Purple Springs by Nellie L. McClung (page 3)

“The women will tell you more about her–that’s sure. They gabble a lot among themselves about her–I don’t know–we think it best to leave her alone. No woman has any right to live alone the way she does–it don’t look well.”

“Well, anyway,” Mr. Cowan spoke hurriedly, as one who has been betrayed into trifling feminine matters, and is anxious to get back to man’s domain, “we’ll take you–at seventy-five dollars a month, and I guess you can get board at Mrs. Zinc’s here at about fifteen. That ain’t bad wages for a girl your age. You can stay at Mrs. Zinc’s anyway till you look around–Mrs. Zinc don’t want a boarder. Girls can fit in any place–that’s one reason in our neighborhood we like a girl better–there’s no trouble about boardin’ them. They can always manage somehow. Even if things ain’t very good–it don’t seem to phaze them–same as a man. We had a man once, and we had to pay him twenty-five dollars a month extra, and gosh–the airs of him–wanted a bed to himself and a hot dinner sent to the school. By Gum! and got it! We’ll be lookin’ for you at the middle of the month, and you can stay at Mrs. Zinc’s and look around.”

When the delegation had departed, Pearl acquainted her mother with the result of their visit. Mrs. Watson had retired to the kitchen, all of a flutter, as soon as the visitors came.

“I’m going to Purple Springs, Ma,” she said, “to take the school, and they’ll give me seventy-five dollars a month.”

Mrs. Watson sat down, dramatically, and applied her print apron to her eyes–an occasion had come, and Mrs. Watson, true to tradition, would make the most of it. Her mother had cried when she left home–it was a girl’s birthright to be well cried over–Pearlie Watson would not go forth unwept!

“Cheer up, Ma,” said Pearl kindly, “I’m not going to jail, and I’m not taking the veil or going across the sea. I can call you up for fifteen cents, and I’ll be bringing you home my washing every two weeks–so I will not be lost entirely.”

Mrs. Watson rocked herself disconsolately back and forth in her chair, and the sound of her sobs filled the kitchen. Mrs. Watson was having a good time, although appearances would not bear out the statement.

“It’s the first break, Pearlie, that’s what I’m thinkin’–and every night when I lock the door, I’ll be lockin’ you out–not knowin’ where ye are. When a family once breaks you never can tell if they’ll ever all be together again–that’s what frightens me. It was bad enough when you went to the city–and I never slept a wink for two nights after you’d gone. But this is worse, for now you’re doin’ for yourself and away from us that way.”

“Gosh, Ma,” spoke up Mary, “you sure cry easy; and for queer things. I think it’s grand that Pearl can get out and earn money, and then when I get my entrance, I’ll go to the city and be a teacher too. You’re going to get back what you’ve spent on us, ma, and you ought to be in great humor. I’m just as proud of Pearl as I can hold, and I’ll be tellin’ the kids at school about my sister who is Principal of the Purple Springs School.”

“Principal, Assistant and Janitor,” laughed Pearl, “that gives a person some scope–to be sure.”

Mrs. Watson hurriedly put up the ironing-board, and set to work. She would get Pearl ready, though she did it with a heavy heart.

Pearl finished her sewing and then went upstairs to make her small wardrobe ready for her departure, and although she stepped quickly and in a determined fashion, there was a pain, a lonely ache in her heart which would not cease, a crying out for the love which she had hoped would be hers.

“I wonder if I will ever get to be like ma,” she thought, as she lined the bottom of her little trunk with brown paper, and stuffed tissue paper into the sleeves of her “good dress,” “I wonder! Well, I hope I will be like her in some ways, but not in this mournful stuff–I won’t either. I’ll sing when I feel it coming on me–I will not go mourning all my days–not for any one!”

She began to sing:–

“Forgotten you? Yes, if forgetting
Is thinking all the day
How the long days pass without you. Days seem years with you away!”

Pearl’s voice had a reedy mellowness, and an appeal which sent the words straight into Mary’s practical heart. Mary, washing dishes below, stopped, with a saucer in her hand, and listened open-mouthed:–

“If the warm wish to see you and hear you, And hold you in my arms again,
If that be forgetting–you’re right, dear, And I have forgotten you then!”

Her voice trailed away on the last line into a sob, and Mary, listening below, dropped a tear into the dish-water. Then racing up the stairs, she burst into Pearl’s room and said admiringly:

“Pearl, you’re a wonder. It’s an actress you ought to be. You got me blubbering, mind you. It’s so sad about you and your beau that’s had a row, and both of you actin’ so pale and proud, you made me see it all. Sing it again! Well, for the love of Pete–if you ain’t ready to blubber too. That’s good actin’, Pearl–let me tell you–how can you do it?”

Pearl brushed away the tears, and laughed: “I just hit on the wrong song–that one always makes me cry, I can see them, too, going their own ways and feeling so bad, and moping around instead of cutting out the whole thing the way they should. People are foolish to mope!” Pearl spoke sternly.

“I think you sing just lovely,” said Mary, “now go on, and I’ll get back to the dishes. Sing ‘Casey Jones’–that’s the best one to wash dishes to. It’s sad, too, but it’s funny.”

Mrs. Watson held the iron to her cheek to test its heat, and listened–too–as Pearl sang:–

“Casey Jones–mounted to the cabin,
Casey Jones–with the orders in his hand, Casey Jones–mounted to the cabin
And took his farewell tri-ip–to the promised land!”

“It’s well for them that can be so light-hearted,” she said, “and leave all belonging to them–as easy as Pearl. Children do not know, and never will know what it means, until one of their own ups and leaves them! It’s the way of the world, one day they’re babies, and the next thing you know they’re gone! It’s the way of the world, but it’s hard on the mother.”

Pearl came down the stairs, stepping in time with Casey Jones’s spectacular home-leaving:–

“The caller called Casey, at–a half-past-four, He kissed his wife at the station door.”

“How goes the ironing, honest woman,” she said, as she lovingly patted her mother’s shoulder. “It’s a proud old bird you ought to be getting one of your young robins pushed out of the nest–instead of standing here with a sadness on your face.”

The mother tried to smile through her tears.

“Pearlie, my dear, you’re a queer girl–you never seem to think of what might happen. It may be six weeks before you can get home–with the roads breaking up–and a lot can happen in that time. Sure–I might not be here myself,” she said, with a fresh burst of tears.

“Ma, you’re funny,” laughed Pearl, “I wish you could see how funny you are. Every Christmas ever since I can remember, that’s what you said–you might never live to see another, and it used to nearly break my heart when I was little, and until I made up my mind that you were a poor guesser. You said it last Christmas just the same, and here you are with your ears back and your neck bowed, heading up well for another year. You’re quite right in saying you may not be here, but if you are not you’ll be in a better place. Sure, things may happen, but it’s better to have things happen than to be scared all the time that they may happen. The young lads may take the measles and then the mumps, and the whooping-cough to finish up on–and the rosey-posey is going around too. But even if they do–it’s most likely they will get over it–they always have. Up to the present, the past has taken care of the future. Maybe it always will.”

“O yes, I know there’s always a chance things will go wrong–I know it, Ma–” Pearl’s eyes dimmed a little, and she held her lips tighter; “there’s always a chance. The cows may all choke to death seeing which of them can swallow the biggest turnip–the cats may all have fits–the chickens may break into the hen-house and steal a bag of salt, eat it and die. But I don’t believe they will. You just have to trust them–and you’ll have to trust me the same way. Just look, Ma–“

She took a five-dollar bill from her purse and spread it on the ironing-board before her mother. “Fifteen o’ them every month! See the pictures that’s on it, of the two grand old men. See the fine chin-whiskers on His Nibs here! Ain’t it a pity he can’t write his name, Ma, and him President of the Bank, and just has to make a bluff at it like this. Sure, and isn’t that enough to drive any girl out to teach school, to see to it that bank presidents get a chance to learn to write. Bank presidents always come from the country; I’ll be having a row of them at Purple Springs–I’m sure. They will be able to tell in after years at Rotary Club luncheons how they ran barefooted in November, and made wheat gum–and chewed strings together. They just like to tell about their chilblains and their stone-bruises.”

Her mother looked at her wonderingly: “You think of queer things, Pearl–I don’t know where you get it–I can’t make you out–and there’s another thing troubling me, Pearl. You are goin’ away–I don’t suppose you will be livin’ much at home now. You’ll be makin’ your own way.”

She paused, and Pearl knew her mother was laboring under heavy emotion. She knew she was struggling to say what was difficult for her to get into words.

“When you’ve been away for a while and then come back to us, maybe you’ll find our ways strange to you, for you’re quick in the pick-up, Pearl, and we’re only plain workin’ people, and never had a chance at learnin’. There may come a time when you’re far above us, Pearl, and our ways will seem strange to you. I get worried about it, Pearl, for I know if that time ever comes, it will worry you too, for you’re not the kind that can hurt your own and not feel it.”

Pearl looked at her mother almost with alarm in her face, and the fears that had been assailing her that her family were beyond the social pale came back for a moment. But with the fear came a fierce tenderness for all of them. She saw in a flash of her quick imagination the tragedy of it from her mother’s side, and in her heart there was just one big, burning, resolute desire, that pain from this source might never smite her mother’s loving heart. The hard hands, the sunburnt face, the thin hair that she had not taken time to care for; the hard-working shoulders, slightly stooped; the scrawny neck, with its tell-tale lines of age; were eloquent in their appeal. Pearl saw the contrast of her mother’s life and what her own promised to be, and her tender heart responded, and when she spoke, it was in an altered tone. All the fun had gone from it now, and it was not a child’s voice, nor a girl’s voice, but a woman’s, with all a woman’s gentleness and understanding that spoke.

“Mother,” she said, “I know what is in your heart, and I will tell you how I feel about it. You’re afraid your ways may seem strange to me. Some of them are strange to me now. I often wonder how any one can be as unselfish as you are and keep it up day in and day out, working for other people. Most of us can make a good stab at it, and keep it up for a day or so, but to hit the steady pace, never looking back and never being cross or ugly about it–that’s great!”

