Chapter VI: Part 6

The way in which this was likely to affect his future was a question very naturally presenting itself.

"I suppose you will want to return home?" she asked, with just a suspicion of anxiety in her voice.

"No, I think not, Jessie."

"But if your mother desires it?"

"I shall wait and see what she says, but I don't think it will make much difference."

Jessie coloured slightly as she asked, "Why not, Ralph?"

"For two reasons, Jessie," he added. "First, there's your dear little self, whom I could not think of leaving even for mother, much as I should like to see her; then, if I returned I do not know what I should do; and as I have no desire to be a burden to those at home, I have very nearly decided to stay where I am at present."

Not quite knowing how to reply, or what argument to urge against two such weighty reasons, Jessie, as most sensible women would have done under like circumstances, held her tongue without venturing to look up.

Fellows was first to break the silence by saying, "Ranger, who has been more like a father to me than a master, is going to inquire about a homestead, and should the one in view be suitable in every way, I hope soon to be the possessor of a home, to which I shall ask you to accompany me, Jessie."

"But what about father, Ralph? Have you thought of him?"

"Yes, Jess, I have; and my idea is, if he and you are willing, that he should form one of our party,--an arrangement which would give rise to no separation, and he would be very useful."

The conversation having arrived at this point, the entry of Russell himself was looked upon as rather opportune than otherwise, as Fellows at once acquainted him with the subject which was engaging their attention, adding, "Supposing the farmer raises no objection to your going, would you be willing to transfer your services to me and take the management of my farm?"

"Well," he replied, "your proposal is a bit sudden, and I scarcely know what to say about it; but I suppose you don't want a reply at once?"

"Oh no, for I haven't got the farm yet! You had better think about it."

"I'll promise to do that."

"You are perhaps aware that I have very little knowledge of farming beyond what I have picked up during the short time I have been with Ranger, and therefore I shall be obliged to have someone to help me."

"All right, Fellows. So far as I can see at present, I may as well be with you as any other man; more especially as Jess and I will still be near each other."

*CHAPTER XXVIII.*

*CHARLES BARTON.*

"... While thou art one with me, I seem no longer like a lonely man."--TENNYSON.

Although the autumn was rapidly advancing, and the foliage was fast fleeing from the trees, which lifted sparsely-leaved branches to the Chinook winds which came blowing in fresh from the Pacific, the days were not yet cold.

The Canadians consider autumn the finest season of the year, for then the air is bracing and free from moisture, often for weeks at a time. But the nights are cold,--even in summer they are cool,--so that fires are an early necessity for comfort.

The day of Ranger's visit to M'Lean Station had been singularly fine and sunny, but as the sun went down the wind began to rise, and the air felt cold and chill.

The hardy, stalwart frame of Ranger, however, was not only weather-beaten, but seemed as if it was weather-proof, so that disregarding Mrs. Ranger's cosy-looking fireside, which might have been considered invitingly tempting to a tired man when the work of the day was over, as soon as the usual evening meal was finished he rose, and, buttoning his jacket, announced his intention of going over to Bartons' cabin to have a talk with Charles.

A ten minutes' walk along a devious track brought him near to a little stream, fed from one of the neighbouring hills, beside which the shanty had been pitched.

The Bartons were at home, as a matter of course, there being nothing and nobody to attract them out in such a place after dark.

The elder Barton was engaged reading the immortal allegory of John Bunyan, with which he seemed deeply interested; Charles was quite as much interested, studying a report of some late doings in the Klondyke.

Ranger's entry was a great surprise to both men. They had never before known him to pay a visit, and at such an hour; it was therefore with unfeigned concern they inquired if anything was the matter.

Avoiding a direct answer to the question, he told them, as he seated himself, "I wanted to have a talk with Charles, and I thought we could get on better now than out in the fields by day."

"Your appearance took us so by surprise," replied John, "that----"

"Oh yes, I quite understand," said Ranger. "Well, to shorten matters as much as possible, I have come to ask Charles what made him write that letter to England about Fellows, which he did some weeks ago?"

"What letter?" he asked, turning a fierce look upon the farmer.

"You know the letter I mean well enough."

"No, I don't," he replied, as his eyes fell beneath the steady gaze of Ranger.

"Do you mean to say you did not write to the firm of Quinion, at Broadstone in England, telling them that Fellows was here if they wanted him?"

"How could I do that, when I don't know anything about him?"

"Don't question me, but look straight in my face and say, if you can, 'I did not write it.'"

"I don't know what right you have to talk to me in this manner, Mr. Ranger."

"You are only trying to evade my question, that you know well."

"I can only say, I don't know what you are talking about."

"Then it would be very easy for you to say, 'I never wrote such a letter,' if you did not."

"I don't recognise your right to ask me such a question, and therefore I don't choose to answer."

Ranger felt he was getting roused by the man's prevaricating manner and his attempt at bounce,--for it appeared to him to be nothing else,--but by a strong effort he managed to control himself sufficiently to say--

"Will you tell me whether you have written a letter to Quinion, Broadstone, any time within the last six weeks?"

