Barbara turned away from the piano, and Brooke, who laid down the

violin, took the vacant place beside her.

"Still, I'm almost afraid it's out of the question now," he said,

looking down at his scarred hands. "The kind of thing I have been doing

the past few years spoils one's wrist. You no doubt noticed how slow I

was in part of the shifting."

The girl noticed the leanness of his hands and the broken nails, and

then glanced covertly at his face. It was gaunt and hollow, and she was

sensible that there was a suggestion of weariness in his pose, which

had, so far as she could remember, not been there before. Again a little

thrill of compassion ran through her, and she felt, perhaps illogically,

as she had done during the sonata, that no man could be wholly bad who

played the violin as he did. Still, the last thing she intended doing

was admitting it.

"Why did you stay at the Dayspring through the winter?" she asked,

abruptly.

"Well," said Brooke, reflectively, "I really don't know. No doubt it was

an unwarranted fancy, but I think I felt that after what I had purposed

at the Canopus I was doing a little _per contra_, that is, something

that might count in balancing the score against me, though, of course,

I'm far from certain that it could be balanced at all. You see, it was a

little lonely up there, especially after Allonby died, as well as a

trifle cold."

Barbara would have smiled at any other time, for she knew what the

ranges were in winter, but, as it was, her face was expressionless and

her voice unusually even.

"I think I understand," she said. "It was probably the same idea that

once led your knights and barons to set out on pilgrimages with peas in

their shoes, though it is not recorded that they did the more sensible

thing by restoring their plundered neighbors' possessions."

Brooke laughed. "Still, my stay at the Dayspring served a purpose, for,

although somebody else would no doubt have done so eventually, I found

the galena, and I didn't go quite so far as the gentlemen you mention

after all. No doubt it is very reprehensible to steal a mine, or, in

fact, anything, but I don't know that charitable people would consider

that feeling tempted to do so was quite the same thing."

Barbara started a little, and there was a distinct trace of color in her

face.

"I never quite grasped that point before," she said. "You certainly

stopped short of----?

"The actual theft," said Brooke. "I don't, however, mind admitting that

the thing never occurred to me until this moment, but I can give you my

word, whatever it may be worth, that I never glanced at the papers after

you handed them to me."

There was a trace of wonder in Barbara's face, though she was quite

aware that it could not be flattering to any man to show unnecessary

astonishment when informed that he had, after all, some slight sense of

honor.

"Then I really think I did you a wrong, but we are, I fancy, neither of

us very good at ethics," she said, languidly, though she was now

sensible of a curious relief. The man had, it seemed, at least, not

abused her confidence altogether, for, while there was no evident reason

why she should do so, she believed his assertion that he had not glanced

at the papers.

"Hair-splitting," said Brooke, reflectively, "is an art very few people

really excel in, and I find the splitting of rocks and pines a good deal

easier and more profitable. You were, of course, in spite of your last

admission, quite warranted in not seeing me twice to-night."

"I think I was," and Barbara looked at him steadily. "You see, I

believed in you. In fact, you made me, and it was that I found so

difficult to forgive you."

It was a very comprehensive admission, and Brooke, whose heart throbbed

as he heard it, sat silent awhile.

"Then," he said, very slowly, "it would be useless to expect that

anything I could do would ever induce you to once more have any

confidence in me?"

Barbara's eyes were still upon him, though they were not quite so steady

as usual.

"Yes," she said, quietly, "I am afraid it is."

Brooke made her a little inclination. "Well," he said, "I scarcely think

anybody acquainted with the circumstances would blame you for that

decision. And now I fancy Mrs. Devine is waiting for you."

XXVI.

THE JUMPING OF THE CANOPUS.

The snow was soft at last, and honeycombed by the splashes from the

pines, which once more scattered their resinous odors on a little warm

breeze, when Shyanne Tom came plodding down the trail to the Canopus. He

was a rock-driller of no great proficiency, which was why Captain

Wilkins had sent him on an errand to a ranch; and was then retracing his

steps leisurely. It was still a long way to the mine, but he was in no

great haste to reach it, because he found it pleasanter to slouch

through the bush than swing the hammer, and the time he spent on the

journey would be credited to him. He had turned out of the trail to

relight his pipe in the shelter of a big cedar, which kept off the wind,

when he became sensible of a beat of horse hoofs close behind him. He

would have heard it earlier, but that the roar of a river, which had

lately burst its icy chains, came throbbing across the trees.

Shyanne was shredding his tobacco plug with a great knife, but he turned

sharply round because he could not think of any one likely to be riding

down that trail, which only led to the Canopus, just then. As it

happened, he stood in the shadow, and it is difficult to make out a man

who does not move amidst the great grey-tinted trunks, especially if he

is dressed in stained and faded jean; but the sunlight was on the trail,

and Shyanne was struck by the attitude of one of the horsemen who

appeared among the trees. There were five or six of them, and the beasts

were heavily loaded with provisions and blankets, as well as axes and

mining tools. The last man, however, led a horse, which carried nothing

at all, and the leader, who had just pulled his beast up, was holding up

his hand. It was evident to Shyanne that they had seen his tracks in the

snow, but, as that was a peaceful country, he failed to understand why

it should have brought the party to a standstill. He, however, stayed

where he was, watching the leader, who stooped in his saddle.

"It can't be more than a few minutes since that fellow went along, and

his tracks break off right here," he said. "I guess there's a side trail

somewhere, though the bush seems kind of thick."

"A blame rancher looking for a deer," said another man. "Anyway, if he'd

heard us, he'd have stopped to talk."

The leader, Shyanne fancied, appeared reflective. "Well," he said, "I

can't quite figure where he could have come from. Tomlinson's ranch is

quite a way back, and there's not another house of any kind until you

strike the mine. Still, I guess we needn't worry, so long as he hasn't

seen us."

He shook his bridle, and while one or two of the men turning in their

saddles looked about them the horses plodded on, but Shyanne stood still

for at least five minutes. He was not especially remarkable for

intelligence, but it was evident to him that the men had a sufficient

reason for desiring that nobody should see them. Then he put his pipe

away, and proceeded circumspectly up the trail, with the print of the

horse hoofs leading on before him, until they turned off abruptly into

the bush. The meaning of this was incomprehensible, since it was not the

season when timber-right or mineral prospectors started on their

journeys, and Shyanne decided that it might be advisable to go on and

inform Wilkins of what he had seen. Still, he made no great progress,

for the snow was soft, and, after all, the Canopus did not belong to

him.

About the time he reached it, Brooke, who had come up there on some

business with Wilkins, was lounging, cigar in hand, on the verandah at

the ranch. The night was, for the season, still and almost warm, and a

half-moon hung low above the dripping pines, while he found the silence

and the sweet resinous odors soothing, for he had been toiling

feverishly at the Dayspring of late. Why he stayed there when there was

no longer any reason he should not go back to England, and Barbara had

told him that his offences were too grievous to be forgiven, he did not

exactly know. Still, the work had taken hold of him, and he felt that

while she was in the country he could not go away. He was wondering,

disconsolately, whether time would soften her indignation, or if she

would always be merciless, when Wilkins came into the verandah. He was

an elderly and somewhat deliberate man, but Brooke fancied he was

anxious just then.

"It's kind of fortunate you're here to-night. We've got to have a talk,"

he said.

Brooke gave him a cigar, and leaned against the balustrade, when he

slowly lighted it.

"You can't let me have the men I asked for?" he said.

Wilkins made a little gesture. "All you want. That's not the point. Now,

you just let me have a minute or two."

Ten had passed before he had related what Shyanne had told him, and then

Brooke, who saw the hand of Saxton in this, quietly lighted another

cigar.

"Well," he said, "what do you make of it? They're scarcely likely to be

timber-righters?"

"They might be claim-jumpers."

"Still, nobody could jump a claim whose title was good."

Wilkins appeared a trifle uneasy, though it was too dark for Brooke to

see him well, but he apparently made up his mind to speak.

"The fact is, our title isn't quite as good as it might be. That is,

there's a point or two anybody who knew all about it could make trouble

on," he said, and then turned, a trifle impatiently, to Brooke. "You

take it blame quietly. I had kind of figured that would astonish you."

Brooke laughed. "I had surmised as much already. We'll suppose the men

Shyanne saw intend to jump the claim. How will they set about it?"

"They'll wait until they figure every one's asleep--twelve o'clock, most

likely, since that would make it easy to get their record in the same

day, though it's most of an eight hours' ride to the office of the Crown

recorder. Then they'll drive their stakes in quietly, and while the rest

sit down tight on the pegged-off claim, one of them will ride out all

he's worth to get the record made. After that, they'll start in to bluff

the dollars out of Devine."

He stopped somewhat abruptly, and Brooke fancied that he had something

still upon his mind, but he had discovered already that it was generally

useless to attempt the extraction of any information Wilkins had not

quite decided to impart.

"Then what are we going to do?" he said.

"Turn out the boys, and hold the jumpers off as long as we can, while

somebody from our crowd rides out to put a new record in. When a claim's

bad in law anybody can stake it, and the Crown will register him as

owner until they can straighten out the thing."

"Then what do you expect from me?"

Wilkins' answer was prompt and decisive. "We'll have a horse ready.

You'll ride for the Company."

Brooke turned from him abruptly, and looked down the valley. He would

have preferred to avoid an actual conflict with Saxton for several

reasons, but he could not remain neutral, and must choose between Devine

and him. He had also broken off his compact, and while he wished the

jumpers had been acting for another man, there was apparently only the

one course open to him. It was also conceivable that if he could make a

valid new record it would count for a little in his favor with Barbara.

"I certainly seem the most suitable person, and you can get the horse

ready," he said. "Still, is there any reason I shouldn't make sure of

the thing by starting right away?"

Wilkins thought there was. "Well," he said, "I've only Shyanne's tale to

go upon, and supposing those men aren't claim-jumpers after all, what do

we gain by sending you to make a new record on the claim?"

"Nothing beyond letting everybody know that your patent's bad, and

raising trouble with the Crown people over it, while I scarcely fancy

Devine would thank me for doing that unnecessarily. It would be wiser to

wait and make certain of what they mean to do."

"You've hit it," said Wilkins. "I'll go along and talk to the boys."

He disappeared into the darkness, and Brooke, who was feeling chilly

now, went back to the stove, while it was two hours later when he took

his place behind one of the sawn-off firs which dotted the hillside

above what had been one of the most profitable headings of the mine. The

half-moon was higher now, and the pale radiance showed the six-foot

stumps that straggled up the steep slope in rows until the bush closed

in on them again. There was no longer any snow upon the firs, and they

towered against the blueness of the night in black and solemn spires.

The bush was also very quiet, as was the strip of clearing, and there

was nothing to show that a handful of men were waiting there with a

sense of grim anticipation.

Half an hour slipped by, and there was no sound from the forest but the

soft rustling of the fir twigs under a little breeze, while Brooke, who

found the waiting particularly unpleasant, and was annoyed to feel his

fingers were quivering a little with the tension, grew chilly. It would,

he felt, be a relief when the jumpers came, but another ten minutes

dragged by and there was still no sign of them. The breeze had grown a

trifle colder, and the firs were whispering eerily, while he could now

hear the men moving uneasily. Then he started when the howl of a wolf

came out of the bush, and, leaning forward, grasped Wilkins' arm.

"I suppose they will come?" he said.

The mine captain made a sign to a man who crouched behind a neighboring

tree.

"Quite sure you were awake when you saw those men, Shyanne?" he said.