“And about the other … If ever there comes a time when an honest heart and a brave spirit in a woman seems strange to me, and I get feeling myself above them–if I ever get thinking light of honesty and kindness and patience and hard work, and get thinking myself above them–then your ways will be strange to me, but not until then!”

Mrs. Watson’s face cleared, and a look of pride shone in her eyes. Her face seemed to lose some of its lines, and to reflect some of the lavish beauty of her daughter.

“You’ve comforted me, Pearl,” she said simply, “and it’s not the first time. Whatever comes or goes, Pearl, you’ll know we are proud of you, and will stand back of you. Your outspoken ways may get you into trouble, but we’ll always believe you were right. We haven’t much to give you–only this.”

“Sure and what more would any one want, leavin’ home,” Pearl was back to the speech of her childhood now. “That’s better than a fur coat to keep out the cold, and the thought of my own folks makes me strong to face the world, knowin’ I can always come home even if everything else is closed. That’s good enough!”

Pearl kissed her mother affectionately, and went back to her work upstairs, and soon Mary and her mother heard her singing. Mary stopped scrubbing the kitchen floor, and Mrs. Watson left the iron so long on Teddy’s shirt that it left a mark:

“Say Au Revoir,” sang Pearl, “but not goodbye, The past is dead–love cannot die,
T’were better far–had we not met, I loved you then–I love you yet.”

There was something in her voice that made her mother say, “Poor child, I wonder what’s ahead of her.”

CHAPTER XII

THE MACHINE

Seated in one of the billowy tapestry chairs of the Maple Leaf Club, with a mahogany ash-stand at his elbow and the morning paper in his hand, the Cabinet Minister gave an exclamation which began far down in the throat, tore upward past his immaculate collar, and came forth as a full-sized round word of great emphasis and carrying power.

It brought to him at once Peter Neelands, one of the ambitious young lawyers of the city, who was just coming into prominence in political circles.

“What did you say, sir?” Peter asked politely.

The Cabinet Minister controlled his indignation admirably, and with his pudgy knuckles rapped the offending newspaper, with the motion used by a carpenter when trying to locate the joist in a plastered wall, as he said:–

“Here is absolutely the most damnably mischievous thing I have seen for years, and this abominable sheet is featuring it on the Women’s Page. They will all read it–and be infected. Women are such utterly unreasonable creatures. This is criminal.”

“What is it, sir?” Peter asked deferentially.

The older man handed him the paper, and sat back in his chair, with his fat hands clasped over his rotund person, and an expression of deep disgust in his heavy gray eyes.

“Anything!–anything!–” he cried, “to gain a political advantage. They will even play up this poor little uneducated, and no doubt, mentally unfit country girl, and put in her picture and quotations from her hysterical speeches. They never think–or care–for the effect this will have on her, filling her head with all sorts of notions. This paper is absolutely without a soul, and seems determined to corrupt the country. And on the Women’s Page, too, where they will all read it!”

“By Jove! that was good”–exclaimed the young man, as he read.

“What was good–are you reading what I gave you to read?” came from the older man.

“Yes, about this girl at Millford, it says: ‘In the discussion that followed, the local member heatedly opposed the speaker’s arguments favoring the sending of women to Parliament, and said when women sat in Parliament, he would retire–to which the speaker replied that this was just another proof of the purifying effect women would have on politics. This retort naturally brought down the house, and the local member was not heard from again’–terribly cheeky, of course, but rather neat, sir, don’t you think?”

The Cabinet Minister took a thick cigar from his vest pocket, without replying.

“Who is the member from Millford,” he demanded.

“George Steadman, sir, a big, heavy-set chap–very faithful in his attendance, sir, absolutely reliable–never talks, but votes right.”

“I don’t recall him,” said the great man, after a pause, “but your description shows he’s the sort we must retain.”

He lit his cigar, and when it was drawing nicely, removed it from his mouth, and looked carefully at it, as if he expected to find authentic information in it regarding private members. Failing this, he put it back in his mouth, and between puffs went on:–

“Let me see–they are wanting a bridge near there, aren’t they? on the Souris?”

“Yes sir, at Purple Springs.”

“All right–we ought to be able to hold the fort there with the bridge–but the trouble is, this thing will spread, and when the campaign warms up, this girl will be in demand.”

He lapsed into silence again.

Peter, still holding the paper, volunteered:–

“She seems to be one of those infant prodigies who could sing ‘The Dying Nun,’ and recite ‘Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight,’ before she could talk plainly.”

The Cabinet Minister gave no sign that he was listening–mental agitation was written on his face.

“But we must head her off some way, I’ll admit–I don’t mind saying it–though of course it must not be repeated–these damnable women are making me nervous. I know how to fight men–I’ve been fighting them all my life–with some success.”

“With wonderful success, sir!” burst in Peter.

The older man threw out his hands in a way that registered modesty. It had in it the whole scriptural injunction of “Let another praise thee–and not thine own mouth.”

“With some success,” he repeated sternly, “but I cannot fight women. You cannot tell what they will do; they are absolutely unreliable; they are ungrateful, too. Many of these women who form the cursed Women’s Club, are women I have been on friendly terms with; so has the Chief. We have granted them interviews; we have listened to their suggestions; always with courtesy, always with patience. We have asked them to come back. In certain matters we have acceded to their requests–in some unimportant matters–” he added quickly. “But what is the result? Is there any gratitude? Absolutely none. Give them an inch–they will take a mile. Women are good servants, but bad masters.”

“Don’t you think, sir,” said Peter, much flattered by being talked to in this friendly way by the great man, “don’t you think it is these militant suffragettes in England who are causing the trouble? Before they began their depredations, women did not think of the vote. It is the power of suggestion, don’t you think, and all that sort of thing?”

They were interrupted just then by the arrival of Mr. Banks, one of the Government organizers, who, ignoring Peter’s presence, addressed himself to the Cabinet Minister. His manner was full of importance. Mr. Banks had a position in the Public Works Department, and occasionally might be found there. Sometimes he went in for his mail, and stayed perhaps half an hour.

He addressed the Cabinet Minister boldly:–

“Did you see this? Looks like trouble, don’t it? What do you suggest?”

Mr. Banks did not remove either his hat or his cigar. Cabinet Ministers had no terror for him–he had made cabinet ministers. If Mr. Banks had lived in the time of Warwick that gentleman might not have had the title of “King-Maker.”

“What do you think yourself,” asked the Cabinet Minister deferentially, “you know the temper of the country perhaps better than any of us; shall we notice this girl or just let her go?”

Mr. Banks laughed harshly.

“We can’t stop her, as a matter of fact–she isn’t the kind that can be shut up. There’s nothing to her–I’ve made inquiries. The people have known her since she was born, and ran the country barefooted–so we can’t send her a ‘Fly–all is discovered’ postcard. It won’t work. People all honest–can’t get any of them into trouble–and then let them off–and win her gratitude. This is a difficult case, and the other side will play it up, you bet. The girl has both looks and brains, and a certain style. She went to the Normal with my girl. My kid’s crazy about her.”

“Do her people need money?” asked Peter; he was learning the inner side of politics.

His suggestion was ignored until the pause became painful–then the organizer said severely:–

“Nobody needs money, but every one can use it. But money is of no use in this case. This has to be arranged by tact. Tact is what few members of the party have; their methods are raw.”

“But there is no harm done yet,” said Peter hopefully, “a few country people in a bally little school-house, and the girl gets up and harangues. She’s been to the city, and knows a few catch phrases. There’s nothing to it. We wouldn’t have known of it–only for the enthusiastic friend who pours his drivel into this paper.”

Mr. Banks looked at Peter in deep contempt.

“Whoever wrote this does not write drivel, Peter,” he said, with a note of fatigue in his voice. “He has made out a good case for this girl. Every one who reads this wants to see her. I want to see her, you want to see her–that’s the deuce of it.”

“Well, why don’t you go,” said Peter, “or send me? I’d like to go. Perhaps it would be better to send a young man. I often think–“

Mr. Banks looked at him with so much surprise in his usually heavy countenance that Peter paused in confusion.

“I often think,” he braved the disgust he had evoked, and spoke hurriedly to get it said before the other man had withered him with his eyes; “I often think a young man can get along sometimes–girls will tell him more, feeling more companionable as it were–” He paused, feeling for a convincing climax.

But in spite of Mr. Banks’ scorn of Peter Neelands’ efforts at solving their new difficulty, he soon began to think of it more favorably, coming to this by a process known as elimination. No one else wanted to go; he could not think of anything else. Peter would not do any harm–he was as guileless as a blue-eyed Angora kitten, and above all, he was willing and anxious to get into the game. This would give him an opportunity. So Mr. Banks suddenly made up his mind that he would authorize a cheque to be drawn on the “Funds.” It could easily be entered under “Inspection of Public Bridges,” or any old thing–that was a mere detail.

The Cabinet Minister, who was later acquainted with the plan, and had by that time recovered his mental composure, almost spoiled everything by declaring it was a most unwise move, and absolutely unnecessary.

“Leave her alone,” he declared, as he sipped his whiskey and soda–“people like that hang themselves if they get enough rope. What is she anyway–but an unlearned, ignorant country girl, who has been in the city and gathered a few silly notions, and when she goes home she shows off before her rustic friends. My dear boy,” he addressed Peter now, from an immeasurable distance, “the secret of England’s greatness consists of letting every damn fool say what he likes, they feel better, and it does no harm. We must expect criticism and censure–we are well able to bear it, and with our men in every district, there is little to fear. We’ll offset any effect there may be from this girl’s ravings by sending the Chief out for one speech.”

The Minister of Public Works lapsed into meditation and drummed pleasantly with his plump, shining hand on the table beside him. The sweet mellowness which had been Mr. Walker’s aim for years, lay on his soul. The world grew more misty and golden every moment, and in this sunkissed, nebulous haze, his fancy roamed free, released from sordid cares–by Mr. Walker’s potent spell. It was a good world–a good world of true friends, no enemies, no contradiction of sinners or other disagreeable people, nothing but ease, praise, power, success, glorious old world, without any hereafter, or any day of accounting. Tears of enthusiasm made dewy his eyes–he loved everybody.