After waiting a few seconds for the reply which Charles--who sat with his eyes intently gazing into the fire--did not attempt to give, John chimed in with, "Why not say at once, Charles, if you know anything about the matter?"

"I have," he exclaimed after a pause; but the tone in which this was uttered was not one calculated to carry conviction with it.

"You darn'd skunk!" shouted the farmer in wrathful tones; "so you refuse to reply, do you?"

"I refuse to give you any other reply than what you have got."

"Then take this from me," said Ranger, in somewhat softer tones, but yet with a display of a considerable amount of excitement, "the first thing, to-morrow morning, you pack, and be off from here as quick as you can, for I will not allow such a miserable sneaking hound to remain here in my employ a day longer than I can help."

"You mean it?" said Charles.

"Mean it? I should think I do! Don't you doubt it for one minute," he added, as he brought his fist down with an impressive thump on the table, making the jugs standing on it to quiver.

"This is rather sudden, farmer," broke in John. "What's he going to do when he leaves here?"

"I don't know, and I was going to add, I don't care, but I won't say that; still, that is for him to decide."

"You have used some strong language to my brother, Mr. Ranger; but what it's all about I am quite in ignorance of."

"That I quite believe, John," added Ranger in quieter tones; "that's why I've not included you in anything I've said."

"Can I say or do anything to smooth matters? Tell me what it's all about."

"Ask that coward, he knows well enough, and perhaps will tell you when I'm gone."

"But would it not be better for you to tell me yourself?"

"Don't you interfere, Jack," exclaimed Charles, "as after what that blackguard----"

"Repeat that word, you cur," shouted the farmer angrily, as he advanced upon Charles, "and I'll shake the life out of you! Repeat it, I say, if you dare!"

"I was about to say, when I was stopped, that I should not think of staying now under any circumstances."

"No fear that such a sneak as you have shown yourself to be would be asked."

"I think," broke in John, "it would be as well, Mr. Ranger, if you were now to give me some idea what it all means."

"Well, I'll tell you, John. About two months ago I had a private conversation with Fellows, as we were one evening seated outside the homestead. He and I were supposed to be the only two persons present; but there was another listening, concealed in the bushes, who not only overheard all that was said, but sent a report of our conversation at once to Mr. Quinion, at Broadstone in England."

"How have you learned this?" asked John.

"From Fellows' mother; who upon calling at Broadstone, by her son's request, to acquaint them with incidents known only to myself and him, was surprised to find they were already in possession of the information she had come to bring them."

"Did they say how they had obtained their information?"

"From a correspondent in Canada, who desired that his name might not be made known."

"Well, farmer, how do you fix my brother with the writing of that letter?"

"That's my matter," replied Ranger. "You ask that pale-faced hound over there, and let him deny doing so, if he can, without prevaricating."

It must be admitted that Ranger was playing "high." He was by no means certain of the ground he had taken up. But, feeling pretty confident in his own mind that the knowledge which had escaped had been obtained by Charles, in the manner indicated, he was determined to see if the fellow could be "bluffed" into an admission of his guilt.

Up to the present the attempt had not proved successful, although from the man's manner, and the assumption of indignation, which sat very ill upon him, and which the shrewd farmer thought he could see through, he felt more than ever confirmed in his opinion that the man was guilty.

After Ranger had left, the two men sat silent for some time, smoking, and occupied with their own thoughts.

John felt the position was an awkward one. His brother had been practically dismissed. Where was he to go? What could he do to avert it? He knew his brother's ways too well, and was conscious that it would be no easy task to manage him. But time was pressing, and it was of the utmost importance that whatever was decided upon should be promptly and vigorously carried out.

The silence, which was becoming painful, was at length broken by John, who, laying down his pipe, and turning to his brother, said, "This is a rather unpleasant wind-up to our expectations, Charley?"

Receiving no reply from Charles, who sat moodily gazing into the fire, he continued, "We've been together now ever since we were babies, and although there will come a time when we must be separated, it does seem a pity that out here it should have to take place in such a manner."

"Well, who's to blame?" asked Charles savagely.

"You heard what Ranger said?"

"And of course you believe him?"

"I don't say that I do. I want to hear your version of his story."

"You heard what I said also?"

"That amounted to nothing. You had better have told him you had not written the letter."

"Why should I? What right had he to ask such a question?"

"It would have been so easy, and would have no doubt put an end to the matter."

"Don't you believe it. That man had come with his mind made up, and any denials on my part would have been of no avail."

"It would have put him to the proof of his statement, at all events; and we should have known better the value to attach to it."

After a short pause, John added, "Well, Charley, I am sorry to be obliged to confess it, but from the way in which you avoid the question, I am beginning to be of the opinion there must be some truth in Ranger's charge. Tell me candidly, did you write that letter?"

"Don't you bother your head about what you have nothing to do with."