"Harrup hadn't been giving you any of the hard cider?"

Shyanne chuckled audibly. "Not more'n a jugful, anyway, and I don't see

things on the hardest cider they make in Ontario. No, sir, those men

were there, and I've a notion there's one of them yonder now."

The shadows of the firs were black upon the clearing, but a dark patch

was projected suddenly beyond the rest, and a voice came faintly through

the whispering of the trees.

"Stand by," it said. "They're coming along."

Then Brooke set his lips as a human figure, carrying what seemed to be

an axe, materialized out of the gloom. Another appeared behind it, and

then a third, while, when a fourth became visible, Wilkins rose

suddenly.

"Now, what in the name of thunder are you wanting here?" he said.

The foremost man jumped, as Shyanne asserted afterwards, like a shot

deer, but the rest, who had apparently steadier nerves, came on at a

run, and a man behind them shouted, "Don't worry 'bout anything, but

get your stakes in. I'll do the talking."

Then, while Brooke slipped away, Wilkins stepped out into the moonlight

with a Marlin rifle gleaming dully in his hand. "Stop right where you

are," he said. "Where's the man who wants to talk?"

The men stopped, and stood glancing about them, irresolutely. There were

six in all, but rather more than that number of shadowy objects had

appeared unexpectedly among the sawn-off stumps. While they waited

Saxton stepped forward.

"Well," he said, "you see me."

"Oh, yes," said Wilkins, drily, "and I guess I've seen many a squarer

man. What do you want crawling round our claim, anyway?"

"It's not yours. Your patent's bad, and we're going to re-locate it for

you. Haven't you got those stakes ready, boys?"

"Bring them along," said Wilkins. "I'm waiting."

He stood stiff and resolute, with the rifle at his hip, and the

moonlight on his face, which was very grim, and once more the

claim-jumpers glanced at their leader, dubiously. They were aware that

although the regulations respecting mineral claims might not have been

complied with, there are conditions under which a man is warranted in

holding on to his property. Wilkins also appeared quite decided on doing

it.

Then Saxton's voice rose sharply. "Hallo!" he said. "What the----"

Wilkins swung round, and saw three or four more shadowy figures enter

the clearing from the opposite side, and they also apparently carried

stakes and axes.

"Figured you'd get in ahead of us, Saxton," said one of them.

Saxton evidently lost his temper. "Well," he said, "I guess I'm going to

do it, you slinking skunk. If it can't be fixed any other way, I'll

strike you for shooting Brooke."

Wilkins laughed. "Any more of you coming along? It's a kind of pity you

didn't get here a little earlier."

They knew what he meant in another moment, when the sound of a horse

ridden hard through slushy snow rose from the shadows of the pines.

Wilkins made a little ironical gesture.

"I guess you'll never get rich claim-jumping, boys," he said.

Then Saxton's voice rose again. "The game's not finished. We'll play you

for it yet," he said. "Where's that horse? Get your stakes in."

He vanished in another minute, but his followers remained, and there was

for a time a very lively scuffle about the stakes Brooke had already

hammered in. They were torn up, and replaced several times before the

affray was over, and then two men, who furnished a very vague account

of the fashion in which they had received their injuries, were with

difficulty conveyed to the Vancouver hospital. In spite of a popular

illusion, pistols are not in general use in that country, but it is not

insuperably difficult to disable an opponent effectively with an axe or

shovel.

In the meanwhile, three men, who realized that, under the circumstances,

a good deal would depend upon who was first to reach it, were riding

hard by different ways towards the recorder's office, and Brooke, having

no great confidence in the horse Wilkins had supplied him with, had

taken what was at once the worst and shortest route. That is not a nice

country to ride through in daylight, even when there is no snow upon the

ground, and there were times when he held his breath as the horse

plunged down the side of a gulley with the half-melted snow and gravel

sliding away beneath its hoofs. They also smashed and floundered through

withered fern and crackling thickets of sal-sal and salmon berry, and

during one perilous hour Brooke dragged the beast by the bridle up

slopes of wet and slippery rock, from which the winds had swept the snow

away.

Still, it was long since he had felt in the same high spirits, and when

they reached more even ground the rush through the cold night air

brought him a curious elation. He felt he was, at least doing what might

count in his favor against the past, and, apart from that, there was

satisfaction to be derived from the reckless ride itself. He had,

however, only a blurred recollection of most of it, flitting forest,

peaks that glittered coldly, the glint of moonlight on still frozen

lakes, and the frequent splashings through icy fords, until, when the

stars had faded, and the firs rose black and hard against the dawn, they

reeled down to the bank of a larger river, from which the white mists

were streaming. It swirled by thick with floating ice, and the horse

strenuously objected to enter the water at all. Twice it reared at the

stabbing of the spurs, and then bounded with arching back, but Brooke

was used to that trick, and contrived to keep his saddle until he and

the beast slid down the bank together, and there was a splash and

flounder as they reached the water.

It was most of it freshly-melted ice, and when he slipped from the

saddle, which he promptly found it necessary to do, the cold took his

breath away, and he clung by the stirrup leather, gasping and

half-dazed, while the beast proceeded unguided for a minute or two.

Then, as they swung round in a white eddy, his perceptions came back to

him, and he realized that there was no longer any need for swimming,

when he drove against a boulder, whose head just showed above the

swirling foam. He got on his feet somehow, and was never quite sure

whether he led the beast through the rest of the passage or held on by

the bridle, but at last they staggered up the opposite bank, where a

man he could not see very well in the dim light sat looking down on him

from the saddle. Brooke moved a pace nearer, and then recognized him as

the one who had shot him at Devine's ranch.

"Saxton has taken the high trail and he'll cross by the bridge, but I

guess we're quite a while ahead of him," he said. "Now, do you know any

reason why we shouldn't pool the thing?"

Brooke stared at him, divided between indignation and appreciation of

his assurance.

"Yes," he said, drily, "several, and one of them is quite sufficient by

itself."

"Figure it out," said the other. "I tell you Saxton can't make our time

over the high trail, though it's a better road. Now that one of us will

get there first is a sure thing, but it's quite as certain it can't be

both, and I'd be content with half of what you bluff out of Devine.

That's reasonable."

Brooke felt his face grow a trifle hot, though he recognized that it was

not astonishing the man should credit him with the purpose he had

certainly been impelled by at their last meeting.

"I can't make a deal with you on any terms," he said. "Ride on, or pull

your horse out of the trail."

"I guess that wouldn't suit me," said the other man, and when Brooke had

his foot in the stirrup, suddenly swung up his hand.

Then there was a flash and a detonation, and the horse plunged. The

flash was repeated, and while Brooke strove to clear his foot of the

stirrup, the beast staggered and fell back on him. It, however, rolled

and struggled, and, for his foot was free now, he contrived to drag

himself away.

When he was next sensible of anything, he could hear a very faint thud

of hoofs far up the climbing trail, and, after lying still for several

minutes, ventured to move circumspectly. He felt very sore, but all his

limbs appeared to be in their usual places, and, rising shakily, he

found, somewhat to his astonishment, that he could walk. The horse was

evidently dead, but there was, he remembered, a ranch not very far away,

and a certain probability of the other man still breaking one of his own

limbs or his horse's legs, for the trail was rather worse than trails

usually are in that country. Brooke accordingly decided to hobble on to

the ranch, and somehow accomplished it, though the man who opened the

door to him looked very dubious when he asked him for a horse.

"The only beast I've got isn't worth much, but you don't look up to

taking him in over the lake trail," he said.

He, however, parted with the horse, and hove Brooke into the saddle,

while the latter groaned as he rode away. One arm and one leg were stiff

and aching, and at every jolt his back hurt him excruciatingly, but a

few hours later he rode, spattered with mire and slushy snow, into a

little wooden town, and had afterwards a fancy that somebody offered to

lift him down. He was not sure how he got out of the saddle, but a man

he recognized took the horse, and he proceeded, limping stiffly, with

his wet clothes sticking to his skin, to the Crown mining office. The

recorder, who appeared to be a young Englishman, looked hard at him when

he came in, and then pointed to a chair.

"You may as well sit down. If my surmises are correct, there is no great

need for haste," he said.

Brooke's face, which was a trifle grey, grew suddenly set.

"Some one else has already recorded a new claim on the Canopus?" he

said.

"Yes," said the recorder. "In fact, two of them, and the last man was

good enough to inform me that there was another of you coming along."

"Then you can't give a record?"

"No," said the other man, with a little smile. "I'm not sure that any of

you will get one in the meanwhile; that is, not until we have obtained a

few particulars from Mr. Devine."

"I have come on behalf of him."

"That," said the recorder, "is, under the circumstances, no great

recommendation. In fact, there are several points your employer will be

asked to clear up before we go any further with the matter."

Brooke, who asked no more questions, contrived to make his way to the

hotel, and flung himself down to rest, when he had ascertained when the

Pacific express came in. Important as it was that he should see Devine,

he was, however, very uncertain whether he would be able to get up

again.

XXVII.

THE LAST ROUND.

The whistle screamed hoarsely as the long train swung out from the

shadow of the pines, and Brooke raised himself stiffly in his seat in a

big, dusty car. A sawmill veiled in smoke and steam swept by, and, while

the roar of wheels sank to a lower pitch, he caught the gleam of the

blue inlet Vancouver City is built above ahead. Then, as the clustering

roofs, which seamed the hillside ridge on ridge with a maze of poles and

wires cutting against the background of stately pines grew plainer, he

straightened his back with an effort. It was aching distressfully, and

he felt dizzy as well as stiff, while he commenced to wonder whether his

strength would hold out until he had seen Devine and finished his

business in the city.

Then the cars lurched a little, there was a doleful tolling of a bell,

and when the long, dusty train rolled slowly into the depot he dropped

shakily from a vestibule platform. The rough planking did not seem quite

steady, and he struck his feet against the metals when he crossed the

track, but he managed to reach Devine's office, and found that he was

out. He would, however, be back in another hour, his clerk said, and it

occurred to Brooke that he could, in the meanwhile, consult a doctor.

The latter asked him a few questions, and then sat looking at him

thoughtfully for a moment or two.

"It's not quite clear to me how the horse came to fall on you. You were

dismounted at the time?" he said. "Still, after all, that's not quite

the question."

Brooke smiled a little. "No," he said. "I scarcely think it is."

"Well," said the doctor, drily, "whichever way you managed it, the snow

was either very soft or something else took the weight of the beast off

you, but I don't think you need worry greatly about that fall. Lie down

for a day or two, and rub some of the stuff I give you on the bruises.

Now, suppose you tell me what you've been doing for the last few

months."

Brooke did so concisely, and the doctor nodded. "Pretty much as I

figured," he said. "You want to stop it right away. Go down the Sound on

a steamboat, or across to Victoria for two or three weeks, and do

nothing."

"I'm afraid that's out of the question."

The doctor made a little gesture. "Then, if you go on taking it out of

yourself, there'll be trouble, especially if you worry. Go slow, and eat

and sleep all you can for a month, anyway."

Brooke thanked him, and went back to Devine's office thoughtfully. He

felt that the advice was good, though there were difficulties in the way

of his acting upon it. He had already realized that the strain of the

last few months, the insufficient food, and feverish work, were telling

upon him, but he had made up his mind to hold out until the work at the

Dayspring was in full swing and the value of the ore lead had been made

clear beyond all doubt. Then there would be time to rest and consider

the position.

Devine was in when he reached the office, and looked hard at him, but he

said very little while Brooke told his story. Nor did he appear by any

means astonished or concerned.