“The old Chief has a hold on the people that cannot be equalled. I thought it was wonderful last night at the banquet, the tribute be paid to his mother. It reveals such a tender side of him, even though he has received the highest honor the people can give him, yet the remembers so tenderly the old home and its associations. That’s his great secret of success–he’s so human–with faults like other men, but they only make him all the more beloved. He is so tolerant of all. When that poor simpleton stuffed the ballot-box–out somewhere in the Blue Mountains, a really clever piece of work too, wonderfully well done–with the false bottom–I don’t see how they ever discovered it–but it is hard to deceive the enemy–there’s no piece of crooked work they are not familiar with. He was nearly crazy when they caught him at it–thought he could be put in jail–he forgot, the poor boob … who he was working for…. I’ll never forget how fine the old Chief allayed his fears–‘All for a good cause, my boy,’ he said, in that jovial way of his, ‘I have no fear–the Lord will look after His own.’ No wonder he can get people to work for him. It is that hearty good nature of his, and he never preaches to any one, or scolds. He was just as kindly to the poor fellow as if he had succeeded. It was wonderful.”

“Great old boy, all right,” Peter agreed heartily.

That afternoon Mr. Banks arranged with one of the partners of the law firm to which Peter was attached to release him for an indefinite period, and his salary could be charged to the Government under “Professional Services, Mr. P.J. Neelands,” and being a fair-minded man, and persuaded that a laborer was worthy of his hire, he suggested a substantial increase in salary for Mr. Neelands, considering the delicate nature of the task he was undertaking, and who was paying for it.

The spring, notwithstanding its early March smiles, delayed its coming that year, and the grim facts of the scarcity of feed faced the thriftiest farmers. The hungry cattle grew hungrier than ever, and with threatening bellows and eyes of flame pushed and crowded around the diminishing stacks. The cattle market went so low that it did not pay to ship them to the city, though humane instincts prompted many a farmer to do this to save their stock from a lingering death, and their own eyes from the agony of seeing them suffer.

On April the first came the big storm, which settled forever the feed problem for so many hungry animals. It was a deliberate storm, a carefully planned storm, beginning the day before with a warm, soft air, languorous, spring-like, with a pale yellow sun, with a cap of silver haze around its head, which seemed to smile upon the earth with fairest promises of an early spring. The cattle wandered far from home, lured by the gentle air and the mellow sunshine.

It was on this fair day that Mr. P.J. Neelands took his journey to the country to do it a service, and it is but fair to say that Mr. Neelands had undertaken his new work with something related to enthusiasm. It savored of mystery, diplomacy, intrigue, and there was a thrill in his heart as he sat in the green plush-covered seat, and leaning back, with his daintily shod feet on the opposite seat, surveyed himself in the long mirror which filled the door of the stateroom at the end. It was a very smartly dressed young man he saw, smiling back engagingly, and the picture pleased him. Expenses and salary paid, with a very delightful piece of work before him, which, if handled tactfully and successfully, would bring him what he craved–political promotion in the Young Men’s Club. The fact in the glass smiled again. “Diplomacy is the thing,” said Peter to himself. “It carries a man farther than anything–and I’m glad my first case has a woman in it.”

He buffed his nails on the palm of his other hand, and, looking at them critically, decided to go over them again.

“There’s nothing like personal neatness to impress a girl; and this one, from her picture, will see everything at a glance.”

Crossing the river at Poplar Ridge, he looked out of the window at the pleasant farmyard of one of the old settlers on the Assiniboine; a fine brick house, with wide verandahs, an automobile before the door, a barnyard full of cackling hens, with a company of fine fat steers in an enclosure–a pleasing picture of farm life, which filled his imagination.

“What a country of opportunity,” thought Peter, “a chance for every one, and for women especially. Everything in life is done for them. This house was built for some woman, no doubt. I hope she appreciates it, and is contented and happy in it. Women were made to charm us–inspire us–cheer us, but certainly not to rival us!”

Peter, with his hands on the knees of his well-creased trousers, hitched them slightly, just enough to reveal a glimpse of his lavender socks.

“Perhaps this girl needs only an interest–a love interest–” Peter blushed as he thought it–“to quiet her. If her affection were captured, localized, centralized, she would not be clamoring to take a man’s place. She might be quite willing to enter politics, indirectly, and be the power behind a man of power.”

He looked again at the newspaper picture of Pearl Watson, and again at his own reflection in the long glass.

“And a girl like this,” Peter meditated, “would be a help, too. She is evidently magnetic and convincing.” His mind drifted pleasantly into the purple hills and valleys of the future, and in a delightfully vague way plans began to form for future campaigns, where a brilliant young lawyer became at once the delight of his friends and the despair of his enemies, by his scathing sarcasm, his quick repartee, and still more by his piercing and inescapable logic. Never had the Conservative banner been more proudly borne to victory. Older men wept tears of joy as they listened and murmured, “The country is safe–thank God!”

Ably assisting him, though she deferred charmingly to him, in all things, was his charming young wife, herself an able speaker and debater who had once considered herself a suffragette, but who was now entirely absorbed in her beautiful home and her brilliant husband.

Peter flicked the dust from his tan shoes with a polka-dotted handkerchief, while rosy dreams, full of ambition and success filled his impressionable mind.

Through the snowy hills the train made its way cautiously, making long and apparently purposeless stops between stations, as if haunted by the fear of arriving too early. At such times Peter had leisure to carefully study the monotonous landscape, and he could not help but notice that the disparity in the size of the barn and that of the house in many cases was very great. A huge red barn, with white trimmings, surmounted by windmills, often stood towering over a tiny little weather-beaten, miserable house, which across a mile or two of snow, looked about the size of a child’s block.

But small houses can be made very cosy, thought Peter complacently, for the glamor of adventure was on him, and no shade of sadness could assail his high spirits.

Some of the women who came to the train were disappointing in appearance. They were both shabby and sad, he thought, and he wondered why but looking closely at them he thought, with the fallacy of youth, that they must be very old.

Peter tried to outline his course of action. He would take a room at the hotel, making that his headquarters, and go out into the country–and stop at the Watson home, to ask directions or on some trivial errand, and meet her that way. But the thought would come back with tiresome regularity–suppose the first person who came to the door, gave him the directions he wanted–and shut the door. Well, of course he could ask for a drink,… but even that might fail. Perhaps he should have brought an egg-beater–or a self-wringing mop to demonstrate, or some of the other things his friends had suggested. However, that did not need to be decided at once. Peter prided himself on his ability to leave tomorrow alone! So he made his way to the hotel on the corner, facing the station, untroubled by what the morrow might bring forth, and registered his name in the large book which the clerk swung around in front of him, and quietly asked for a room with a bath.

The clerk bit through the toothpick he had in his mouth, so great was his surprise, but he answered steadily:

“All rooms with bath are taken–only rooms with bed left.”

“Room with bed, then,” said Peter, and he was given the key of No. 17, and pointed to the black and red carpeted stairway.

CHAPTER XIII

THE STORM

It was a morning of ominous calm, with an hour of bright sun, gradually softening into a white shadow, as a fleecy cloud of fairy whiteness rolled over the sun’s face, giving a light on the earth like the garish light in a tent at high noon, a light of blinding whiteness that hurts the eyes, although the sun is hidden. It was as innocent a looking morning as any one would wish to see, still, warm, bright, with a heavy brooding air which deadens sound and makes sleighs draw hard and horses come out in foam.

James Crocks, of the Horse Repository, sniffed the air apprehensively, bit a semi-circle out of a plug of tobacco, and gave orders that no horse was to leave the barn that day, for “he might be mistaken, and he might not,” but he thought “we were in for it.”

Other people seemed to think the same, for no teams could be seen on any of the roads leading to the village. It was the kind of morning on which the old timers say, “Stay where you are, wherever it is–if there’s a roof over you!”

Wakening from a troubled dream of fighting gophers that turned to wild-cats, Mr. Neelands, in No. 17, made a hurried toilet, on account of the temperature of the room, for although the morning was warm, No. 17 still retained some of last week’s temperature, and to Mr. Neelands, accustomed to the steam heat of Mrs. Marlowe’s “Select Boarding House–young men a specialty”–it felt very chilly, indeed. But Mr. Neelands had his mind made up to be unmoved by trifles.

After a good breakfast in the dining room, Mr. Neelands walked out to see the little town–and to see what information he could gather. The well-dressed young man, with the pale gray spats, who carried a cane on his arm and wore a belted coat, attracted many eyes as he swung out gaily across the street toward the livery stable.

His plans were still indefinite. Bertie, who was in charge of the stable, gazed spell-bound on the vision of fashion which stood at the door, asking about a team. Bertie, for once, was speechless–he seemed to be gazing on his own better self–the vision he would like to see when he sought his mirror.

“I would like to get a team for a short run,” said Mr. Neelands politely.

“Where you goin’,” asked Bertie.

Mr. Neelands hesitated, and became tactful.

“I am calling on teachers,” he said, on a matter of business, “introducing a new set of books for school libraries.”

It was the first thing Mr. Neelands could think of, and he was quite pleased with it when he said it. It had a professional, business-like ring, which pleased him.

“A very excellent set of books, which the Department of Education desire to see in every school,” Mr. Neelands elaborated.

Then Bertie, always anxious to be helpful and to do a good deed, leapt to the door, almost upsetting Mr. Neelands in his haste. Bertie had an idea! Mr. Neelands did not connect his sudden departure with his recent scheme of enriching the life of the country districts with the set of books just mentioned, and therefore waited rather impatiently for the stableboy’s return.

Bertie burst in, with the same enthusiasm.

“See, Mister, here’s the teacher you want; I got her for you–she was just going to school.”

Bertie’s face bore the same glad rapture that veils the countenance of a cat when she throws a mouse at your feet with a casual “How’s that.”

Mr. Neelands found himself facing a brown-eyed, well-dressed young lady, with big question marks in both eyes, question marks which in a very dignified way demanded to know what it was all about.

In his confusion, Mr. Neelands, new in the art of diplomacy, blundered:

“Is this Miss Watson?” he stammered.

The reply was definite.

“It is not, and why did you call me.”

