Splendid, Mon," he cried, as he pierced the end of his cigar and

placed it firmly between his teeth. "You're always ready to help me.

Splendid." His eyes shot a quick glance at Angus, who was standing

watchfully by.

"Now see, Mon," he went on. "You best get right off to bed. It's

devilish late, and you've got some journey in front of you. Just give

me half an hour with Angus while I smoke this cigar and I'll join you."

Monica's heart leaped. Here was all she needed to dispel the last

shadow. She could warn----

"Yes, I am tired, dear," she said readily. "It's been a long day, and I

have been working hard."

Hendrie nodded.

"Sure you have."

"Still it doesn't matter," the simple woman went on. "There's lots and

lots of work still before us. And Angus," she smiled over at the Scot

playfully, "--well, I think he's really glad I'm going. Aren't you?"

Angus flushed. Then his eyes met the curious gleam in his employer's.

"I think it's best I stay, mam," he said guardedly. "If labor troubles

get busy I'd say I'm the more fitted to deal with them."

"Of course you are." Monica was quite herself again, and she laughed as

she picked up her husband's suit case. "I'll take this along for you,

dear," she went on. "Good night, Angus. Good night, Alec--for the

present."

She hurried out of the room, bearing the suit case in her hand, and,

replying to her salutation, the two men stood watching her as she went.

The door closed.

For some moments Hendrie did not move. His great head was slightly

inclined out of its usual erect position. Angus waited for him to

speak. For himself he had nothing to say.

At last the cigar in the millionaire's mouth was tilted and he turned.

He reached out and drew the chair Monica had occupied toward him. Then

he sat down quite suddenly.

"Guess she'll find the library empty," he said, in a curiously dull

tone. He crossed his legs and reached for a match. "He's well on his

way to Calford--now," he added, without enthusiasm.

Angus nodded.

"They've got him?"

The millionaire did not answer. Nor did he display the least elation at

the success of the trap he had laid and successfully worked.

Only the stony light of his eyes remained. If he had no elation it is

doubtful that he possessed any feeling of a gentler nature. He had

simply done what he had set out to do--done the thing he intended, as

he always did. He rarely experienced any feeling of triumph in the

working of his plans. That he possessed passionate human feelings there

was little enough doubt. But these were quite apart from the scheming

of his machine-like brain.

His cigar glowed under the pressure at which he was smoking, and this

was the only indication Angus beheld of any unusual emotion.

The manager stirred uneasily at the lengthening silence.

"She tried to go--when you first came," he said hesitatingly.

Hendrie only nodded, and the quick glance of his eyes silenced any

further attempt on the part of the other.

Angus watched him silently, and, as he watched, it almost seemed to him

that somehow the man's great figure had shrunk. Maybe it was the way he

was sitting, huddled in his chair. Certainly the old command of his

personality seemed to have lessened, he looked older, and there was a

curious, gray look about his face. He looked weary, an utterly tired

man. Yes, if he could only have associated such a thing with Alexander

Hendrie, he looked like--a beaten man.

But at last the silence was broken, and with it vanished the last sign

which Angus had read so pessimistically in his employer. The great head

was lifted alertly, and the steady eyes lit anew.

"Guess you don't know much about women, Angus," he said thoughtfully.

Angus shook his head.

"Don't want to," he replied coldly. "Guess I got all I need worrying

out wheat."

The other accepted the denial, and went on--

"Maybe I don't know as much as I ought--at my age. Maybe we've both

been too busy--worrying wheat."

Angus smiled coldly. But there was no smile in Hendrie's eyes. He was

gazing steadily before him, his cigar poised, forgotten, in his hand.

He had definitely addressed himself to Angus, but now he seemed to have

forgotten his presence.

"Pshaw! What's the use?" he cried suddenly, with an irritable shift of

his position. "It's not the woman's fault--ever. It's the man's--the

dirty, low-down cur who can always trade on her weakness. I ought to

know. By God! I ought to know."

He picked up a match almost mechanically and struck it. But his cigar

remained where it was, and the match was allowed to burn out in his

fingers. He threw the end of it away with a vicious movement.

Suddenly he looked up and caught his manager's eyes fixed on him

curiously.

"What are you staring at, man?" he cried. Then with sudden heat, "What

in hell are you staring at? Do you think me a doddering fool--a weak

imbecile? That's it!" he cried, working himself up into a sort of

frenzy, and breaking into a laugh, as terrible a sound as Angus

remembered to have heard. "I tell you she's not to blame," he went on

furiously. "I tell you I'll not give her up. Say, you cold-blooded,

herring-bodied Scotchman, have you ever loved a woman in the whole of

your grouchy life?" Again he laughed. Again Angus felt the horror of

it. "Never!" he went on furiously. "Never, never, never! Love? God,

it's hell! Thank your God, you miserable, cold-blooded fish, you are

incapable of loving any woman."