"Well," he said, reflectively, "it's quite likely that we'll have the

pleasure of seeing Mr. Saxton to-morrow. He'll hang off until then, and

when he comes I'll be ready to talk to him. In the meanwhile, you're

coming home with me."

Brooke hoped that he did not show the embarrassment he certainly felt,

for, much as he longed to see her, it was, after their last meeting,

difficult to believe that Barbara would appreciate his company, and he

scarcely felt in a mood for another taste of her displeasure.

"I had decided on going out on the Atlantic express this evening," he

said. "There is a good deal to do at the Dayspring, and I could scarcely

expect Mrs. Devine to be troubled with me. Besides, you see, I came

right away----"

He glanced significantly at his clothes, but Devine, who rose, laid a

hand on his shoulder.

"You're coming along," he said. "I may want you to-morrow."

Brooke, who felt too languid to make another protest, went with him, and

when they reached the house on the hillside, Devine led him into a room

which looked down on the inlet.

"Sit down," he said, pointing to a big lounge chair. "I'll send somebody

to look after you, and, unless you look a good deal better than you do

now, you'll stay right here to-morrow. In the meanwhile, you'll excuse

me. There are one or two folks I have to see in the city."

He went out, and Brooke, who let his head, which ached a good deal, sink

back upon the soft upholstery, wondered vacantly what Mrs. Devine would

think when she saw him there. He still wore the garments he was

accustomed to at the mine, and, though they were dry now, and, at least,

comparatively clean, he felt that long boots and soil-stained jean were

a trifle out of place in that dainty room. That, however, did not seem

to matter. He was drowsy and a trifle dizzy, while the room was warm,

and it was with a little start he heard the door-handle rattle a few

minutes later. Then, while he endeavored to straighten himself, Barbara

came in.

"I feel that I ought to offer you my excuses for being here, though I am

not sure that I could help it," he said. "Grant Devine is of a somewhat

determined disposition, and he insisted on bringing me."

Barbara did not notice him wince as with pain when he turned to her, for

she was not at that moment looking at him.

"Then why should you make any? It is his house," she said.

This was not very promising, for Brooke felt it suggested that, although

the girl was willing to defer to Devine's wishes, they did not

necessarily coincide with hers.

"It is!" he said. "Still, I seem to have acquired the sense of fitness

you once mentioned, and I feel I should not have come. One is, however,

not always quite so wise as he ought to be, and I was feeling a trifle

worn out when your brother-in-law invited me. That probably accounted

for my want of firmness."

Barbara glanced at him sharply, and noticed the gauntness of his face

and the spareness of his frame, which had become accentuated since she

had last seen him. It also stirred her to compassion, which was probably

why she endeavored, as she had done before, to harden her heart against

him.

"No doubt you spent last night in the saddle, and the trails would be

bad," she said. "I believe they are getting some tea ready, and, in the

meanwhile, how are you progressing at the mine?"

Brooke realized that she had heard nothing about his ride or the

jumping of the Canopus, and determined that she should receive no

enlightenment from him. This may have been due to wounded pride, but it

afterwards stood him in good stead. Nor would he show that her chilly

graciousness, which went just as far as the occasion demanded and no

further, hurt him, and he accordingly roused himself, with an effort, to

talk about the mine. The girl had usually appeared interested in the

subject, and it was, at least, a comparatively safe one.

She, on her part, noticed the weariness in his eyes, and found it

necessary to remind herself of his offences, for the story he told was

not without its effect on her. It was, though he omitted most of his own

doings, a somewhat graphic one, and she realized a little of the

struggle he and the handful of men Devine had been able to send him had

made, half-fed, amidst the snow. Still, for no very apparent reason, his

composure and the way he kept himself in the background irritated her.

"One would wonder why you put up with so much hardship. Wasn't it a

little inconsequent?" she said.

Brooke's gaunt face flushed. "Well," he said, "one is under the painful

necessity of earning a living."

"Still, could it not be done a little more easily?"

"I don't know that it is, under any circumstances, a remarkably simple

thing, but that is not quite the question, and, since you seem to

insist, I'll answer you candidly. In my case, it was almost

astonishingly inconsequent--that is, as I expect you mean, about the

last thing any one would naturally have expected from me. Still, I felt

that, after what I had done, I had a good deal to pull up, you see;

though that is a motive with which, as I noticed when I mentioned it

once before, you apparently can scarcely credit me."

Barbara smiled. "It was your own actions that made it difficult."

"I admitted on another occasion that I am not exactly proud of them, but

there was some slight excuse. There usually is, you see."

"Of course!" said Barbara. "You need not be diffident. In your case

there were the dollars of which my brother-in-law plundered you."

Brooke looked at her with a little glint in his eyes. "You," he said,

slowly, "can be very merciless."

"Well," said Barbara, who met his gaze with quiet composure, "I might

have been less so had I not expected quite so much from you. After all,

it does not greatly matter--and here is the tea."

"I think it matters a good deal, but perhaps we needn't go into that,"

said Brooke, who took the cup she handed him. "You have poured out tea

for me on several occasions now, but still, each one recalls the first

time you did it at the Quatomac ranch."

The same thing had happened to Barbara, but she laughed. "It,

presumably, made no difference to the tea, and yours runs some risk of

getting cold."

Brooke appeared to be holding his cup with quite unnecessary firmness,

and she fancied his color was a trifle paler than it had been, but he

smiled.

"I really do not remember that it tasted any the worse," he said.

"Perhaps you can remember how the sound of the river came in through the

open door that night, and the light flickered in the draughts. It showed

up your face in profile, and I can still picture Jimmy sitting by the

stove, with his mouth wide open, watching you. He had evidently never

seen anything of the kind before."

Barbara noticed the manner in which he pulled himself up, and realized

that the sentence had deviated from its natural conclusion. It was,

though he had certainly been guilty of obtaining what she was pleased to

consider her esteem by a course of disgraceful imposition, gratifying

that he should be able to recall that evening. That, however, was not to

be admitted.

"I remember that the two candles were stuck in whisky bottles," she

said. "You removed them somewhat suddenly when you came in."

Brooke smiled, but his face was a trifle grey in patches now, and the

cup was shaking visibly. "I really shouldn't have done," he said.

"Still, you see, I was a trifle flurried that night, and like Jimmy in

one respect, in that I had never----"

"You, at least, had been handed tea by a lady before," said Barbara,

severely.

"I had, but the incomplete explanation still holds good. Well, it was,

no doubt, unwise of me to take those candlesticks away, since to

disguise one's habits for a stranger's benefit naturally implies a

deficiency of becoming pride, and it could, in any case, only have made

the thing more palpable to you."

"One's habits?" said Barbara, who would not admit comprehension.

Brooke nodded. "Men," he said, "do not, as a rule, buy whisky bottles to

make candlesticks of, and there were, as I believe you noticed, a good

many more of them already on the floor. Still, you see, your good

opinion--was--important to me, and I was willing to cheat you into

bestowing it on me even then. It matters--it really does matter--a good

deal."

Then there was a crash, and Brooke's cup struck the leg of the chair,

while his plate rolled across the floor, and Barbara's dress was

splashed with tea. The man sat gripping the chair arm hard, and blinking

at her, while his face grew grey; but when she rose he apparently

recovered himself with an effort.

"Very sorry!" he said, slowly. "Quite absurd of me! Still, I have had a

good deal to do--and very little sleep--lately."

Barbara was wholly compassionate now. "Sit still," she said, quietly. "I

will bring you a glass of wine."

"No," said Brooke, a trifle unevenly. "I must have kept you here half an

hour already, and I am afraid I have spoiled your dress into the

bargain. That ought to be enough. If you don't mind, I think I will go

and lie down."

He straightened himself resolutely, and Barbara, who called the

house-boy, stood still, with a warm tinge in her face, when he went out

of the room. The man was evidently worn out and ill, and yet he had

endeavored to hide the fact to save her concern, while she had found a

most unbecoming pleasure in flagellating him. He had met her very

slightly-veiled reproaches with a composure which, she surmised, had not

cost him a little, even when his strength was melting away from him.

Then she flushed a still ruddier color as she remembered that, in any

case, dissimulation was a strong point of his, for she felt distinctly

angry with herself for recollecting it.

She had engagements that evening, and did not see him, while he had

apparently recovered during the night, for, when she came down to

breakfast, Mrs. Devine told her that he had already gone out with her

husband. In point of fact, an eight-hours' sleep had done a good deal

for Brooke, who lunched, or rather dined, with Devine in the city, and

then went with him to his office to wait until the Pacific express came

in.

"The train's up to schedule time. I sent to ask them at the depot,"

said Devine. "I guess we'll have Mr. Saxton here in another ten

minutes."

The prediction was warranted, for he had about half smoked the cigar he

lighted when Saxton was shown in. The latter was dressed tastefully in

city clothes, and wore a flower in his buttonhole. He also smiled as he

glanced at Brooke.

"It was quite a good game you put up, and you got away five minutes

before I did," he said. "Still, three men are a little too many to jump

a claim when I'm one of them."

Brooke's face grew a trifle grim, for he saw Saxton's meaning, but

Devine regarded the latter with a faint, sardonic smile.

"Sit down and take a cigar," he said. "I guess you came here to talk to

me, and Mr. Brooke never meant to jump the claim."

"No?" and Saxton assumed an appearance of incredulity very well. "Now I

quite figured that he did."

"You can fix it with him afterwards," said Devine. "It seems to me that

we're both here on business."

"Then we'll get down to it. I have put in a record on the Canopus mine.

I guess you know your patent's not quite straight on a point or two."

"You're quite sure of that?"

"The Crown people seem to be. Now, I can't draw back my claim without

throwing the mine open to anybody, but I'm willing to hold on and trade

my rights to you when I've got my improvements in. Of course, you'd have

to make it worth while, but I'm not going to be unreasonable."

Devine laughed a little. "There was once a jumper who figured he'd found

the points you mentioned out. He wanted eight thousand dollars. Would

you be content with that?"

"No," said Saxton, drily. "I'm going to strike you for more."

There was silence for a moment or two, and Brooke leaned forward a

little as he watched his companions. Saxton was a trifle flushed in

face, and his dark eyes had an exultant gleam in them, while the thin,

nervous fingers of one hand were closed upon the edge of the table. His

expression suggested that he was completely satisfied with himself and

the strength of his position, for it apparently only remained for him to

exact whatever terms he pleased. Devine's attitude was, however, not

quite what one would have expected, for he did not look in the least

like a man who felt himself at his adversary's mercy. He sat smiling a

little, and trifling with his cigar.

"Well," he said, reflectively, "I guess the man I mentioned was sorry he

asked quite as much as he did. What is your figure?"

"I'll wait your bid."

Devine sat still for several moments, with the little sardonic smile

growing plainer in his eyes, and Brooke, who felt the tension, fancied

that Saxton was becoming uneasy. There was a curious silence in the

room, through which the whirr of an elevator jarred harshly.

"One dollar," he said.

Saxton gasped. "Bluff!" he said. "That's not going to count with me. You

want a full hand to carry it through, and the one you're holding isn't

strong enough. Now, I'll put down my cards."

"One dollar," said Devine, drily.

Saxton stood up abruptly, and gazed at him in astonishment, with

quivering fingers and tightening lips. "I tell you your patent's no

good."

"I know it is."

Again there was silence, and Brooke saw that Saxton was holding himself

in with difficulty.

"Still, you want to keep your mine," he said.

"You can have it for what I asked you, and if you can clear the cost of

working, it's more than I can do. The Canopus was played out quite a

while ago."