Icicles began to hang from the roof. Mr. Neelands would have been well pleased if they had fallen on him, or a horse had kicked him–or anything.

He blushed a ripe tomato red. Bertie, deeply grieved, reviewed the situation.

“He said he wanted to see the teachers, and I just went and got you–that’s all–you were the nearest teacher.”

“Awfully sorry,” began Mr. Neelands, “I did not know anything about it. I’m am just a stranger, you see.”

There was something in Miss Morrison’s eye which simply froze the library proposition. He could not frame the words.

“If you have any business with me you may make an appointment at the school. People who have business with the teachers generally do come to the school–not to the livery stable,” she added, in exactly the tone in which she would have said “All who have failed to get fifty per cent. in arithmetic will remain after four,” a tone which would be described as stern, but just.

Mr. Neelands leaned against a box-stall as Miss Morrison passed out. He wiped his face with the polka-dot handkerchief, and the word which the Cabinet Minister had used came easily to his lips.

“Why didn’t you speak to her when you got a chance?” asked Bertie, anxious to divert the blame and meet railing with railing. He was always getting in wrong just trying to help people. Darn it all! Mr. Neelands could still think of no word but the one.

“I wish it had been Pearl,” said Bertie, “Gee! she wouldn’t ha’ been so sore; she’d just laughed and jollied about it.”

“So you know Pearl, do you?” Mr. Neelands could feel a revival of interest in life; also the stiffness began to leave his lips, and his tongue felt less like tissue paper.

“I guess everyone knows Pearl,” said Bertie, with a consciousness of superiority on at least one point. Whereupon he again fulfilled the promises of youth, the leadings of his birth star and the promptings of his spirit guides, and told all he knew about the whole Watson family, not forgetting the roses he had taken to her, and Mrs. Crock’s diagnosis of it all.

He had an interested listener to it all, and under the inspiration which a sympathetic hearing gives he grew eloquent, and touched with his fine fancy the romantic part of it.

“Mrs. Crocks says she believes Pearl is pretty sweet on the Doctor. Pearl is one swell girl, and all that, but Mrs. Crocks says the Doctor will likely marry the Senator’s daughter. Gee! I wouldn’t if I was him. She hasn’t got the style that Pearl has–she rides a lot and has nerve–and all that, but she’s bow-legged!” His tone was indescribably scornful.

Mr. Neelands gasped.

“Yep,” went on Bertie complacently, “we see a lot here at the stable and get to know a lot–one way’n another–we can’t help it. They come and go, you know.”

“The doctor won’t run for Parliament–he turned it down. Mrs. Crocks thinks the Senator maybe persuaded him not to–the Senator is for the Government, of course, and it is the other side wanted the doctor; anyway, that suits old Steadman; he’ll likely go in again on account of the bridge at Purple Springs. Every one wants to get work on it with the Spring hangin’ back the way it is.” “How about a horse? I want to take a drive into the country,” said Mr. Neelands.

“No horse can go out of here today,” answered Bertie. “Mr. Crocks says there’ll be storm, and he won’t take no chances on his horses. He says people can judge for themselves and run risks if they want to, he’ll decide for the horses–and they can’t go.”

“O, all right,” said Mr. Neelands. “How far is it to the Watson farm?”

“Are you going out?” asked Bertie. “Better phone and see if she’s at home. Here’s the phone–I’ll get her.”

Mr. Neelands laid a restraining hand on Bertie’s arm. “Easy there, my friend,” he said, his tone resembling Miss Morrison’s in its commanding chilliness, “How far is it to the Watson farm?”

“Five miles in summer, four in winter,” Bertie answered a little sulkily.

“You would call this winter, I suppose,” said the traveller, looking out at the darkening street.

“I’d call it–oh, well, never mind what I’d call it–I’m always talking too much–call it anything you like.” Bertie grew dignified and reserved. “Call it the first of July if you like! I don’t care.”

That is how it came that Mr. Neelands took the out-trail when all the signs were against travelling, but to his unaccustomed eye there was nothing to fear in the woolly grayness of the sky, nor in the occasional snowflake that came riding on the wind. The roads were hard-packed and swept clean by the wind, and the sensation of space and freedom most enjoyable.

Mr. Neelands as he walked filed away tidily in his mind the information received. There were valuable clues contained in the stable-boy’s chatter, Which he would tabulate, regarding the lady of his quest. She was popular, approachable, gifted with a sense of humor, and perhaps disappointed in love. No clue was too small to be overlooked–and so, feeling himself one of the most deadly of sleuths, Mr. Neelands walked joyously on, while behind him there gathered one of the worst blizzards that the Souris Valley has known.

The storm began with great blobbery flakes of snow, which came elbowing each other down the wind, crossing and re-crossing, circling, drifting, whirling, fluttering, so dense and thick that the whole air darkened ominously, and the sun seemed to withdraw from the world, leaving the wind and the storm to their own evil ways.

The wind at once began its circling motions, whipping the snow into the traveller’s face, blinding and choking him, lashing him mercilessly and with a sudden impish delight, as if all the evil spirits of the air had declared war upon him.

He turned to look back, but the storm had closed behind him, having come down from the northwest and overtaken him as he walked. His only hope was to go with it, for to face it was impossible, and yet it seemed to have no direction, for it blew up in his face; it fell on him; it slapped him, jostled him, pushed him, roared in his ears, smothering him, drowning his cries with malicious joy. No cat ever worried or harrassed a mouse with greater glee than the storm fiends that frolicked through the valley that day, took their revenge on the city man, with his pointed boots, his silk-lined gloves, his belted coat and gray fedora, as he struggled on, slipping, choking, falling and rising. It seemed to him like a terrible nightmare, in its sudden, gripping fury.

It pounded on his eyeballs until he was not sure but his eyes were gone; it filled his mouth and ears, and cold water trickled down his back. His gloves were wet through, and freezing, for the air grew colder every minute, and the terror of the drowning man came to him. He struggled on madly, like a steer that feels the muskeg closing around him. He did not think; he fought, with the same instinct that drives the cattle blindly, madly on towards shelter and food, when the storm lashes them and the hunger rage drives them on.

Sylvester Paine, shaking the snow from his clothes like a water spaniel, and stamping all over the kitchen, was followed by his wife, who vainly tried to sweep it up as fast as it fell. She made no remonstrance, but merely swept, having long since earned that her liege lord was never turned aside from his purpose by any word of hers.

When he was quite done, and the snow was melting in pools on the floor, he delivered his opinion of the country and the weather: “This is sure a hell of a country,” he said, “that can throw a storm like this at the end of March.”

She made no reply–she had not made either the country or the weather, and would not take responsibility for them. She went on wiping up the water from the floor, with rebellion, slumbering, hidden rebellion in every movement, and the look in her eyes when she turned to the window, was a strange blending of rage and fear.

“Why don’t you answer me,” he said, turning around quickly, “Darn you, why can’t you speak when your spoken to?”

“You did not speak to me,” she said. “There was nothing for me to say.”

He looked at her for a moment–her silence exasperated him. She seemed to be keeping something back–something sinister and unknown.

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” he went on, in a voice that seemed to be made of iron filings, “you may not answer when I speak to you–you’ll do what you’re told. I’m not going to slave my life out on this farm when there’s easier money to be made. Why should you set yourself above me, and say you won’t go into a hotel? I have the right to decide, anyway. Better people than you have kept hotels, for all your airs. Are you any better than I am?”

“I hope so,” she said, without raising her eyes from the floor. She rose quietly and washed out her floorcloth, and stood drying her hands on the roller towel which hung on the kitchen door. There was an air of composure about her that enraged him. He could not make it out. The quality which made the women call her proud kindled his anger now.

The storm tore past the house, shaking it in its grip like a terrier shaking a rat. It seemed to mock at their trivial disputes, and seek to settle them by drowning the sound of them.

His voice rang above the storm:–

“I’ll sell the farm,” he shouted. “I’ll sell every cow and horse on it. I’ll sell the bed from under you–I’ll break you and your stuck-up ways, and you’ll not get a cent of money from me–not if your tongue was hanging out.”

The children shrank into corners and pitifully tried to efface themselves. The dog, with drooping tail, sought shelter under the table.

Sylvester Paine thought he saw a shrinking in her face, and followed up his advantage with a fresh outpouring of abuse.

“There’s no one to help you–or be sorry for you–you haven’t a friend in this neighborhood, with your stuck-up way. The women are sore on you–none of them ever come to see you or even phone you. Don’t you think I see it! You’ve no one to turn to, so you might as well know it–I’ve got you!”

His last words were almost screamed at her, as he strove to make his voice sound above the storm, and in a sudden lull of the storm, they rang through the house.

At the same moment there was a sound of something falling against the door and the dog, with bristling hair, ran out from his place of shelter.

Mrs. Paine turned quickly to the door and opened it, letting in a gust of blinding snow, which eddied in the room and melted on the hot stove.

A man, covered with snow, lay where he had fallen, exhausted on the doorstep.

“What’s this,” cried Paine, in a loud voice, as he ran forward; “where did this fellow come from?”

In his excitement he asked it over and over again, as if Mrs. Paine should know. She ventured no opinion, but busied herself in getting the snow from the clothes of her visitor and placing him in the rocking chair beside the fire. He soon recovered the power of speech, and thanked her gaspingly, but with deep sincerity.

“This is a deuce of a day for any one to be out,” began the man of the house. “Any fool could have told it was going to storm; what drove you out? Where did you come from, anyway?”

Mrs. Paine looked appealingly at him:–

“Let him get his breath, can’t you, see, he is all in,” she said quietly, “he’ll tell you, when he can speak.”

In a couple of hours, Peter Neelands, draped in a gray blanket, sat beside the fire, while his clothes were being dried, and rejoiced over the fact that he was alive. The near tragedy of the bright young lawyer found dead in the snow still thrilled him. It had been a close squeak, he told himself, and a drowsy sense of physical well-being made him almost unconscious of his surroundings. It was enough for him to be alive and warm.

Mrs. Paine moved about the house quietly, and did all she could with her crude means to make her guest comfortable, and to assure him of her hospitality. She pressed his clothes into shape again, and gave him a well-cooked dinner, as well served as her scanty supplies would allow, asking no questions, but with a quiet dignity making him feel that she was glad to serve him. There was something in her manner which made a strong appeal to the chivalrous heart of the young man. He wanted to help her–do something for her–make things easier for her.