He reached out again for a match and struck it. But he threw it away

from him at once.

"I can't give her up," he said, in a low, passionate tone. "I can win

her back. I will win her back." His voice rose. "She is mine, and

he--God have mercy on him, for I won't. Say, there's hell waiting for

him. He'll be tried and condemned, and not a word of his trial will

reach the outside world. He is utterly cut off from the world. I have

seen to that. And then afterwards. By God, I'll hunt him down. I'll

hunt him to his grave, if it costs me every cent I possess. Rob me? He

would rob me of--my love? Love? It's the worst hell ever man blindly

fell into, but--it's worth while."

Again he broke off, and his companion waited uneasily for what might

yet come. He knew that for the moment something like madness had been

turned loose in him. A passing madness, but still something to be

dreaded.

He had not long to wait. All abruptly the gray eyes lit anew, and

flashed in his direction.

"Why don't you say something?" he cried fiercely. "Why do you sit there

in silence? Are you afraid to speak? Bah! Say, Angus, when you told me

those things I promised you, if they were not true, I'd--kill you. You

remember? They were true. And because they were true"--the man's eyes

glowered--"I'd like--to kill you--anyway. Yes, I'd like to tear your

miserable heart out of you, as you have helped to tear the heart out of

me."

Angus offered no protest. He sat there still and watchful. He knew that

the man's brain was fighting for sanity. Now had come the awful

reaction. His purpose had been accomplished, the strain was over, and

there was nothing left him but the knowledge of his own terrible

disaster. He felt that any ill-timed word of his might upset the

balance. This man, who had proved victorious in a thousand battles in

the arena of commerce, was now torn in conflict with his own soul. He

must fight his battle alone. He must fight it to the end.

"God! If you'd help rob me of all the wealth I possess you could not

have begun to hurt me as--as you have hurt me in this. All that I have,

or am, is--in that woman's love. All that makes my life worth while is

in her smile. Do you understand? No. Or you'd never have come to me

with your miserable tale." His face was working. "You're all the same.

You're all in the conspiracy. Oh, I could crush you, as well as the

others, with these two hands. I could squeeze the wretched life out of

you, and it would please me. Yes, it would please me."

Angus held his watchful attitude.

The man was breathing hard, and his usually cold eyes were burning. He

shifted his position spasmodically.

Presently a deep sigh came from between his clenched teeth. Again he

moved, but this time it was to cross his legs. Angus saw the movement,

and, all unconsciously, he sighed, too. He understood the relaxing of

tension which permitted such a movement. Was the end near? Had the

battle worn itself out? Had the man emerged victorious?

Suddenly Hendrie turned to the cigar, still poised between his fingers.

He smiled. And Angus knew that victory was within sight. A match was

again struck, and this time the millionaire lit his cigar. The next

moment his companion beheld a glimpse of the suffering heart so deeply

hidden in that broad bosom.

"I'm--I'm sorry, old friend," Hendrie said, with an unusual note of

genuine kindness in his voice. "I'm sorry. Guess I said a whole heap of

rotten stuff to you. Maybe you'll forget. Maybe you understand

something of what I'm feeling about now. You see--I--just love her,

and, well--I just love her."

CHAPTER XX

THE VERDICT

The machinery at the command of Alexander Hendrie had been set in

motion. Nor was its power in doubt for a single moment. Wealth may not

be able to bias the ruling of a court, but it can do all those things

which can force conviction upon the mind of the most upright judge on

the bench. It's subtle working in the hands of men who live by

corruption is more powerful than, perhaps, the ordinary mind would

believe. No innocence is sufficient that its victim need not fear for

liberty--even for life itself.

Frank Burton, charged in Calford as Frank Smith, a name which, to the

last, he claimed for his own, was soon enough to learn something of

this extraordinary, intangible power. To his horror he found himself

utterly powerless before an array of evidence which conveyed a cruelly

complete story of his alleged malefactions, characterized as

house-breaking--with violence. Some of the witnesses against him were

men whom he had never seen or heard of, and strangely enough, Alexander

Hendrie did not appear against him. The charge was made by Angus

Moraine.

For his defence he had only his absurdly bare declaration of innocence,

a declaration made from the passionate depths of an innocent heart, but

one which, in the eyes of the court, amounted to nothing more than the

prerogative of the vilest criminal.

What use to fight? His counsel, the counsel appointed by the court, did

his conscientious best, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

There was no hope from the outset, and he knew it. However, he had his

fee to earn, and he earned it to the complete satisfaction of his

conscience.