Even Brooke was startled, and Saxton sat down with all his customary

assurance gone out of him. His mouth opened loosely, he seemed to grow

suddenly limp, and his cigar shook visibly in his nerveless fingers.

"Now," he said, and stopped while a quiver of futile anger seemed to run

through him, "that's the last thing I expected. What'd you put up that

wire sling for? I can't figure out your game."

Devine laughed. "It's quite easy. You have just about sense enough to

worry anybody, or you wouldn't have dumped that ore into the Dayspring,

and worked off one of the richest mines in the province on to me. Well,

when I saw you meant to strike me on the Canopus, I just let you get to

work because it suited me. I figured it would keep you busy while I took

out timber-rights and bought up land round the Dayspring. Nobody

believed in Allonby, and I got what I wanted at quite a reasonable

figure. I'm holding the mine and everything worth while now. There's

nothing left for you, and I guess it would be wiser to get hold of a man

of your own weight next time."

Saxton's face was colorless, but he put a restraint upon himself as he

turned to Brooke.

"You knew just what this man meant to do?"

"Oh, yes," said Devine, drily. "He told me quite a while ago. You're

going? Haven't you any use for that dollar?"

Saxton said nothing whatever, but the door slammed behind him, and

Brooke, who, in spite of Devine's protests, went back to the Dayspring

that evening, never saw him again.

XXVIII.

BROOKE DOES NOT COME BACK.

Devine went home a little earlier than usual after Saxton left him, and

dusk was not far away when he sat recounting the affair in his wife's

drawing-room. She listened with keen appreciation, and then looked up at

him.

"But where is Brooke?" she said.

Devine smiled. "I guess he's buying mining tools. You can't keep that

man out of a hardware store," he said. "I wanted to bring him back, but

he was feeling better, and made up his mind to go out on the Atlantic

express. He asked me to make his excuses, as he had fixed to meet an

American machinery agent, and wasn't quite sure he could get round."

"Perhaps it is just as well," said Mrs. Devine, who appeared reflective.

"Do you think you are wise in encouraging that man to come here, Grant?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it that. I brought him. He didn't want to

come."

"You are, of course, quite sure?" and Mrs. Devine's smile implied that

she, at least, was a trifle incredulous. "Hasn't it struck you that

Barbara----"

"So far as I've noticed lately, Barbara didn't seem in any way pleased

with him."

Mrs. Devine made a little impatient gesture. "That," she said, "is

exactly what I don't like. It's a significant sign. Barbara wouldn't

have been angry with him--if it was not worth while."

"You said nothing when he came to the ranch, while we were at the mine."

"The man was pleasant company, and there was, it seemed to me, very

little risk of a superior workman attracting Barbara's fancy."

Devine laughed. "I guess I was of no great account when you married me."

"Pshaw!" said Mrs. Devine. "Anyway, you hadn't plotted to steal a mine

from the people I belonged to."

Devine's eyes twinkled. "It showed his grit, and 'most anything is

considered square in a mining deal. Besides, there were the six thousand

dollars Slocum took out of him."

"I am quite aware that such transactions are evidently not subject to

the ordinary code, but, seriously, if you would be content with Harford

Brooke as my brother-in-law, it is considerably more than I would be. We

don't even know why he left the Old Country."

"Well," said Devine, drily, "I guess I have a notion. I've been finding

out a good deal about him. But get on with your objections."

"Barbara has a good many dollars."

"So has Brooke. You needn't worry about that point."

Mrs. Devine's astonishment was very apparent. "Then whatever is he

working at the mine for--and why didn't you tell me before?"

"I guess it's because that kind of thing pleases him, and, anyway, it's

only since last mail came in I knew."

"You're quite sure, now?"

"I'll tell you what I heard. There was a man who bought up our stock in

England when nobody else seemed to have any use for it. The directors

wanted to know a little about him, and they found it was a trust

account. He was taking up the stock for another man, who had been left

quite a few dollars, and that man was called Harford Brooke. The

executor, it seems, told somebody that the man he was buying for was

here. Now, it's not likely there are two of them in this part of

Canada."

The door, as it happened, was not closed, and Mrs. Devine was too intent

to hear it swing open a little further. "The dollars," she said, "are by

no means the most important consideration, but still----"

She stopped abruptly at a sound, and then turned round with a little

gasp, for Barbara stood just inside the room. Then there was a

disconcerting silence for a moment or two, until the girl glanced at

Devine.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "I heard. When did Mr. Brooke buy that stock?"

Devine understood the question, and once more the twinkle crept into his

eyes.

"Well," he said, "it was quite a while before they found the silver. I

don't know what he did it for. Now, I guess I've been here longer than I

meant to stay. You'll excuse me, Katty."

He seemed in haste to get away, and when the door closed behind him the

two who were left looked at one another curiously. Mrs. Devine was

evidently embarrassed.

"I suppose," she said, drily, "you don't know why Brooke bought those

shares, either?"

"I think I do," said Barbara, with unusual quietness, though the color

was very visible in her cheeks. "He had a reason----"

She stopped abruptly, and there was once more an awkward silence, until

she made a little impulsive gesture.

"Oh!" she said, sharply now, "I feel horribly mean. He stayed there

through the winter when they had scarcely anything to eat, and bought

that stock when nobody else would have it or believed in the Dayspring.

Then he risked his life to save the Canopus, and when he came down, worn

out and ill, I had only hard words for him."

"Well," said Mrs. Devine, drily, "the sensation is probably good for

you. You don't seem to remember that he also tried to jump the mine."

Barbara turned towards her with a little sparkle in her eyes. "Have

you--never--done anything that was wrong?"

Mrs. Devine naturally saw the point of this, but while she considered

her answer, Barbara, who had a good deal to think of, and scarcely felt

equal to any further conversation just then, abruptly turned away.

Glancing at her watch, she went straight to a room, from the window of

which she could see the road to the depot, for she knew the Atlantic

express would shortly start, and she had not been told that Brooke was

not coming back. Exactly what she meant to say to him she did not know,

but she felt she could not let him go without, at least, a slight

expression of her appreciation of what he had done. She knew that he

would value it, and that it would go far to blot out the memory of past

unkindness. He had certainly meant to jump the Canopus, and deceived her

shamefully, which was far harder to forgive, for the realization of the

fact that she had bestowed rather more than friendliness upon a man who

was unworthy of it had its sting, but she scarcely remembered that now.

He had, it appeared, since then, sacrificed his fortune and broken down

his strength, and that, considering the purpose which she fancied had

impelled him, went a long way to condone his offences.

He, however, did not appear on the road, as she had expected; and she

grew a trifle anxious when the tolling of a bell came up from the depot

by the wharf as the big locomotive backed the long cars in. It was also

significant that she did not notice that the room, which had no stove in

it, was very cold. Then looking down she saw men with valises pass

across an opening between the roofs and express wagons lurching along

the uneven road. The train would start very soon, and there was at least

one admission she must make, but the minutes were slipping by and still

Brooke did not come. The man, it almost appeared, was content to go away

without seeing her, though she felt compelled to admit that in view of

what had passed at their last meeting this was not altogether

astonishing. Still, the fact that he could do so hurt her, and she

waited in a state of painful tension. A very few minutes would suffice

for him to climb the hill, and even if there was no opportunity for an

explanation, which now appeared very probable, a smile or even a glance

might go a long way to set matters right.

The few minutes, however, slipped by as the rest had done, until at last

the locomotive bell slowly clanged again, and the hoot of a whistle came

up the hillside and was flung back by the pines. Then a puff of white

smoke rolled up from the wharf, and Barbara turned away from the window

with the crimson in her face as the cars swept through an opening

between the clustering roofs. The train had gone, and the man would not

know how far she had relented towards him. She could settle to nothing

during the rest of the evening, and scarcely slept that night, though

she naturally did not mention the fact when she and Mrs. Devine met at

breakfast next morning. Instead, she took out a letter she had received

a week earlier.

"It's from Hetty Hume, and the English mail goes out to-day," she said.

"She suggests that I should come over and spend a few months with her. I

really think we did what we could for her when she was here with the

Major."

Mrs. Devine took the letter. "I fancy she wants you to go," she said.

"She mentions that she has asked you several times already."

Barbara appeared reflective. "So she has," she said. "In fact, I think

I'll go. The change will do me good."

"Well," said Mrs. Devine, "I suppose you can afford it, but if you

indulge in many changes of that kind you're not going to have very much

of a dowry."

"Do you think I need one?"

Mrs. Devine laughed as she glanced at her, but her face grew thoughtful

again. "Perhaps in your case it wouldn't be necessary, and though it is

a very long way, I fancy that you might do worse than go to England and

stay there while Hetty is willing to keep you."

A little flush crept into Barbara's cheek, but she said quietly, "I

think I'll start on Saturday."

She did so, and it came about one night while the big train she

travelled by swept across the rolling levels of the Assiniboian prairie

that Brooke sat in his shanty at the Dayspring with Jimmy, who had just

come down from the range, standing in front of him. The freighter had

still now and then a difficulty in bringing them provisions in, and

whenever Jimmy found the persistent plying of drill and hammer pall upon

him he would go out and look out for a deer, though it was not always

that he came back with one. On this occasion he brought a somewhat

alarming tale instead.

"A big snow-slide must have come along since I was up on that slope

before, and gouged out quite a canyon for itself," he said. "Anyway, if

it wasn't a snow-slide it was a cloudburst or a waterspout. They happen

around when folks don't want them now and then."

"Come to the point," said Brooke. "I'm sufficiently acquainted with the

meteorological perversities of the country."

"Slinging names at them isn't much use. I've tried it, and any one

raised here could give you points at the thing. Now before I came to

Quatomac I was staying up at the Tillicum ranch, and I'd just taken a

new twelve-dollar pair of gum-boots off one night when there was a

waterspout up the valley that washed me and Jardine out of the house. We

sailed along until we struck a convenient pine, and sat in it most of

the night while the flood went down. Then I hadn't any gum-boots, and

Jardine couldn't find his house."

"I believe you told me you went down the river on a door on the last

occasion," Brooke said, wearily. "Still, it doesn't greatly matter. What

has all this to do with the hollow the snow-slide made in the range?"

"Well," said Jimmy, "I guess you know the way the big rock outcrop runs

across the foot of the valley. Now, before the snow-slide or the

waterspout came along the melting snow went down into the next hollow,

and the one where the outcrop is got just enough to keep the outlet of

the creek that comes through it open."

"I do. Will it be an hour or more before you make it clear how that

concerns anybody?"

"No, sir. I'm getting right there. The snow's melting tolerably fast,

and the drainage from the big peak isn't going the way it used to now.

The foot of the valley's quite a nice-sized lake, and the stream has

washed most of the broke-up pines the snow brought down into the outlet

gully. I guess you have seen a bad lumber jam?"

Brooke had, and he started as he recognized the significance of what was

happening, for once a drifting log strikes fast in a narrow passage the

stream is very apt to pile up and wedge fast those that come behind into

a tolerably efficient substitute for a dam, while when log still follows

log the result is usually an inextricable confusion of interlocked

timber.

"When the jam up broke we'd have the water and the wreckage down on the

mine," he said.

"All there is of it," said Jimmy. "It would cost quite a pile of dollars

to dry the workings out."

Brooke strode to the door and flung it open, but there was black

darkness outside and a persistent patter of thick warm rain. Then he

swung round with an objurgation and Jimmy grinned.