The afternoon wore on, with no loosening of the grip of the storm, and Peter began to realize that he was a prisoner. He could have been quite happy with Mrs. Paine and the children, even though the floor of the kitchen was draughty and cold, the walls smoked, the place desolate and poor; but the presence of his host, with his insulting manners, soon grew unbearable. Mr. Paine sat in front of the stove, smoking and spitting, abusing the country, the weather, the Government, the church. Nothing escaped him, and everything was wrong.

A certain form of conceit shone through his words too, which increased his listener’s contempt. He had made many sharp deals in his time, of which he was inordinately proud. Now he gloated over them. Fifteen thousand dollars of horse notes were safely discounted in the bank, so he did not care, he said, whether spring came or not. He had his money. The bank could collect the notes.

Peter looked at him to see if he were joking. Surely no man with so much money would live so poorly and have his wife and children so shabbily dressed. Something of this must have shown in his face.

“I’ve made money,” cried Sylvester Paine, spitting at the leg of the stove; “and I’ve kept it–or spent it, just as I saw fit, and I did not waste is on a fancy house. What’s a house, anyway, but a place to eat and sleep. I ain’t goin’ to put notions into my woman’s head, with any big house–she knows better than to ask it now. If she don’t like the house–the door is open–let her get out–I say. She can’t take the kids–and she won’t go far without them.”

He laughed unpleasantly: “That’s the way to have them, and by gosh! there’s one place I admired the old Premier–in the way he roasted those freaks of women who came askin’ for the vote. I don’t think much of the Government, but I’m with them on that–in keepin’ the women where they belong.”

“But why,” interrupted Peter, with a very uneasy mind, “why shouldn’t women have something to say?”

“Are you married?” demanded his host.

“No, not yet,” said Peter blushing.

“Well, when you’re married–will you let your wife decide where you will live? How you earn your living–and all that? No sir, I’ll bet you won’t–you’ll be boss, won’t you? I guess so. Well, every man has that right, absolutely. Here am I–I’m goin’ to sell out here and buy a hotel–there’s good money in it, easy livin’. She–” there was an unutterable scorn in his voice, “says she won’t go–says it ain’t right to sell liquor. I say she’ll come with me or get out. She might be able to earn her own livin’, but she can’t take the kids. Accordin’ to law, children belong to the father–ain’t that right? There’s a man comin’ to buy the farm–I guess he would have been out today, only for the storm. We have the bargain made–all but the signin’ up.”

Mrs. Paine stood still in the middle of the floor, and listened in terror. “A man coming to buy the farm!” Every trace of color left her face! Maybe it was not true.

He saw the terror in her face, and followed up his advantage.

“People have to learn to do as they’re told when I’m round. No one can defy me–I’ll tell you that. Every one knows me–I can be led, but I cant be driven.”

Peter Neelands had the most uncomfortable feeling he had ever known. He was not sure whether it was his utter aversion to the man who sat in front of the stove, boasting of his sharp dealing, or a physical illness which affected him, but a horrible nausea came over him. His head swam–his eardrums seemed like to burst–every bone began to ache.

The three days that followed were like a nightmare, which even time could never efface or rob of its horror. The fight with the storm had proven such a shock to him that for three days a burning fever, alternating with chills, held him in its clutches, and even when the storm subsided kept him a prisoner sorely against his will.

In these three days, at close range, he saw something of a phase of life he had never even guessed at. He did not know that human beings could live in such crude conditions, without comforts, without even necessities. It was like a bad dream–confused, humiliating, horrible–and when on the third day he was able to get into his clothes his one desire was to get away–and yet, to leave his kind hostess who had so gently nursed him and cared for him, seemed like an act of desertion.

However, when he was on his feet, though feeling much shaken, and still a bit weak, his courage came back. Something surely could be done to relieve conditions like this.

The snow was piled fantastically in huge mounds over the fields, and the railway cuts would be drifted full, so no train would run for days. But Peter felt that he could walk the distance back to town.

His host made no objection, and no offer to drive him.

In the tiny bedroom off the kitchen, which Mrs. Paine had given him, as he shiveringly made his preparations for leaving, he heard a strange voice in the other room, a girl’s voice, cheery, pleasant.

“I just came in to see how you are, Mrs. Paine. No thank you, I won’t put the team in the stable–I ran them into the shed. I am on my way home from driving the children to school. Some storm, wasn’t it? The snow is ribbed like a washboard, but it is hard enough to carry the horses.”

Peter came out, with his coat and his hat in his hand, and was introduced. His first thought was one of extreme mortification–three days’ beard was on his face. His toilet activities had been limited in number. He knew he felt wretched, seedy, groggy–and looked it. Something in Pearl’s manner re-assured him.

“Going to town?” said she kindly, “rather too far for you to walk when you are feeling tough. Come home with me if you are not in a hurry, and I will drive you in this afternoon.”

Peter accepted gladly.

He hardly looked at her, holding to some faint hope that if he did not look at her she would not be able to see him either, and at this moment Peter’s one desire was not to be seen, at least by this girl.

In a man’s coonskin coat she stood at the door, with her face rosy with the cold. She brought an element of hope and youth, a new spirit of adventure into the drab room, with its sodden, commonplace dreariness. Peter’s spirits began to rise.

Outside the dogs began to bark, and a cutter went quickly past the window.

Mrs. Paine, looking out, gave a cry of alarm.

“Wait, Pearl! Oh, don’t go!” she cried, “stay with me. It’s the man who is going to buy the farm. He said he was coming, but I didn’t believe him;” her hands were locking and unlocking.

Without a word, Pearl slipped off her coat and waited. She seemed to know the whole situation, and instinctively Peter began to feel easier. There was something about this handsome girl, with the firmly-set and dimpled chin, which gave him confidence.

In a few moments Sylvester Paine and his caller came in from the barn. Pearl stood beside Mrs. Paine, protectingly. Her face had grown serious; she knew the fight was on.

Sylvester Paine nodded to her curtly, and introduced his guest to every one at once.

“This is Mr. Gilchrist,” he said, “and now we’ll get to business. Get the deeds.” he said, to his wife shortly.

Mrs. Paine went upstairs.

“Who did you say the young lady is,” asked Mr. Gilchrist, who thought he recognized Pearl, but not expecting to see her here, wished to be sure. Mr. Gilchrist, as President of the Political Association, had heard about Pearl, and hoped she might be an able ally in the coming election.

“This is Pearl Watson,” said Mr. Paine, rather grudgingly. “This is the girl that’s working up the women to thinking that they ought to vote. Her father and mother are good neighbors of mine, and Pearl was a nice kid, too, until she went to the city and got a lot of fool notions.”

“I’m a nice kid yet,” said Pearl, smiling at him, and compelling him to meet her eye, “and I am a good neighbor of yours too, Mr. Paine, for I am going to do something for you today that no one has ever done. I’m going to tell you something.”

She walked over to the table and motioned to the two men to sit down, though she remained standing. Sylvester Paine stared at her uncomprehendingly. The girl’s composure was disconcerting. Her voice had a vibrant passion in it that made Peter’s heart begin to beat. It was like watching a play that approaches its climax.

“Mr. Gilchrist probably does not understand that there is a small tragedy going on here today. Maybe he does not know the part he is playing in it. It is often so in life, that people do not know the part they played until it is too late to change. You’ve come here today to buy the farm.”

Mr. Gilchrist nodded.

“Ten years ago this farm was idle land. Mr. and Mrs. Paine homesteaded it, and have made it one of the best in the country. It has been hard work, but they have succeeded. For the last five years Mr. Paine has not been much at home–he has bought cattle and horses and shipped them to the city, and has done very well, and now has nearly fifteen thousand dollars in the bank. There is no cleverer man in the country than Mr. Paine in making a bargain, and he is considered one of the best horsemen in the Province. He pays his debts, keeps his word, and there is no better neighbor in this district.”

Sylvester Paine watched her open-mouthed–amazed. How did she know all this? It made strange music in his ears, for, in spite of all his bluster, he hungered for praise; for applause. Pearl’s words fell like a shower on a thirsty field.

“Meanwhile,” Pearl went on, “Mrs. Paine runs the farm, and makes it pay, too. Although Mrs. Paine works the hardest of the two, Mr. Paine handles all the money, and everything is in his name. He has not noticed just how old and worn her clothes are. Being away so much, the manner of living does not mean so much to him as to her, for she is always here. Mrs. Paine is not the sort of woman who talks. She never complains to the other women, and they call her proud. I think Mrs. Paine has been to blame in not telling Mr. Paine just how badly she needs new clothes. He always looks very well himself, and I am sure he would like to see her well dressed, and the children too. But she will not ask him for money, and just grubs along on what she can get with the butter money. She is too proud to go out poorly dressed, and so does not leave home for months at a time, and of course, that’s bad for her spirits, and Mr. Paine gets many a cross look from her when he comes home. It makes him very angry when she will not speak–he does not understand.”

“Mr. Paine’s intention now is to sell the farm and buy the hotel in Millford. He will still go on buying cattle, and his wife will run the hotel. She does not want to do this. She says she will not do it–it is not a proper place in which to raise her children. She hates the liquor business. This is her home, for which she has worked.”

“It is not much of a home; it’s cold in winter and hot in summer. You would never think a man with fifteen thousand dollars in the bank would let his wife and children live like this, without even the common decencies of life. That’s why Mrs. Paine has never had any of her own people come to visit her, she is ashamed for them to see how badly off she is. No, it is not much of a home, but she clings to it. It is strange how women and animals cling to their homes. You remember the old home on the road to Hampton your people had, Mr. Gilchrist, the fine old house with the white veranda and the big red barn? It was the best house on the road. It burned afterwards–about three years ago.”

Mr. Gilchrist nodded.

“Well, we bought, when we came to our farm here, one of your father’s horses, the old Polly mare–do you remember Polly?”

“I broke her in,” he said, “when she was three.”