In view of his client's declaration of absolute innocence this worthy

man endeavored to drag from him a plausible explanation of his presence

at Deep Willows, with the money taken from the open safe in his

possession. But on this point Frank remained obstinately silent. He had

no explanation to offer. His mother's honor was more to him than his

liberty--more to him than his life. So the mockery of justice went on

to the end.

In the meantime Alexander Hendrie was no nearer the scene of

persecution than Winnipeg, but the six hundred odd miles was bridged by

telephone wires, and he was in constant touch with those whose service

was at his command.

The completeness with which the last details of his plans were executed

was at once a tribute to his consummate manipulation, and the merciless

quality of his hatred. The cruelty he displayed must have been

indefensible except for that one touch of human--nay, animal nature,

which belongs to all life. He honestly believed in this man's guilty

relations with his own wife, and his blindly furious jealousy thus

inspired he saw no penalty, no vengeance too cruel or too lasting to

deal out to the offender.

Alexander Hendrie had no scruples when dealing with his enemies. His

was the merciless fighting nature of the brute. But he was also capable

of prodigal generosities, lofty passions, and great depths of human

gentleness.

No feeling of pity stirred him as he sat in his office in Winnipeg,

with the telephone close to his hand, on the afternoon of his victim's

trial.

He was waiting for the news of the verdict which was to reach him over

those hundreds of miles of silent wire. He was waiting patiently, but

absorbed in his desire that word should reach him at the earliest

moment. His desk was littered with business papers which required his

attention, but they remained untouched. It was an acknowledgment that

paramount in the man's mind is passionate feeling for the woman he had

married.

It was a strange metamorphosis in a man of his long-cultivated purpose.

All his life success had been his most passionate desire. Now he almost

regarded his millions with contempt. Nature had claimed him at last,

and the lateness of her call had only increased the force and

peremptoriness of her demands.

Even now, while he waited, his thoughts were in that up-town mansion

where Monica was waiting for him. Nor were they the harsh thoughts of

the wronged husband for the woman in whom his faith had been shattered.

He was thinking of her as the wonderful creature, so fair, so perfect

in form, so delightful in the appeal of her whole personality, around

whom shone the deepest, most glowing fires of his hopes. She was to him

the fairest of all God's creatures; she was to him the most desirable

thing in all the world.

The fierce tempest which had so bitterly raged in his soul at the first

discovery of her frailty had abated, it had almost worn itself out. Now

he had taken the wreckage and deliberately set it behind him, and once

more the flame of his passion had leaped up--fanned by the breath of

the strong life which was his.

Another might have cast the woman out of his life; another of lesser

caliber. This man might have turned and rent her, as he had turned and

rent the man who was her secret lover. But such was not Alexander

Hendrie. His passions were part of him, uncontrolled by any lukewarm

considerations of right and wrong. To love, with him, was to hurl aside

all caution, all deliberation, and yield himself up to it, body and

soul. To have cast Monica out of his life must have been to tear the

heart from the depths of his bosom.

The time crept on, and still the telephone remained silent. But the

waiting man's patience seemed inexhaustible. His was the patience of

certainty. So he smoked on in his leisurely fashion, dreaming his

dreams in the delicate spirals of fragrant smoke which rose upon the

still air of the room to the clouded ceiling above.

He had no thought for the innocent young life he was crushing with the

power of his wealth so many miles away. He cared not one jot for the

ethics of his merciless actions. His thwarted love for his erring wife

filled all his dreams to the exclusion of every other consideration.

A secretary entered and silently left some papers upon his desk. He

retired voicelessly to wonder what fresh manipulation in the wheat

world his employer was contemplating.

A junior entered with several telegrams. They, too, were silently

deposited, and he vanished again to some distant corners of the offices.

Still Hendrie dreamed on, and still the telephone had no word to

impart. His cigar was burning low. The aroma of its leaf was less

delicate. Perhaps it was the latter that broke in on his dreaming,

perhaps it was something else. He stirred at last, and dropped the

lighted stump into a cuspidor, and thrust his chair back.

At that moment the bur-r-r of the telephone's dummy bell broke the

silence. Without haste, without a sign of emotion he drew his chair

forward again, and leisurely placed the receiver to his ear.

"Yes--Who's that?--oh!--Calford." Hendrie waited a moment, the fingers

of his right hand drumming idly on his desk. Presently he went on:

"Yes, yes--you are Calford. Who is it speaking?--Eh?--That you, Angus?

Damn these long-distance 'phones, they're so indistinct!--Yes. This is

Hendrie speaking. Well?--Oh. Finished, is it?--Yes. And?--oh--splendid.

Five years--Good--Five years penitentiary. Excellent. Thanks. Good-bye."

He replaced the receiver and quietly began to deal with the