"I guess it's no use. You couldn't see a pine ten foot off, and there

isn't a man in the country who would go down that gully with a lantern

in his hand," he said. "Go off to sleep. You'll see quite as much as you

want to, anyway, to-morrow."

Brooke stood still and listened a moment or two while the hoarse roar of

a river which he knew was swirling in fierce flood among the boulders

far down in the hollow came up in deep reverberations across the pines.

It was a significant hint of what was likely to happen when the pent-up

water poured down upon the mine. Still, there was nothing he could do in

that thick darkness.

"Sleep!" he said. "When almost every dollar I have--and a good deal

more than that--is sunk in the mine."

"Well," said Jimmy, reflectively, "in your place, if I could make sure

of the dollars, I'd take my chances on the rest. Now and then I'm quite

thankful I haven't any. It saves a mighty lot of worry."

He swung out of the shanty, and Brooke, who flung himself down on his

couch of spruce twigs, endeavored to sleep, though he had no great

expectation of succeeding. As it happened, he lay tossing or holding

himself still by an effort the long night through, for he had set his

whole mind on the prosperity of the Dayspring. A good deal of his small

fortune was also sunk in it, though that was not of the greatest moment

to him. He had a vague hope that when the mine was, through his efforts,

pouring out high-grade ore, he might reinstate himself in Barbara's

estimation. In that case, at least, she might believe in his contrition,

for he felt that where protests were evidently useless deeds might

avail. Then the dollars in question would be valuable to him.

It was two hours before the dawn, and still apparently raining hard,

when he rose and lighted the stove. He felt a trifle dizzy and very

shivery as he did it, but the frugal breakfast put a little warmth into

him, and he went out into the thick haze of falling water and up the

hillside, walking somewhat wearily and with considerably more effort

than he had found it necessary to make a few months ago.

XXIX.

A FINAL EFFORT.

A dim, grey light was creeping through the rain when Brooke stopped on a

ridge of hillside that broke off from the parent range above the mine.

The pines were slowly growing into shape, though as yet they showed as

mere spires of blackness in the sliding haze, and there was a faint

glimmer in the hollow beneath him, while the sound of running water

drowned the splashing of the rain. The snow upon the lower slopes had

mostly melted now, though that on the great hill shoulders would swell

the frothing rivers for months to come, and, sinking ankle-deep in

quaggy mould, he went down through the dripping undergrowth until he

stopped again on the verge of what had become in the last few days a

muddy lake.

The wreckage of the higher forests was strewn upon it, but Brooke

noticed that it drifted steadily in one direction, and floundering along

the water's edge, he reached a narrow gully, which had served as outlet

for the stream through the ridge that hemmed in the valley. The passage

was, however, now choked by a mass of groaning timber, which was

apparently growing every hour, and it already seemed scarcely possible

to cut through that pile of wreckage by any means at his command. Once

the pent-up water, which seemed rising rapidly, burst the jam, it would

come down in an overwhelming torrent upon the mine, and he sat down on a

fallen redwood to consider how the difficulty could be grappled with.

He, however, found it no easy matter to keep his mind upon the question

at all. His head was aching, he felt unpleasantly limp, as well as wet

and cold, and the distressful stiffness of his back suggested that he

had by no means recovered from the effects of his fall. The long months

of strenuous physical toil, the scanty, and, when the freighter could

not get in, often wholly insufficient food, and exposure to bitter frost

and snow, had left their mark on him, while now, worn out in mind and

body as he was, he realized that a last grim effort was demanded from

him. How it was to be made he did not know, and he was sitting still,

shivering, with the rain running from him, when Jimmy and another man

from the mine appeared. It was almost light now, and the miner glanced

at the gathering water with evident concern.

"I guess something has got to be done," he said.

Brooke lifted himself shakily to his feet, and blinked in a curious,

heavy fashion at the man.

"It has, and if you'll bring the boys up we'll make a start," he said.

"Now I don't know that we could cut that jam, and if we did it would

only turn the lake loose on the mine. What I purpose is to break a new

cut through the rise where it's thinnest, and run enough water off to

ease the pressure. Then we might, if it appeared advisable, get at the

jam. In the meanwhile every man I can spare from here will start in

cutting out a ten-foot trench at the mine. That would take away a good

deal of any water that did come down."

"I've been at this kind of work 'most all my life, and that's 'bout how

I would fix it," said the other man.

"Well," said Brooke, "there's just another point. Once you get started,

you'll go right on, and there'll be very little sleep for any one until

it's done, but we'll credit you with half extra on every hour's time in

the pay-bill."

The man laughed and waved his hand. "You needn't worry 'bout that. I

guess the boys will see you through," he said.

He disappeared into the rain, and the struggle commenced when he came

back with the men. There were but a handful of them in all, and their

task appeared almost beyond accomplishment, even to those born in a

country where man and Nature unsubdued come to the closest grapple, and

human daring and endurance must make head against the tremendous forces

that unloose the rivers and slowly grind the ranges down. It is a

continuous struggle, primitive and elemental, in which brute strength

and the animal courage that plies axe and drill with worn-out muscle and

bleeding hands plays at least an equal part with ingenuity, for man has

arrayed against him sun and frost, roaring water, crushing ice, and

sliding snow; and those who fall in it lie thick by towering trestle

bridge and along each railroad track. Worn out, aching in every limb,

and with heavy eyes, Brooke braced himself to bear his part in it.

For three days they toiled with pick and shovel and clinking drill, and

the roar of the blasting charges shook the wet hillside, but while the

trenches deepened slowly the water rose. By night the big fires snapped

and sputtered, and the feeble lanterns blinked through the rain, while

wild figures, stained with mire and dripping water, moved amidst the

smoke, and those who dragged themselves out of the workings lay down on

the wet ground for a brief hour's sleep. Brooke, however, so far as he

could afterwards remember, did not close his eyes at all, and where his

dripping figure appeared the shovels swung more rapidly, and the ringing

of the drills grew a trifle louder. The pace was, however, too fierce to

last, and, though even the men who work for another toil strenuously in

that land, it was evident to him that while their task was less than

half-done, they could not sustain it long.

Baffled in one direction, he had also changed his plans, for the ridge

was singularly hard to cut through, even with giant powder, and he had

withdrawn most of the men from it and sent them to the trench, which

would, he hoped, afford a passage to, at least, part of the water that

must eventually come down upon the mine. It was late on the third night

when it became evident that this would very shortly happen, and he sat,

wet through and very weary, in his tent on the hillside, when Jimmy and

another man came in.

"Water's riz another foot since sundown, and I guess there's lakes of it

ready to come down yonder," said the miner, who stretched out a wet

hand, and pointed towards the dripping canvas above him, though Brooke

surmised that he intended to indicate the range. "So far as I could make

out, there's quite a forest of smashed-up logs sailing along to pile up

in the jam."

Brooke lifted a wet, grey face, and blinked at him with half-closed

eyes.

"Then I'm afraid there are only two courses open to us," he said. "We

can wait until the jam breaks up, when there'll be water enough to fill

the Dayspring up and wash the plant above ground right down into the

canyon, or we must try to cut it now."

"And turn the lake loose on us with the trench 'bout half big enough to

take it away?" said Jimmy.

"Yes," said Brooke, grimly. "You have a six-foot dam thrown up. I'm not

sure it will stand, but it's a good deal less likely to do it when the

lake is twice as big."

Jimmy looked at the other man, who nodded. "The boss is right," he said.

"You can't stop to look for the nicest way out when you're in a blame

tight place. No, sir, you've got to take the quickest one. When do you

figure on starting on the jam, Mr. Brooke?"

"Now."

The man appeared astonished, and shook his head. "It can't be done in

the dark," he said. "I guess nobody could find the king log that's

keying up the jam, and though the boys aren't nervous, I'm not sure

you'd get one of them to crawl down that gulley and over the live logs

until it's light. They couldn't see to do anything with the axe anyway."

Brooke smiled drily. "Since they will not be asked to do it, that does

not count. I purposed trying giant-powder, and going myself; that is,

unless Jimmy feels anxious to come along with me."

"I don't," said Jimmy, with decision in his tone. "If it was anybody

else, watching him would be quite good enough for me. Still, as it

isn't, I guess I'll have to see you through."

"Thanks!" said Brooke. "You can let them know what to expect at the

mine, Cropper. I'll want you to put the detonators on the fuses with me,

Jimmy."

The other man went out, and the two who were left proceeded to nip down

the fulminating caps on the strips of snaky fuse, after which they

carefully embedded them in sundry plastic rolls, which looked very like

big candles made of yellow wax. These they packed in an iron case, and

then, carrying an axe and a big auger, went out of the tent. The rest of

the men left at the ridge were waiting them, for every one understood

the perilous nature of the attempt, though, as two men were sufficient

for the work, there was nothing that they could do, and they proceeded

in a body through the dripping undergrowth towards the gully. Here a big

fire of resinous wood was lighted, and when at last the smoky glare

flickered upon the wet rocks in the hollow, Brooke, who stripped to

shirt and trousers, flung himself over the edge.

He dropped upon a little ledge, and made another yard or two down a

cranny, then a bold leap landed him on a second ledge, and the groaning

trunks were close beneath him when he dropped again. The glare of the

fire scarcely reached him now, and Jimmy, who alighted close by him,

looked up longingly at the flickering light above.

"It wasn't easy getting down, and I'd feel better if I knew just how we

were going back," he said. "I guess it's not quite wise either to bang

that can about on the rocks."

This was incontrovertible, for while giant powder, which is dynamite,

is, with due precaution, comparatively safe to handle, and cannot be

exploded without a detonator, so those who make it claim, it is still

addicted to going off with disastrous results on very small provocation.

Brooke, who had the case containing it slung round his back, was,

however, looking down on the logs that stirred and heaved beneath him

with the water spouting up through the interstices between. He could see

them when the fire grew brighter.

"The king should not be far away, from the look of the jam," he said.

"If we can't cut it, we may jar it loose. Giant powder strikes down. Let

me have the axe."

Jimmy glanced at him, and shook his head, for Brooke's face showed drawn

and grey in the flickering light.

"I'll do any chopping that's wanted, and be glad when I get you out of

this," he said.

He dropped upon the timber, and the gap he splashed into closed up

suddenly as he whipped out his leg. Then, with Brooke behind him, he

crawled over the grinding logs, and by and by drove the point of the

auger into one that seemed to run downwards through the midst of them.

It was a good many feet in girth, and Brooke gasped heavily when he also

laid hold of the auger crutch. The hole they made was charged with one

of the yellow rolls, and, moving to a second log, they bored another,

while the mass shook and trembled under them, and twice a great spout of

water fell splashing upon them. The logs were apparently endued with

vitality, for they moved under and over their fellows, and ground upon

them with the pulsations of the stream that brought down fresh

accessions and found a fresh channel that promptly closed again. The jam

might resist the pressure for another week, or break up at any moment,

and whirl down the gully in chaotic ruin. Still, with the rain beating

down upon them, the pair toiled on until several sticks of explosive had

been embedded, when Brooke rose very stiffly and straightened himself as

he took a little case out of his pocket.

"I don't know that we've got the king, but the general shake-up ought to

loosen it," he said. "Light your fuse, Jimmy, and then get up. I'll come

in a moment or two, when I'm ready."

Jimmy looked up, and saw a cluster of dark figures outlined against the

glow of the fire, for the men had crowded to the edge of the gully.

"Stand by to give us a lift up, boys," he said.