“Well, Polly had been away a long time from her old home, but last summer when we drove to Hampton Polly turned in to the old place and went straight to the place where the stable had stood. There was nothing there–even the ruins are overgrown with lamb’s quarters–but Polly went straight to the spot. It had been home to her.”

A silence fell on the room.

“There is no law to protect Mrs. Paine,” Pearl went on, after a long pause. “The law is on your side, Mr. Gilchrist. If you want the place there is no law to save Mrs. Paine. Mr. Paine is quite right in saying he can take the children, so she will have to follow. Mrs. Paine is not the sort of woman to desert her children. She would live even in a hotel rather than desert her children. The law is on your side, gentlemen–you have the legal right to go on with the transaction.”

“What law is this?” said Mr. Gilchrist.

“The law of this Province,” said Pearl.

“Do you mean to say,” said Mr. Gilchrist hotly, “that Mrs. Paine cannot claim any part of the price of this farm as her own–or does not need to sign the agreement of sale. Has she no claim at all?”

“She has none,” said Pearl, “she has no more claim on this farm than the dog has!”

“By Gosh! I never knew that,” he cried. “We’ll see a lawyer in town before we do anything. That’s news to me.”

“Are you sure of it, Pearl?” Mrs. Paine whispered. “Maybe there’s something I can do. This young man is a lawyer–maybe he could tell us.”

Sylvester Paine was trying to recover his point of view.

“Can you tell us,” Pearl asked Peter, who sat in a corner, intensely listening, “what the law says.”

“The law,” said Peter miserably–as one who hates the word he is about to utter–“gives a married woman no rights. She has no claim on her home, nor on her children. A man can sell or will away his property from his wife. A man can will away his unborn child–and it’s a hell of a law,” he added fiercely.

Pearl turned to Robert Gilchrist, saying, “Mr. Gilchrist, the law is with you. The woman and the three children have no protection. Mr. Paine is willing that they should be turned out. It is up to you.”

Mrs. Paine, who had come down the stairs with the deed in her hand, laid it on the table and waited. For some time no one spoke.

Sylvester Paine looked at the floor. He was a heavy-set man, with a huge head, bare-faced and rather a high forehead. He did not seem to be able to lift his eyes.

“I suppose,” continued Pearl, “the people who made the laws did not think it would ever come to a show-down like this. They thought that when a man promised to love and cherish a woman–he would look after her and make her happy, and see to it that she had clothes to wear and a decent way of living–if he could. Of course, there are plenty of men who would gladly give their wives everything in life, but they can’t, poor fellows–for they are poor; but Mr. Paine is one of the best off men in the district. He could have a beautiful home if he liked, and his wife could be the handsomest woman in the neighborhood. She is the sort of woman who would show off good clothes too. I suppose her love of pretty things has made her all the sorer, because she has not had them. I just wanted to tell you, Mr. Gilchrist, before you closed the deal. Mrs. Paine would never tell you, and naturally enough Mr. Paine wouldn’t. In fact he does not know just how things stand. But I feel that you should know just what you are doing if you take this farm. Of course, it is hardly fair to expect you to protect this woman’s home and her children, and save her from being turned out, if her husband won’t–you are under no obligation to protect her. She made her choice years ago–with her eyes open–when she married Sylvester Paine. It seems … she guessed wrong … and now … she must pay!”

Mrs. Paine sank into a chair with a sob that seemed to tear her heart out. The auburn hair fell across her face, her lovely curly hair, from which in her excitement she had pulled the pins. It lay on the table in ringlets of gold, which seemed to writhe, as if they too were suffering. Her breath came sobbing, like a dog’s dream.

Sylvester Paine was the first to speak.

“Pearl, you’re wrong in one place,” he said, “just one–you had everything else straight. But you were wrong in one place.”

He went around the table and laid his hand on his wife’s head.

“Millie,” he said, gently.

She looked up at him tearfully.

“Millie!”

He stood awkwardly beside her, struggling to control himself. All the swagger had gone from him, all the bluster. When he spoke his voice was husky.

“Pearl has got it all straight, except in one place.” he said. “She’s wrong in one place. She says you guessed wrong when you married me, Millie.”

His voice was thick, and the words came with difficulty.

“Pearl has done fine, and sized the case up well … but she’s wrong there. It looks bad just now, Millie–but you didn’t make such a rotten guess, after all. I’m not just sayin’ what I’ll do, but–“

“The deal is off, Bob,” he said to Mr. Gilchrist, “until Mrs. Paine and I talk things over.”

And then Pearl quietly slipped into her coat and, motioning to Peter, who gladly followed her, went out.

CHAPTER XIV

THE SEVENTH WAVE

The big storm had demoralized the long-distance telephone service, so, that it was by night lettergram that George Steadman was commissioned by the official organizer of the Government to find P.J. Neelands, who had not been heard of since the morning of the storm. Mr. Steadman was somewhat at a loss to know how to proceed.

He was very sorry about Mr. Neelands and his reported disappearance. Mr. Neelands was one of the friendliest and most approachable of the young political set, and Mr. Steadman had often listened to his speeches, and always with appreciation. He wondered why Mr. Neelands had come to Millford now without telling him.

At the hotel, nothing was known of the young man, only that he had taken a room, registered, slept one night, and gone, leaving all his things. Mr. Steadman was conducted to Number 17, and shown the meagre details of the young man’s brief stay. His toilet articles, of sterling silver with his monogram, lay on the turkish towel, which at once concealed and protected the elm top of the bureau; his two bags, open and partly unpacked, took up most of the floor space in the room. His dressing-gown was hung on one of the two hooks on the back of the door, suspended by one shoulder, which gave it a weary, drunken look. There was something melancholy and tragic about it all.

“In the midst of life we are in death,” said George Steadman to himself piously, and shuddered. “It looks bad. Poor young fellow–cut off in his prime–he did not even have a fur coat! and went out never thinking.”

He examined the telegram again–“On business for the Government,” it said, “of a private nature. See ‘Evening Echo’ March 21st, Page 23.” What could that mean?

George Steadman did not take the “Evening Echo.” He hated the very sight of it. The “Morning Sun” was good enough for him. He remembered the thrill of pride he had felt when his Chief had said one day in debate, that he wanted nothing better than the “Sun” and the Bible. It was an able utterance, he thought, reminding one of the good old Queen’s reply to the Ethiopian Prince, and should have made its appeal even to the Opposition; but the leader had said, in commenting on it, that he was glad to know his honorable friend was broad-minded enough to read both sides!

And now he was told to look up the Opposition paper, and the very page was given. His first thought was that it was a personal attack upon himself. But how could that be? He never opened his mouth in the house–he never even expressed an opinion, and as the campaign had not yet begun–he had not done anything.

He read the telegram again. In desperation he went back to the long distance booth, but found the line still out of order, and a wire had come giving the details of the damage done by the storm. It would be several days before communication could be established. There was no help coming from headquarters, and from the wording of the telegram there seemed to be a reason for their not giving clear details. He must get a copy of the paper.

Reluctantly he went to the printing office and made known his errand. Mr. Driggs was delighted to give him the paper–he had it some place, though he very seldom opened any of his exchanges. He evidently bore Mr. Steadman no ill-will for his plain talk two weeks ago. With some difficulty he found it, with its wrapper still intact. It was a loose wrapper, which slipped off and on easily. Mr. Steadman remarked carelessly that there was an editorial in it to which his attention had been drawn, on hearing which Mr. Driggs turned his head and winked at an imaginary accomplice.

Mr. Steadman went over to the livery stable to find a quiet, clover-scented corner in which he might peruse his paper. An intuitive feeling cautioned him to be alone when he read it.

In the office, Mr. Steadman found a chair, and opened his paper. Bertie, ever on the alert for human interest stories, watched from a point of vantage. He told Mrs. Crocks afterwards about it.

“The paper seemed to tangle up at first and stick to his fingers. He wrastled it round and round and blew on it, and turned over pages and folded it back–Gee, there was a lot of it. It filled the whole table, and pieces dropped on the floor. He put his foot on them, like as if he was afraid they’d get away. At last he found something, and he just snorted–I got as close as I could, but I couldn’t see what it was. There was a picture of a girl–and he read on and on, and snorted out three times, and the sweat stood out on his face. Twice he cleared up his throat like your clock does when it gets ready to strike, and then he tore out a page of the paper and put it in his pocket, and he gathered up the rest of it and burned it, all but one sheet that was under the table, and I got it here.”

Bertie brought home the news at six o’clock. Mrs. Crocks had a copy of the paper in her hands at six-fifteen.

Meanwhile, George Steadman, was feeling the need of counsel. His head swam, and a cruel sense of injustice ate into his heart. He was a quiet man–he did not deserve this. All his life he had sidestepped trouble–and here it was staring him in the face. In desperation he went to Driggs, the editor. He was a shrewd fellow–he would know what was best to be done.

He found Mr. Driggs still in a sympathetic mood. He threw back his long black hair and read the article, with many exclamations of surprise. In places he smiled–once he laughed.

“How can any one answer this, Driggs?” asked Mr. Steadman in alarm. “What can be done about it? I wish you would write something about it. I can’t think who would do this. There were no strangers that day at the school–not that I noticed. None of our people would do it. What do you think about it, Driggs? Would the girl write it herself?”

“No,” replied the editor honestly, “I am quite sure Pearl did not do this.”

Suddenly Mr. Steadman thought of the telegram and the missing man. He resolved to take Driggs into his confidence.

Driggs was as quick to see the import of it as King James was to smell gunpowder on that fateful November day when the warning letter was read in Parliament.

“The Government have sent him out to investigate this in your behalf,” he said.

“But where is he?” asked Mr. Steadman.

Mr. Driggs’ bushy brows drew down over his eyes.

“There’s one person can help us,” he said. He threw on his jute-colored waterproof and his faded felt hat. Mr. Steadman followed him as he went quickly to the Horse Repository.

Bertie was hastily consulted, and Bertie as usual ran true.

“Sure I saw him,” said Bertie. “Ain’t he back yet? Gee! I’ll bet he’s froze! He’ll be dead by now for sure. He had on awful nice clothes, but thin toes on his boots, sharp as needles, and gray socks with dots on them, and a waist on his coat like as if he wore corsets, and gray gloves–and a cane, Swell! He was some fine looker, you bet, but he wouldn’t last long in that storm.”

“Where did he go, Bertie,” asked Mr. Steadman, trying to hold his voice to a tone of unconcern.

“He asked about teachers, and about how far it was to Watsons.”

Mr. Driggs and Mr. Steadman’s eyes met.

“If he’s any place,” said Bertie cheerfully, “he’ll be there.”

To the Watson’s Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs determined to go, although, by this time the evening was well advanced.

The storm had piled the snow into huge drifts which completely filled the railway cuts, but fortunately for those who travelled the sleigh roads, the snow was packed so hard that horses could walk safely over it. Bridges over ravines were completely covered, people made tunnels to the doors of their stables, and in some cases had to dig the snow away from their windows to let the light in. But the sun had come out warm, and the weather prophets said it was the last storm of the season.

When Mr. Steadman and Mr. Driggs approached the Watson home, they found every window lighted and several sleighs in the yard. From the house came sounds of laughter and many voices.

“There is no funeral here,” said Mr. Driggs lightly.

George Steadman shuddered, “he may never have reached here,” he said in a voice of awe.

They knocked at the woodshed door, but no one heard them. Then they went quietly in, and finding the kitchen door open, went in.

Mr. Watson, who stood at the door of the “room,” shook hands with them quietly, and said in a whisper:–

“They’re acting tableaux now, just step up to the door and see them. The children are having a party. Pearl will explain it in a minute. Just step in and watch; you’re just in time–they’re just goin’ to do King Canute.”

The two men looked in. About a dozen young people were in the room, which was well lighted by a gasoline hanging-lamp. The furniture was pushed into a corner to leave a good floor space. A curtain was suspended from one of the beams, and behind it there seemed to be great activity and whispered directions. Every one was so intently waiting, they did not notice that the audience had been augmented by the two men at the door.

In front of the curtain came Pearl to announce the next tableaux:–

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said solemnly, although her audience began to laugh expectantly, “we will now present to you a historical tableaux, a living picture of a foolish old king, who thought he could command the waves to stand still. Seated in his arm-chair on the shore you will see King Canute. Behind him are the rugged hills of the Saxon coast. Before him the sea tosses angrily. The tide is rolling in. Each wave is a little bigger than the last, the seventh wave being the largest of all. This tableaux, ladies and gentlemen, in the production of which we have spared no trouble and expense, teaches the vanity of human greatness. Careful attention has been given to detail, as you will observe.”

She disappeared behind the curtain for a moment, and when it was pulled back by invisible hands–(broom wire handled by Mary) she was discovered sitting robed in purple (one of the girls had brought her mother’s Japanese dressing-gown) with a homemade but very effective crown on her head. Her throne was an arm-chair, raised on blocks of wood. As King Canute, Pearl’s eyes were eagle-like and keen, her whole bearing full of arrogance and pride. Dramatically she waved her right arm towards the sea, and in bitter words chided it for its restless tossing, and commanded it to hear the words of the ALL HIGH, Great and Powerful King, and stay–just–where–it–was!

But even as she spoke, a small wave came rolling in, gently lapping the shore. It was Danny Watson, with a small white apron tied around his person, which at each revolution, made a white crest of breaking foam.

The King re-doubled his imprecations, and commands, tearing his hair and threatening to rend his garments, but wave after wave came rhythmically to shore, growing in size and speed, until the seventh wave, crested with foam–a pillow-case torn across and fastened with safety-pins–came crashing to her feet, amid thunderous applause.

When the company, with the king at one end and the first and smallest wave at the other, stood up to take their applause, and respond to curtain calls, next to Pearl stood the seventh wave–crested with foam, dishevelled of hair–a four days’ growth of whiskers on his face–but a happy-looking wave–nevertheless.

Mr. Steadman grabbed hold of his friend hysterically. He could not speak.

“Well, thank God, he’s not dead anyway,” he gasped at last.

“But I fancy,” murmured Mr. Driggs, “that he is dead–to the cause!”

“Make a speech, Pearl,” cried one of the company. “Mr. Neelands would like to hear you do that one of the Premier’s, when he laid the cornerstone, about ‘the generations yet unborn.’ Go on, Pearl, that’s a good one!”

“Don’t forget ‘the waves of emigration breaking at our feet’!” said Mary, handing Pearl one of Teddy’s coats.

Pearl slipped on the coat, carefully adjusting the collar. Then fingering an imaginary watch-chain, she began. Her face grew grave–her neck seemed to thicken. Her voice was a throaty contralto.

“We are gathered here today.” she declaimed, “to take part in a ceremonial, whose import we cannot even remotely guess! Whose full significance will be revealed, not in your time or mine, but to the generations yet unborn!”

Peter Neelands gave a shout of recognition! Mr. Driggs felt a strong hand on his arm. George Steadman whispered hoarsely. “Come away, Driggs. That girl frightens me. This is no place for us!”

CHAPTER XV

THE COMING OF SPRING

The Spring was late, cruelly late, so late indeed that if it had been anything else but a season, it would have found itself in serious trouble–with the door locked and a note pinned on the outside telling it if it could not come in time it need not come at all. But the Spring has to be taken in, whenever it comes–and be forgiven too, and even if there were no note on the door, there were other intimations of like effect, which no intelligent young Spring could fail to understand. Dead cattle lay on the river bank, looking sightlessly up to the sky. They had waited, and waited, and hung on to life just as long as they could, but they had to give in at last.

Spring came at last, brimful of excitement and apologies. It was a full-hearted, impulsive and repentant young Spring, and lavished all its gifts with a prodigal hand; its breezes were as coaxing as June; its head burned like the first of July; its sunshine was as rich and mellow as the sunshine of August. Spring had acknowledged its debt and the overdue interest, and hoped to prevent any unpleasantness by paying all arrears and a lump sum in advance; and doing it all with such a flourish of good fellowship that the memory of its past delinquency would be entirely swept away!

The old Earth, frozen-hearted and bleached by wind and cold, and saddened by many a blighted hope, lay still and unresponsive under the coaxing breezes and the sunshine’s many promises. The Earth knew what it knew, and if it were likely to forget, the red and white cattle on the hillside would remind it. The Earth knew that these same warm breezes had coaxed it into life many times before, and it had burst into bud and flowers and fruit, forgetting and forgiving the past with its cold and darkness, and the earth remembered that the flowers had withered and the fruit had fallen, and dark days had come when it had no pleasure in them, and so although the sun was shining and the warm winds blowing–the earth lay as unresponsive as the pulseless cattle on its cold flat breast.

But the sun poured down its heat, and the warm breezes frolicked into the out-of-the-way places, where old snowdrifts were hiding their black faces, and gradually their hard hearts broke and ran away in creeping streams, and the earth returned to the earth that gave it; a mist too, arose from the earth, and softened its bare outlines, and soon the first anemone pushed its furry nose through the mat of gray grass, and scored another victory on the robin; the white poplar blushed green at its roots; the willows at the edge of the river reddened higher and higher, as the sap mounted; headings of mouse-ears soon began to show on their branches–a green, glow came over the prairie, and in the ponds, It millions of frogs, at the signal from an unknown conductor, burst into song.

Then it was that the tired old Earth stopped thinking and began to feel–a thrill–a throb–a pulsing of new life–the stirring of new hopes which mocked its fears of cold or frost or sorrow or death.

The Souris Valley opened forgiving arms to the repentant young Spring, and put forth leaves in gayest fashion. The white bones, fantastically sticking through faded red hides, were charitably hidden by the grass, so that the awakened conscience of the tender young Spring might not be unduly reminded of its cruelty and neglect.

The woman who lived alone at Purple Springs always expected great things of the Spring. She could not grow accustomed to the coldness of her neighbors, or believe that they had really cut her off from any communication, and all through the winter which had just gone she had kept on telling herself that everything would be different in the Spring. Looking day after day into the white valley, piled high with snow, she had said to herself over and over again: “There shall be no more snow–there shall be no more snow”–until the words began to mock her and taunt her, and at last lost their meaning altogether like an elastic band that has stretched too far. If she had been as close a student of the Bible as her mother, back in Argylshire, she would have known that her impatience with the snow, which all winter long had threatened and menaced her, and peered at her with its thousand eyes, was just the same feeling that prompted John on the Isle of Patmos, wearied by the eternal breaking of the waves on his island prison, to set down as the first condition in the heavenly city: “There shall be no sea.”

Three years before, Mrs. Gray had come to the Souris Valley, and settled on the hill farm. It had been owned by a prospector, who once in a while lived on it, but went away for long periods, when it was believed he had gone north into that great unknown land of fabled riches. He had not been heard from for several years, and the people of the neighborhood had often wondered what would be done with the quarter-section, which was one of the best in the district, in case he never came back. The Cowan’s, who lives nearest, had planted one of the fields, and used the land for the last two seasons. The Zinc’s had run their cattle in the pasture, and two of the other neighbors were preparing to use the remaining portions of the farm, when there arrived Mrs. Gray and her seven-year-old son to take possession.

It was Mr. Cowan who demanded to know by what right she came, and when she had convinced him by showing him the deed of the farm, she came back at him by demanding that he pay her the rent for the acres he had used, which he did with a bad grace.

She had not been long in the neighborhood when there came to demonstrate a new sewing machine a drooping-eyed, be-whiskered man, in a slim buggy, drawn by a team of sorrel ponies. He claimed to have known Mrs. Gray in that delightfully vague spot known as “down East,” and when he found how eagerly any information regarding her was received, he grew eloquent.

Mrs. Cowan departed from her hard and fast rule, and the rule of her mother before her, and asked him to stay for dinner, and being an honest man, in small matters at least, the agent did his best to pay for his victuals. He told her all he knew–and then some, prefacing and footnoting his story with the saving clause “Now this may be only talk–but, anyway, it is what they said about her.” He was not a malicious man–he bore the woman, who was a stranger to him, no grudge; but that day as he sat at dinner in the Cowan’s big, bare kitchen, he sent out the words which made life hard for the woman at Purple Springs.

So much for the chivalry of the world and the kindly protection it extends to women.