Then he turned away, and was rather longer than he liked persuading a

damp match to ignite. The fuse, however, sparkled readily, and, groping

his way across the logs, he clutched a ledge of rock. It was wet and

slippery, and he slid back from it, hurting one arm, while, when he

regained the narrow shelf, a voice was raised warningly above.

"Let her go," it said. "Jimmy's fuse will be on to the powder before

you're through."

Jimmy turned, and dimly saw his comrade still apparently stooping over

one of the logs.

"Have I got to come back and bring you?" he shouted.

Brooke stood up, and a faint sparkling broke out at his feet. "Go on,"

he said. "It's burning now."

Jimmy said nothing further. Those fuses were short, and he was anxious

to be clear of the gully. Still, even though he decided to sacrifice the

axe, it was not an easy matter to ascend the almost precipitous slope of

slippery rock, and as he climbed higher the glare of the fire in his

eyes confused him. He had, however, almost reached the top when there

was a crash and a rattle of stones below him, and he twisted himself

partly round, while a hoarse shout rang out.

"Get hold of him!" cried one of the men. "Oh, jump for it. He'll be over

the ledge!"

For a moment Jimmy had a glimpse of a wet, white face, and a hand,

apparently clinging to a cranny, and then the flicker of firelight sank

and left him in black darkness. He did not understand exactly what had

taken place, but it was unpleasantly evident that the fuses would soon

reach the powder, while his comrade, whom he could no longer see, was

apparently unable to ascend the gully.

"Can't you get him?" shouted somebody.

"Jump down. Put the fuses out!" said another man.

Jimmy was, fortunately, one of the slow men who usually keep their

heads, and while he glanced down at the twinkling fuses in the dark pit

beneath him, he swung up a warning hand.

"Light right out of that, boys. It can't be done," he said. "Hold on,

partner. Let me know where you are--I'm coming along."

A faint shout answered him, and Jimmy made his way downwards until he

could discern a dusky blur, which he surmised was Brooke, close beneath

him. Taking a firm hold with one hand, he leaned down and clutched at

it, and then, with every muscle strained, strove to drag his comrade up.

Jimmy was a strong man, but Brooke, it seemed, was able to do very

little to help him, and Jimmy's fingers commenced to slacken under the

tension. Then Brooke, who made a convulsive flounder, lost the grip he

had, and the arm Jimmy clung to was torn away from him. A dull sound

that was unpleasantly suggestive rose from a ledge below, and there was

silence that was more so after it.

Then while Jimmy leaned down, blinking into the darkness and ignoring

the risk he ran, a yellow flash leapt out below, and there was a

stunning detonation. It was followed almost in the same moment by

another, and the solid rock seemed to heave a shiver, while the hollow

was filled with overwhelming sound and a nauseating vapor. Giant-powder

strikes chiefly downwards, which was especially fortunate for two men

just then, but the rock was swept by flying fragments of shattered

trunks, and Jimmy cowered against it half-dazed. Then another sound rose

out of the acrid haze as the rent trunks crushed beneath the pressure,

and there was an appalling grinding and smashing of timber. It was

succeeded by a furious roar of water.

A minute had probably slipped by when once more a man who showed faintly

black against the firelight leaned over the edge of the gully, and his

voice reached Jimmy brokenly.

"Hallo! Are either of you alive?" he cried.

Jimmy roused himself with an effort. "Well," he said, hoarsely, "I guess

I am. I don't quite know whether Brooke is."

"Then I'm coming down," said the other man. "We have got to get him out

of the stink if there's anything left of him."

Jimmy grasped the necessity for this, since the fumes of giant-powder

are in confined spaces usually sufficient to prostrate a strong man, and

several of his comrades apparently came down instead of one, bringing

lanterns and blazing brands with them. There was a slippery ledge a

little lower down the gully, and while the nauseating vapor eddied about

them and the shattered wreckage went thundering past below, they made

their way along it until they came on Brooke.

He was lying partly up on the ledge with his feet in the swirling

torrent and his shirt rent open. There was a big red smear on it, his

lips were bloodless, and one arm was doubled limply under him. Jimmy

stooped and shook him gently, but Brooke made no sign, and his head sank

forward until his face was hidden. Then Jimmy, who slipped his hand

inside the torn shirt, withdrew it, smeared and warm, with a little

shiver.

"He's bleeding quite hard, and that shows there's life in him. We have

got to get him out of this right now," he said.

None of them quite remembered how they did it, for few men unaccustomed

to the ranges would have cared to ascend that gully unencumbered by

daylight, but it was accomplished, and when a litter of fir branches had

been hastily lashed together they plodded behind it in silence down the

hillside. If anything could be done, and they were very uncertain on

that point, it could only be done in the shanty.

As they floundered down the trail a man met them with the news that very

little of the water had got into the mine, but that did not appear of

much importance to any one just then. After all, the Dayspring belonged

to an English company, and it was Brooke, who lay in the litter

oblivious of everything, they had worked for.

XXX.

THE OTHER CHANCE.

The blink of sunlight was pleasantly warm where Barbara sat with Hetty

Hume on a seat set back among the laurels which just there cut off the

shrewd wind from the English lawn. A black cloud sailed slowly over the

green hilltop behind the old grey house, and the close-cropped grass was

sparkling still with the sprinkle of bitter rain, but the scent of the

pale narcissus drifted up from the borders and the sticky buds of a big

chestnut were opening overhead. Barbara glanced across the sweep of lawn

towards the line of willows that swung their tasseled boughs above the

palely flashing river. They were apparently dusted with silver and

ochre, and here and there a flush of green chequered the ridge of thorn

along the winding road that led the eye upwards to the clean-cut edge of

the moor. It was, however, a regular, even line, cropped to one

unvarying level save for the breaks where the neat gates were hung; the

road was smooth and wide, with a red board beside the wisp of firs above

to warn all it might concern of the gradient; while the square fields

with the polled trees in the trim hedgerows all conveyed the same

impression. This was decorous, well-ordered England, where Nature was

broken to man's dominion centuries ago. As she glanced at it her

companion laughed.

"The prospect from here is, I believe, generally admitted to be

attractive, though I have not noticed any of my other friends spend much

time in admiring it," she said. "Still, perhaps it is different in your

case. You haven't anything quite like it in Canada."

"No," said Barbara. "Anyway, not between Quatomac and the big glacier.

You remember that ride?"

"Of course!" said Hetty Hume. "I found it a little overwhelming. That

is, the peaks and glaciers. I also remember the rancher. The one who

played the violin. I suppose you never came across him again?"

"I met him once or twice. At a big concert--and on other occasions."

Barbara's smile was indifferent, but she was silent for the next minute

or two. She had now spent several weeks in England, and had found the

smooth, well-regulated life there pleasant after the restless activity

of the one she had led in Western Canada, where everybody toiled

feverishly. She felt the contrast every day, and now the sight of that

softly-sliding river, whose low murmur came up soothingly across the

lawn, recalled the one that frothed and foamed amidst the Quatomac

pines, and the roar that rose from the misty canyon. That, very

naturally, also brought back the face of the flume-builder, and she

wondered vaguely whether he was still at the Dayspring, and what he was

doing then, until her companion turned to her again.

"We will really have to decide about the Cruttendens' dance to-night,"

she said. "It will be the last frivolity of the season in this

vicinity."

"I haven't met Mrs. Cruttenden, have I?" said Barbara, indifferently.

"You did, when you were here before. Don't you remember the old house

you were so pleased with lower down the valley? In any case, she

remembers you, and made a point of my bringing you. Cruttenden has a

relative in your country, though I never heard much about the man."

Barbara remembered the old building very well, and it suddenly flashed

upon her that Brooke had on one occasion displayed a curious

acquaintance with it. Everything that afternoon seemed to force him upon

her recollection.

"You would like to go?" she said.

"I, at least, feel I ought to. We are, of course, quite newcomers here.

In fact, we had only bought Larchwood just before you last came over,

and it was Mrs. Cruttenden who first took us up. One may live a very

long while in places of this kind without being admitted within the

pale, you see, and even the rank of Major isn't a very great warranty,

especially if it has been gained in foreign service instead of

Aldershot."

Miss Hume stopped as her father came slowly down the pathway with a

grey-haired lady, whose dress proclaimed her a widow, and the latter's

voice reached the girl's clearly. Her face was, so Barbara noticed, very

expressive as she turned to her companion.

"I think you know what I really came for," she said. "I feel I owe you a

very great deal."

Major Hume made a little deprecatory gesture. "I have," he said, "at

least, seen the papers, and was very glad to notice that Reggie has got

his step. He certainly deserved it. Very plucky thing, especially with

only a handful of a raw native levy to back him. Frontal attack in

daylight--and the niggers behind the stockade seem to have served their

old guns astonishingly well!"

"Still, if it had not been for your forbearance he would never have had

the opportunity of doing it," said the lady. "I shall always remember

that. You were the only one who made any excuse for him, and he told me

his colonel was very bitter against him."

The pair passed the girls, apparently without noticing them, and Barbara

did not hear Major Hume's answer, but when he came back alone a few

minutes later he stopped in front of them.

"You were here when we went by?" he said.

"Yes," said Hetty. "We heard you quite distinctly, too, and that

suggests a question. What was it Reggie Ferris did?"

Major Hume smiled drily. "Stormed a big rebel stockade with only a few

half-drilled natives to help him. If you haven't read it already I can

give you a paper with an account of the affair."

"That," said Hetty, "is, as you are aware, not what I wished to ask.

What was it he did before he left the line regiment? It was, presumably,

something not especially creditable--and I always had an idea that he

owed it to you that the result was not a good deal more unpleasant."

The Major appeared a trifle embarrassed. "I scarcely think it would do

you very much good to know," he said. "The thing wasn't a nice one, but

there was good stuff in the lad, who, it was evident to me, at least,

had been considerably more of a fool than a rogue, and all I did was to

persuade the Colonel, who meant to break him, to give him another

chance. It seems I was wise. Reggie Ferris has had his lesson, and has

from all accounts retrieved his credit in the Colonial service."

"If I remember correctly you once made a bad mistake in being equally

considerate to another man," said Hetty, reflectively.

"I certainly did, but you will find by the time you are as old as I am

that taking it all round it is better to be merciful."

"The Major," said Hetty, with a glance at Barbara, "is a confirmed

optimist--and he has been in India."

Major Hume smiled. "Well," he said, "the mistakes one makes from that

cause hurt one less afterwards than the ones that result from believing

in nobody. Now, there was that young woman who was engaged to

Reggie----"

"He has applied the suggestive epithet to her ever since she gave him

up," said Hetty. "Still, I really don't think anybody could have

expected very much more from her."

"No," said the Major, grimly. "In my opinion she went further than there

was any particular necessity for her to do. She knew the man's

shortcomings when she was engaged to him--and she should have stuck to

him. You don't condemn any one for a single slip in your country, Miss

Heathcote?"

Barbara made no answer, for this, it seemed, was just what she had done,

but Hetty, who had been watching her, laughed.

"You couldn't expect her to admit that their standard in Canada is lower

than ours," she said.

The Major appeared disconcerted. "That is not exactly what I mean. They

have a little more charity yonder, and, in some respects, a good deal

more sense. From one or two cases I am acquainted with they are, in

fact, usually willing to give the man who trips another chance instead

of falling upon him mercilessly before he can get up."

"Still you haven't told us yet what Reggie Ferris did."

Major Hume laughed as he turned away. "I am," he said, "quite aware of

it."

He left them, and Hetty smiled as she said, "The Major has not

infrequently been imposed upon, but nothing will disabuse him of his

cheerful belief in human nature, and I must admit that he is quite as

often right as more censorious people. There was Lily Harland who gave

Reggie Ferris up, which, of course, was probably only what he could have

expected under the circumstances, but Reggie, it appears, is wiping out

the past, and I have reasons for surmising that she has been sorry ever

since. Nobody but my father and his mother ever hear from him now, and

if that hurts Lily she has only herself to blame. She had her

opportunity of showing what faith she had in the man, and can't expect

to get another just because she would like it."

She wondered why the warm color had crept into her companion's face, but

Barbara said nothing, and vacantly watched the road that wound up

through the meadows out of the valley, until a moving object appeared

where it crossed the crest of the hill. In the meanwhile her thoughts

were busy, for the Major's suggestive little story had not been without

its effect on her, and the case of Reggie Ferris was, it seemed,

remarkably similar to that of a certain Canadian flume-builder. The

English soldier and Grant Devine had both been charitable, but she and

the girl who was sorry ever since had shown themselves merciless, and

there was in that connection a curious significance in the fact that

Reggie Ferris, who was now brilliantly blotting out the past, wrote

nobody but his mother and the man who had given him what the latter

termed another chance. Barbara remembered the afternoon when she waited

at the window and Brooke, who, she fancied, could have done so had he

wished, had not come up from the depot. She could not ignore the fact

that this had since occasioned her a vague uneasiness.

In the meanwhile the moving object had been growing larger, and when it

reappeared lower down the road resolved itself into a gardener who had

been despatched to the nearest village on a bicycle.

"We will wait until Tom brings in the letters," said Hetty.

It was a few minutes later when the man came up the path and handed her

a packet. Among the letters she spread out there was one for Barbara,

whose face grew suddenly intent as she opened it. It was from Mrs.

Devine, and the thin paper crackled under her tightening fingers as she

read:--

"I have been alone since I last wrote you, as Grant had to go up to the

Dayspring suddenly and has not come back. There was, I understand, a big

flood in the valley above the mine, and Brooke, it seems, was very

seriously hurt when endeavoring to protect the workings. I don't

understand exactly how it happened, though I surmise from Grant's

letters that he did a very daring thing. He is now in the Vancouver

hospital, for although Grant wished him brought here, the surgeon

considered him far too ill to move. His injuries, I understand, are not

very serious in themselves, but it appears that the man was badly worn

out and run down when he sustained them, and his condition, I am sorry

to say, is just now very precarious."

The rest of the letter concerned the doings of Barbara's friends in

Vancouver, but the girl read no more of it, and sat still, a trifle

white in the face, with her hands trembling, until Hetty turned to her.

"You don't look well," she said. "I hope nothing has happened to your

sister or Mr. Devine?"

"No," said Barbara, quietly, though there was a faint tremor in her

voice. "They are apparently in as good health as usual."

"I'm glad to hear it," said Hetty, with an air of relief. "There is, of

course, nobody else, or I should have known it, though you really seem a

trifle paler than you generally do. Shall we go in and look through

these patterns? I have been writing up about some dress material, and

they've sent cuttings. Still, I don't suppose you will want anything

new for Mrs. Cruttenden's?"

"No," said Barbara, in a voice that was almost too even now, and not in

keeping with the tension in her face. "In fact, I'm not going at all."

Hetty glanced at her sharply, and then made a little gesture of

comprehension.

"Very well!" she said. "Whenever you feel it would be any consolation

you can tell me, but in the meanwhile I have no doubt that you can get

on without my company."

She moved away, and Barbara, who was glad to be alone, sat still, for

she wished to set her thoughts in order. This was apparently the climax

all that had passed that afternoon had led up to, but she was just then

chiefly conscious of an overwhelming distress that precluded any

systematic consideration of its causes. The man whom she had roused from

his lethargy at the Quatomac ranch was now, she gathered, dying in the

Vancouver hospital, but not before he had blotted out his offences by

slow endurance and unwearying effort in the face of flood and frost. She

would have admitted this to him willingly now, but the opportunity was,

it seemed, not to be afforded her, and the bitter words with which she

had lashed him could never be withdrawn. She who had shown no mercy, and

would not afford him what Major Hume had termed another chance, must, it

seemed, long for it in vain herself.

By degrees, however, her innate resolution rose against that decision,

and she remembered that it was not, in point of time, at least a very

long journey to British Columbia. There was nothing to prevent her

setting out when it pleased her; and then it occurred to her that the

difficulties would be plentiful at the other end. What explanation would

she make to her sister, or the man, if--and the doubt was horrible--he

was, indeed, still capable of receiving it? He had never in direct

speech offered her his love, and she had not even the excuse of the girl

who had given Reggie Ferris up for throwing herself at his feet. She was

not even sure that she could have done it in that case, for her pride

was strong, and once more she felt the hopelessness of the irrevocable.

She had shown herself hard and unforgiving, and now she realized that

the man she loved--and it was borne in upon her, that in spite of his

offences she loved him well--was as far beyond her reach as though he

had already slipped away from her into the other world at whose shadowy

portals he lay in the Vancouver hospital.

There had been a time, indeed the occasion had twice presented itself,

when she could have relented gracefully, but she could no longer hope

that it would ever happen again, and it only remained for her to face

the result of her folly, and bear herself befittingly. It would, she

realized, cost her a bitter effort, but the effort must be made, and she

rose with a tense white face and turned towards the house. Hetty, as it

happened, met her in the hall, and looked at her curiously.

"There are, as you may remember, two or three people coming in to

dinner," she said. "I have no doubt I could think out some excuse if you

would sooner not come down."

"Why do you think that would please me?" said Barbara, quietly.

"Well," said Hetty, a trifle drily, "I fancied you would sooner have

stayed away. Your appearance rather suggested it."

Barbara smiled in a listless fashion. "I'm afraid I can't help that,"

she said. "Your friends, however, will presumably not be here for an

hour or two yet."

Hetty made no further suggestions, and Barbara moved on slowly towards

the stairway. She came of a stock that had grappled with frost and flood

in the wild ranges of the mountain province, and courage and

steadfastness were born in her, but she knew there was peril in the

slightest concession to her gentler nature she might make just then.

What she bore in the meanwhile she told nobody, but when the sonorous

notes of a gong rolled through the building she came down the great

stairway only a trifle colder in face than usual, and immaculately

dressed.

XXXI.

BROOKE IS FORGIVEN.

It was a pleasant morning, and Brooke lay luxuriating in the sunlight by

an open window of the Vancouver hospital. His face was blanched and

haggard, and his clothes hung loosely about his limbs, but there was a

brightness in his eyes, and he was sensible that at last his strength

was coming back to him. Opposite him sat Devine, who had just come in,

and was watching him with evident approbation.

"You will be fit to be moved out in a day or two, and I want to see you

in Mrs. Devine's hands," he said. "We have a room fixed ready, and I

came round to ask when the doctor would let you go."

Brooke slowly shook his head. "You are both very kind, but I'm going

back to the Old Country," he said. "Still, I don't know whether I shall

stay there yet."

Devine appeared a trifle disconcerted. "We had counted on you taking

hold again at the Dayspring," he said. "Wilkins is getting an old man,

and I don't know of any one who could handle that mine as you have

done. Quite sure there's nothing I could do that would keep you?"

Brooke lay silent a moment or two. He was loth to leave the mine, but

during his slow recovery at the hospital a curious longing to see the

Old Country once more had come upon him. He could go back now, and, if

it pleased him, pick up the threads of the old life he had left behind,

though he was by no means sure this would afford him the satisfaction he

had once anticipated. The ambition to prove his capabilities in Canada

had, in the meanwhile, at least, deserted him since his last meeting

with Barbara, and he had heard from Mrs. Devine that it would probably

be several months before she returned to Vancouver. He realized that it

was she who had kept him there, and now she had gone, and the mine was,

as Devine had informed him, exceeding all expectations, there was no

longer any great inducement to stay in Canada. He had seen enough of the

country, and, of late, a restless desire to get away from it had been

growing stronger with every day of his recovery. It might, he felt, be

easier to shake off the memory of his folly in another land.

"No," he said, slowly, "I don't think there is. I feel I must go back,

for a while, at least."

"Well," said Devine, who seemed to recognize that protests would be

useless, "it's quite a long journey. I guess you can afford it?"

Brooke felt the keen eyes fixed on him with an almost disconcerting

steadiness, but he contrived to smile.

"Yes," he said, "if I don't do it too extravagantly, I fancy I can."

"Then there's another point," said Devine, with a faint twinkle in his

eyes. "You might want to do something yonder that would bring the

dollars in. Now, I could give you a few lines that would be useful in

case you wanted an engagement with one of your waterworks contractors or

any one of that kind."

"I scarcely think it will be necessary," said Brooke, with a little

smile.

"Well," said Devine, "I have a notion that it's not going to be very

long before we see you back again. You have got used to us, and you're

going to find the folks yonder slow. I can think of quite a few men who

saved up, one or two of them for a very long while, to go home to the

Old Country, and in about a month they'd had enough of it. The country

was very much as they left it--but they had altered."

He stopped a moment, with a little chuckle, before he continued. "Now,

there was Sandy Campbell, who ran the stamps at the Canopus for me. He

never spent a dollar when he could help it, and, when he'd quite a pile

of them, he told me he was just sickening for a sight of Glasgow. Well,

I let him go, and that day six weeks Sandy came round to the mine again.

The Old Country was badly played out, he said, but, for another month,

that was all he would tell me, and then the facts came out. Sandy's

friends had met him at the Donaldson wharf, and started a circus over

the whisky. Somebody broke the furniture, and Sandy doubled up a

policeman who, he figured, had insulted him, so they had him up for

doing it before whatever they call a magistrate in that country. Sandy's

remarks were printed in a Glasgow paper, and he showed it me.

"'Forty shillings. It's an iniquity,' he said. 'Is this how ye treat a

man who has come six thousand miles to see his native land? I will not

find ye a surety. I'm away back by the first Allan boat to a country

where they appreciate me.'"

Brooke laughed. "Still, I don't quite see how Sandy's case applies to

me."

"I guess it does. One piece of it, anyway. Sandy knew where he was

appreciated, and we have room for a good many men of your kind in this

country. That's about all I need say. When you feel like it, come right

back to me."

He went out a few minutes later, and Brooke lay still thoughtfully, with

his old ambitions re-awakening. There was, he surmised, a good deal of

truth in Devine's observations, and work in the mountain province that

he could do. Still, he felt that even to make his mark there would be no

great gain to him now. Barbara could not forgive him, but she was in

England, and he might, at least, see her. Whether that would be wise he

did not know, and scarcely fancied so, but the faint probability had its

attractions, and he would go and stay there--until he had recovered his

usual vigor, at least.

It was, however, a little while before the doctors would permit him to

risk the journey, and several months had passed when he stood with a

kinsman and his wife on the lawn outside an old house in an English

valley. The air was still and warm, and a full moon was rising above the

beeches on the hillside. Its pale light touched the river, that slid

smoothly between the mossy stepping-stones, and the shadows of clipped

yew and drooping willow lay black upon the grass. There was a faint

smell of flowers that linger in the fall, and here and there a withered

leaf was softly sailing down, but that night it reminded Brooke of the

resinous odors of the Western pines, and the drowsy song of the river,

of the thunder of the torrent that swirled by Quatomac. His heart was

also beating a trifle more rapidly than usual, and for that reason he

was more than usually quiet.

"I suppose your friends will come?" he said, indifferently.