Vague rumors were circulated about her, veiled, indefinite insinuations. The Ladies’ Aid decided they would not ask her to join, at least not until they saw how things were going. She might be all right, but they said a church society must be careful.

The women watched each other to see who would go to see her first. She came to church with her boy, to the little church on the river flat, and the minister shook hands with her and told her he was glad to see her. But the next week his wife, spending the afternoon at Mrs. Cowan’s, “heard something,” and the next Sunday, although he shook hands with her and began to say he was glad to see her, catching Mrs. Cowan’s eye on him, he changed his sentence and said he was glad to see so many out.

All summer long the women at Purple Springs held to the hope that someone would come to see her. At first she could not believe they were wilfully slighting her. It was just their way, she thought. They were busy women; she often saw them out in their gardens, and at such times it was hard for her to keep from waving to them.

The woman who lived the nearest to her, geographically, was Mrs. Cowan, and one day–the first summer–she saw Mrs. Cowan beating rugs on the line, and as the day was breezy, it seemed as if she waved her apron. Mrs. Gray waved back, in an ecstacy of joy and expectation–but there came no response from her neighbor–no answering signal, and as the lonely woman watched, hoping, looking, praying–there rolled over her with crushing sadness the conviction that all her hopes of friendliness were in vain. The neighborhood would not receive her–she was an outcast. They were condemning her without a hearing–they were hurling against her the thunders of silence! The injustice of it ate deeply into her soul.

Then it was that she began to make the name “Purple Springs” out of the willow withes which grew below the house. She made the letters large, and with a flourish, and dyed them the most brilliant purple they would take, and set them on a wire foundation above her gate. The work of doing it gave solace to her heart, and when the words were set in place–it seemed to her that she had declared her independence, and besides, they reminded her of something very sweet and reassuring–something which helped her to hold her head up against the current of ill thoughts her neighbors were directing toward her.

That was the year the school was built, and no other name for it but “Purple Springs” was even mentioned, and when the track was extended from Millford west, and a mahogany-red station built, with a tiny freight shed of the same color, the name of Purple Springs in white letters was put on each end of the station. So, although the neighbors would not receive the woman, they took the name she brought.

Her son Jim, a handsome lad of seven, went to school the first day it was opened. Her mother heart was fearful for the reception he might get, and yet she tried to tell herself that children were more just than their elders. They would surely be fair to Jim, and when she had him ready, with his leather book-bag, his neat blue serge knickerbocker suit, his white collar and well-polished boots, she thought, with a swelling of pride, that there would not be a handsomer child in the school, nor one that was better cared for.

Down the hill went Jim Gray, without a shadow on his young heart. So long as he had his mother, and his mother smiled at him, life was all sunshine.

He gave his name to the teacher, and answered all her questions readily, and was duly enrolled as a pupil in Grade I, along with Bennie Cowan, Edgar Zinc and Bessie Brownlees, and set at work to make figures. He wondered what the teacher wanted with so many figures, but decided he would humor her, and made page after page of them for her. By noon the teacher decided, on further investigation, to put Master James Gray in Grade II, and by four o’clock he was a member in good standing of Grade III.

That night there was much talk of James Gray, his good clothes, and his general proficiency, around the firesides of the Purple Springs district.

The next day Bennie Cowan, who was left behind in Grade I, although a year older than Jim Gray, made the startling announcement:

“Jim Gray has no father.”

He sang the words, gently intoning, as if he took no responsibility of them any more than if they were the words of a song, for Bennie was a cautious child, and while he did not see that the absence of a father was anything to worry over, still, from the general context of the conversation he had heard, he believed it was something of a handicap.

The person concerned in his announcement, being busy with a game of marbles, did not notice. So quite emboldened, Bennie sang again, “Jim Gray has no father–and never had one.”

The marble game came to an end.

“Do you mean me?” asked Jim, with a puzzled look.

The others stopped playing, too. It was a fearsome moment. Jim Gray was the most unconcerned of the group.

“That’s all you know about it,” he said carelessly, as he shut one eye and took steady aim at the “dib” in the ring, “I’ve had two.”

“Nobody can have two fathers–on earth,” said Bessie Brownlees piously–“we have one father on earth and one in heaven.”

“Mine ain’t on earth,” said Jimmy, “mine are both in heaven.”

That was a poser.

“I’ll bet they’re not,” said Bennie, feeling emboldened by Jim’s admission of a slight irregularity in his paternal arrangements.

“How do you know?” asked Jim, still puzzled. It did not occur to him that there was anything unfriendly in the conversation–“You never saw them!”

“Well,” said Bennie, crowded now to play his highest card, “anyway, your mother is a bad woman.”

Jim looked at him in blank astonishment. His mother a bad woman, his dear mother! The whole world turned suddenly red to Jim Gray–he did not need any one to tell him that the time had come to fight.

The cries of Bennie Cowan brought the teacher flying. Bennie, with bleeding lip and blackened eyes, was rescued, and a tribunal sat forthwith on the case.

James Gray refused to tell what Bennie Cowan had said. His tongue could not form the words of blasphemy. The other children, all of whom had heard his history unfavorably discussed at home, did not help him, and the case went against the boy who had no friends. Exaggerated tales were told of his violence. By the end of the week he had struck Bennie Cowan with a knife. A few days later it was told that he had kicked the teacher. Nervous mothers were afraid to have their children exposed to the danger of playing with such a vicious child.

One day a note was given to him to take home. It was from the trustees, asking Mrs. Gray if she would kindly keep her son James at home, for his ungovernable temper made it unsafe for other children to play with him.

That was three years ago. Annie Gray and her son were as much a mystery as ever. She looked well, dressed well, rode astride, wore bloomers, and used a rifle, and seemed able to live without either the consent or good-will of the neighborhood.

In harvest time she still further outraged public opinion by keeping a hired man, who, being a virtuous man, who had respect for public opinion, even if she hadn’t, claimed fifteen dollars a month extra for a sort of moral insurance against loss of reputation. She paid the money so cheerfully that the virtuous man was sorry he had not made it twenty!

It was to this district, with its under-current of human passions, mystery and misunderstanding, that Pearl Watson came. The miracle of Spring was going on–bare trees budding, dead flowers springing; the river which had been a prisoner all winter, running brimming full, its ice all gone, and only little white cakes of foam riding on its current. Over all was the pervading Spring smell of fresh earth, and the distant smoulder of prairie fires.

CHAPTER XVI

PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF CLAY

When the train came in from the west, Dr. Clay stepped off and walked quickly to his office. He called at the drug store before going to his private office, and inquired of the clerk:

“Any one wanting me, Tommy?”

“Sure–two or three–but nothing serious. Bill Snedden wanted you to come out and see his horse.”

“See his horse!” exclaimed the doctor in surprise.

“Yes, Democracy hasn’t been feeling well. Just sort of mopin’ around the stall. Not sick–just out of sorts, you know, down-hearted like.”

“Well, why doesn’t he get Dr. Moody? Horses are not my line.”

“O but he says this is different. Democracy is more like a human being than a horse, and Dr. Moody don’t know much about a horse’s higher nature. He says he’s scared to have Dr. Moody come out anyway–every time he comes, a horse dies, and he’s gettin’ superstitious about it. T’aint that he has anything against Dr. Moody. He spoke well of him and said he was nice to have around in time of trouble, he’s so sympathetic and all that, but he don’t want to take any chances with Democracy. He would have liked awful well to see you, doctor. I told him you’d be home tonight, and he’ll give you a ring. No, there was nothing serious. There was a young fellow here from the city came out to see Pearl Watson, they said, about some set of books or something. He got lost in the storm, and frozen pretty badly. He’s out at Watsons yet, I think. But they didn’t phone, or anything–at least, I didn’t get it. I just heard about it.”

“All right, Tommy,” said the doctor, and went on.

In his own apartment he found everything in order. Telephone messages were laid beside his mail. His slippers and house-coat were laid out. The coal fire gleamed its welcome.

The doctor’s heart was lighter than it had been. His interview with the old doctor had been very encouraging.

“You are looking better, Clay,” the old man had said. “Have you gained in weight? I thought so. You are going a little easier, and sleeping out–that’s right. And you see you can save yourself in lots of ways–don’t you? Good! I’m pleased with you. I hear they are after you to run against the Government. You won’t touch it, of course. No good for a man in your condition. Anyway, a doctor has his own work–and if you keep your head down, and get away every winter, you’ll live to be an old man yet.”

The doctor sat down to read his mail. There were the usual letters from old patients, prospective patients, people who had wonderful remedies and had been cruelly snubbed by the medical profession. He glanced through them casually, but with an absentmindedness which did not escape his housekeeper when she came in.

Mrs. Burns was determined to tell him something, so determined, that as soon as she entered, he felt it coming. He knew that was why she came. The bluff of asking him if he got his telephone messages was too simple.

Mrs. Burns was a sad looking woman, with a tired voice. It was not that Mrs. Burns was tired or sad, but in that part of the East from which she had come, all the better people spoke in weary voices of ladylike weakness.

“Well, Mrs. Burns,” the doctor said, “what has happened today?” He knew he was going to get it anyway–so he might as well ask for it.

“George Steadman was in an awful state about the young fellow who came out from the city to see Pearl Watson. He got lost in the storm, and stayed three days at Paines, and then Pearl came over and took him home with her. Some say the Government sent him about the piece in the paper, and some say he’s her beau. I don’t know. Mrs. Crocks saw Pearl when she brought him in, and she could get nothing out of her. He’s at the hotel still, though nobody seems to know what his business is.”

“O well,” laughed the doctor, “we’ll just have to watch him. Don’t leave washings on the line, and lock our doors–he can’t scare us.”

Mrs. Burns afterwards told Mrs. Crocks that “Doctor Clay can be very light at times, and it seems hardly the thing, considering his profession.”

Mrs. Burns could never quite forgive herself for leaving so early that night, and almost lost her religion, because no still small voice prompted her to stay. Just as she left the office, the young man, the mysterious stranger, came to the door, and Mrs. Burns knew there was no use going back through the drug store and listening at the door. The doctor had heavy curtains at each door in his office, and had a