Mrs. Cruttenden, who stood close by him, laughed. "To the minute! Major

Hume is punctuality itself. I fancy he will be a little astonished

to-night."

"I shall be pleased to meet him again. He was to bring Miss Hume?"

"Of course," said Mrs. Cruttenden, with a keen glance at him. "And Miss

Heathcote, whom you asked about. No doubt she will be a trifle

astonished, too. You do not seem quite so sure that the meeting with her

will afford you any pleasure?"

Brooke smiled a trifle grimly. "The most important question is whether

she will be pleased to see me. I don't mind admitting it is one that is

causing me considerable anxiety."

"Wouldn't her attitude on the last occasion serve as guide?"

Brooke felt his face grow warm under her watchful eyes, but he laughed.

"I would like to believe that it did not," he said. "Miss Heathcote did

not appear by any means pleased with me. Still, you see, you sometimes

change your minds."

"Yes," said Mrs. Cruttenden, reflectively. "Especially when the person

who has offended us has been very ill. It is, in fact, the people one

likes the most one is most inclined to feel angry with now and then, but

there are circumstances under which one feels sorry for past

severities."

Brooke started, for this appeared astonishingly apposite in view of the

fact that he had, as she had once or twice reminded him, told her

unnecessarily little about his Canadian affairs. The difficulty,

however, was that he could not be sure she was correct.

"You naturally know what you would do, but, after all, that scarcely

goes quite as far as one would like," he said.

Mrs. Cruttenden laughed softly. "Still, I fancy the rest are very like

me in one respect. In fact, it might be wise of you to take that for

granted."

Just then three figures appeared upon the path that came down to the

stepping-stones across the river, and Brooke's eyes were eager as he

watched them. They were as yet in the shadow, but he felt that he would

have recognized one of them anywhere and under any circumstances. Then

he strode forward precipitately, and a minute later sprang aside on to

an outlying stone as a grey-haired man, who glanced at him sharply,

turned, with hand held out, to one of his companions. Brooke moved a

little nearer the one who came last, and then stood bareheaded, while

the girl stopped suddenly and looked at him. He could catch the gleam of

the brown eyes under the big hat, and, for the moon was above the

beeches now, part of her face and neck gleamed like ivory in the silvery

light. She stood quite still, with the flashing water sliding past her

feet, etherealized, it seemed to him, by her surroundings and a

complement of the harmonies of the night.

"You?" she said.

Brooke laughed softly, and swept his hand vaguely round, as though to

indicate the shining river and dusky trees.

"Yes," he said. "You remember how I met you at Quatomac. Who else could

it be?"

"Nobody," said Barbara, with a tinge of color in her face. "At least,

any one else would have been distinctly out of place."

Brooke tightened his grasp on the hand she had laid in his, for which

there was some excuse, since the stone she stood upon was round and

smooth, and it was a long step to the next one.

"You knew I was here?" he said.

"Yes," said Barbara, quietly.

Brooke felt his heart throbbing painfully. "And you could have framed an

excuse for staying away?"

The girl glanced at him covertly as he stood very straight looking down

on her, with lips that had set suddenly, and tension in his face. The

moonlight shone into it, and it was, she noticed, quieter and a little

grimmer than it had been, while his sinewy frame still showed spare to

gauntness in the thin conventional dress. This had its significance to

her.

"Of course!" she said. "Still, it did not seem necessary. I had no

reason for wishing to stay away."

Brooke fancied that there was a good deal in this admission, and his

voice had a little exultant thrill in it.

"That implies--ever so much," he said. "Hold fast. That stone is

treacherous, and one can get wet in this river, though it is not the

Quatomac. Absurd to suggest that, isn't it? Are not Abana and Pharpar

better than all the waters of Israel?"

Barbara also laughed. "Do you wish the Major to come back for me?" she

said. "It is really a little difficult to stand still upon a narrow

piece of mossy stone."

They went across, and Major Hume stared at Brooke in astonishment when

Cruttenden presented him.

"By all that's wonderful! Our Canadian guide!" he said.

"Presumably so!" said Cruttenden. "Still, though, my wife appears to

understand the allusion, it's more than I do. Anyway, he is my kinsman,

Harford Brooke, and the owner of High Wycombe."

Brooke smiled as he shook hands with the Major, but he was sensible that

Barbara flashed a swift glance at him, and, as they moved towards the

house, Hetty broke in.

"You must know, Mr. Cruttenden, that your kinsman met Barbara beside a

river once before, and on that occasion, too, they did not come out of

it until some little time after we did," she said.

"That," said Cruttenden, "appears to imply that they were--in--the

water."

"I really think that one of them was," said Hetty. "Barbara had a pony,

but Mr. Brooke had not, and his appearance certainly suggested that he

had been bathing. In fact, he was so bedraggled that Barbara gave him a

dollar. She had, I must explain, already spent a few months in this

country."

Brooke was a trifle astonished, and noticed a sudden warmth in Barbara's

face.

"If I remember correctly, you had gone into the ranch, Miss Hume," he

said, severely.

"No," said Hetty. "You may have fancied so, but I hadn't. I was the only

chaperon Barbara had, you see. I hope she didn't tell you not to lavish

the dollar on whisky. No doubt you spent it wisely on tobacco."

Brooke made no answer, and his smile was somewhat forced; but he went

with the others into the house, and it was an hour or two later when he

and Barbara again stood by the riverside alone. Neither of them quite

knew how it came about, but they were there with the black shadows of

the beeches behind them and the flashing water at their feet. Brooke

glanced slowly round him, and then turned to the girl.

"It reminds one of that other river--but there is a difference," he

said. "The beeches make poor substitutes for your towering pines, and

you no longer wear the white samite."

"And," said Barbara, "where is the sword?"

Brooke looked down on her gravely, and shook his head. "I am not fit to

wear it, and yet I dare not give it back to you, stained as it is," he

said. "What am I to do?"

"Keep it," said Barbara, softly. "You have wiped the stain out, and it

is bright again."

Brooke laid a hand that quivered a little on her shoulder. "Barbara," he

said, "I am not vainer than most men, and I know what I have done, but

unless what once seemed beyond all hoping for was about to come to me,

you and I would not have met again beside the river. It simply couldn't

happen. You can forget all that has gone before, and once more try to

believe in me?"

"I think," said Barbara, quietly, "there is a good deal that you must

never remember, too. I realized that"--and she stopped with a little

shiver--"when you were lying in the Vancouver hospital."

"And you knew I loved you, though in those days I dare not tell you so?

I have done so, I think, from the night I first saw you, and yet there

is so much to make you shrink from me."

"No," said Barbara, very softly, "there is nothing whatever now--and if

perfection had been indispensable you would never have thought of me."

Brooke laid his other hand on her shoulder, and, standing so, while

every nerve in him thrilled, still held her a little apart, so that the

silvery light shone into her flushed face. For a moment she met his

gaze, and her eyes were shining.

"Do you know that, absurd as it may sound, I seemed to know that night

at Quatomac that I should hold you in my arms again one day?" he said.

"Of course, the thing seemed out of the question, an insensate dream,

and still I could never quite let go my hold of the alluring fancy."

"And if the dream had never been fulfilled?"

Brooke laughed curiously. "You would still have ridden beside me through

many a long night march, with the moon shining round and full behind

your shoulder, and I should have felt the white dress brush me softly

where the trail was dark."

"Then I should have been always young to you. You would never have seen

me grow faded and the grey creep into my hair."

Brooke drew her towards him, and held her close. "My dear, you will be

always beautiful to me. We will grow old together, and the one who must

cross the last dark river first will, at least, start out on the shadowy

trail holding the other's hand."

It was an hour later when Barbara, with the man's arm still about her,

glanced across the velvet lawn to the old grey house beneath the dusky

slope of wooded hill. The moonlight silvered its weathered front, and

the deep tranquillity of the sheltered valley made itself felt.

"Yes," said Brooke, "it is yours and mine."

Barbara made a little gesture that was eloquent of appreciation. "It is

very beautiful. A place one could dream one's life away in. We have

nothing like it in Canada. You would care to stay here always?"

"Any place would be delightful with you."

The girl laughed softly, but her voice had a tender thrill in it, and

then she turned towards the west.

"It is very beautiful--and full of rest," she said. "Still, I scarcely

think it would suit you to sit down in idleness, and all that can be

done for this rich country has been done years ago."

"I wonder," said Brooke, who guessed her thoughts, "if you would be

quite so sure when you had seen our towns."

"Still, one would need to be very wise to take hold there--and I do not

think you care for politics."

"No," said Brooke, with a faint, dry smile. "Besides, remembering

Saxton, I should feel a becoming diffidence about wishing to serve my

nation in that fashion. There are men enough who are anxious to do it

already, and I would be happier grappling with the rocks and pines in

Western Canada."

"Then," said Barbara, "if it pleases you, we will go back to the great

unfinished land where the dreams of such men as you are come true."

THE END.

[Illustration]

The Spotter

[Illustration]

_A Story of the Early Days in the Pennsylvania Oil Fields.._

By W. W. CANFIELD

Duncan Cameron is a Pennsylvania farmer, the owner of a large tract of

land which the prototype of the Standard Oil Company desires to secure.

Cameron for a long time successfully resists the efforts to compel him

to sell, and The Spotter describes what happened to him, as well as what

befell members of several families who are made wealthy by the sale of

their oil lands. Those who oppose the advance of the monopoly feel its

hand in no uncertain weight, for there is little hesitancy in the

methods adopted to break the fortunes and prospects of those who do not

quietly submit.

The story describes the romantic side of the influx of a large number of

speculators, operators and boomers, who find a country that heretofore

has been almost isolated.

Size 5-1/2x7-3/4. Cloth, Gilt Top. Price $1.50

Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors present in the

original edition have been corrected.

In the table of contents, =The Jumping of the Caonpus= was changed to

=The Jumping of the Canopus=.

In Chapter VII, =The result was from one point of view comtemptible= was

changed to =The result was from one point of view contemptible=.

In Chapter VIII, an extra quotation mark was deleted after =it was the

other man who fell in.=

In Chapter XI, a comma was changed to a period after =a kindness thrust

upon him by his companion=, ="Of course!" be said.= was changed to ="Of

course!" be said.=, and =the distinctions you allude too= was changed to

=the distinctions you allude to=.

In Chapter XIII, a missing quotation mark was added after =We may be

staying for some time yet at the C. P. R. Hotel, Vancouver.=

In Chapter XIV, a question mark was changed to a period after =nature

untrammelled, and primeval force=.

In Chapter XVIII, a missing period was added after ="I'm not quite sure

whether I expected it or not, but I almost hope I did," he said=.

In Chapter XX, =What, in the name of thunder= was changed to =What in

the name of thunder=.

In Chapter XXI, =Lou, no doubt, had a purpose= was changed to =You, no

doubt, had a purpose=.

In Chapter XXII, =much more pleased that you were= was changed to =much

more pleased than you were=.

In Chapter XXV, =They told me as nearly as they could remember= was

changed to =They told him as nearly as they could remember=.

In Chapter XXVI, a quotation mark was removed after =he had certainly

been impelled by at their last meeting.=

In Chapter XXIX, =B ooke braced himself to bear his part in it= was

changed to =Brooke braced himself to bear his part in it=.

In Chapter XXXI, an extra quotation mark was removed before =I guess you

can afford it?=

In the advertisement for _The Spotter_, an extra period was deleted

after "A Story of the Early Days in the Pennsylvania Oil Fields.", and a

period was changed to a comma after =Duncan Cameron is a Pennsylvania

farmer=.