"It _is_ something I have to do with. You are my brother, and we are the only remaining members of a once united and happy family. Anything that affects your honour or happiness equally affects mine, and I hope you feel the same towards myself. If we are to be separated,--as seems very probable,--don't let it be in anger. If you will give me the assurance that Ranger is mistaken, and that you did not write the letter, I'll believe you."

"It's a question that neither you nor Ranger have any right to ask. I shall give no further answer. You may both think what you like, and do as you like. I shall answer no more questions."

Rising abruptly, as if to put an end to what was clearly an unpleasant topic of conversation, he retired to his room, leaving John to ruminate alone upon the difficulties which lay before him.

*CHAPTER XXIX.*

*TO FRESH FIELDS.*

"All about him shadows still."--TENNYSON.

The Bartons were early on the move the next morning, and Charles was soon busily engaged arranging and packing, ready for departure.

"Then you mean to go, Charley?" asked John, anxious to say something.

"Of course I mean to go! Didn't Ranger tell me to?"

"I know that; but I thought you might have made up your mind, after sleeping upon the subject, to go and explain matters and put things straight."

"Not likely, John! I wouldn't stay here now if he was to ask me."

"I'm very sorry to hear it, for you may travel a long way before meeting with another man who will be as kind and considerate of his men as Ranger is."

"I don't feel that I have much to thank him for."

"Ah, you are prejudiced at present."

"I don't think so,--I speak as I feel."

"Yes, yes! But, mark my words, you'll make a different statement before long."

"We shall see!" Then, after a pause, he asked, "I suppose, John, you will be able to drive me and my luggage over to M'Lean Station?"

"I don't suppose there will be much difficulty about that,--we are not busy now. But where do you think of going?"

"I shall go for Maple Creek first. There I shall make inquiries, and have a good look round. If I can't find anything there, I shall go on to Calgary, which is a busy city, where I think I am pretty sure to succeed."

"Yes, I should think it about as good an arrangement as you could make."

"I am only sorry, John, you are not going with me; I should have been glad for us to have continued together."

"So am I, Charley. You can't tell how I feel your going."

"Well, it is not too late now, if you have a mind to make one with me. I should be very glad if you would, John."

It was the first time he had appeared to evince any feeling at the prospect of parting, and it moved his brother deeply. But his reply was calmly and unhesitatingly given--

"It's no use, my boy; however much I might have liked to, it's too late now!"

"What do you mean by too late?"

"I was on the point of letting you into a secret last night, when Ranger came, and then the 'rumpus' with him upset all my little plan."

"What was it?" inquired Charles, with some astonishment.

"Why, nothing more nor less than that I am going to get married, as soon as I can properly fix up matters."

"Never! Who are you going to marry?"

"I am only waiting for Mary Truman's answer, which she has promised in about another week."

"Then it is not yet settled?"

"No, not quite," he replied rather solemnly.

"Well, you know 'there's many a slip'----"

"Yes, I am aware of all that, but I don't anticipate one here."

"But if she does--shall you stay on?"

"No, not I!"

"In that case you could then come on and join me, so I'll take care to let you have my address. But there, John, I hope you'll be more successful than I have been."

"You don't mean to say that you have already proposed and been refused by Mary?" asked John anxiously.

"No, no! not by her, but Jessie Russell."

"Oh, she's going to have Fellows! Didn't you know that?"

"I did not know it, but I thought so," he replied, as a fierce light gleamed in his eyes.

"You've kept your little affair very quiet," was John's sly rejoinder.

"It's not a pleasant experience to talk about," he added. "It makes, however, another reason why I am not sorry at having to leave the place."

"I'm sorry for you, Charley, my boy; but I think she'll get a good husband in Fellows."

"I'm not so sure about that. My advice to you is, be careful about him."

"Why! what do you mean?"

"He's a man I should trust only as far as I could see him."

"Know anything against him?"

"Don't ask me any more questions."

The subject was dropped, and Charles went on with his packing, whilst John went over to the Ranch to acquaint the farmer with his intention of driving Charles to town.

There was no difficulty in arranging this, and Ranger having paid him the wages due to Charles, together with a month's salary in lieu of notice, in order that he might have something to go on with, he returned and prepared for the journey before him.

After spending about a week at Maple Creek,--a small but flourishing township, contiguous to the Crane Lake, from whence a distant view of the Cypress Hills in the South may be obtained,--and finding nothing offering to suit him, Charles Barton determined to proceed on to Calgary, which lies about seventy miles east of the "Rockies."

Calgary is laid out at the juncture of two rivers,--the Bow and the Elbow,--and is a busy trade centre for nearly all the ranching districts of Southern Alberta; and as the Calgary and Edmonton branches unite here with the main line of the Canadian Pacific Railway, it is rapidly becoming a large and important emporium for the trade of the North-West Provinces. Its edifices and public buildings are sound and substantial; whilst its churches, hotels, stores, and factories, give ample evidence of the successful nature of its business prospects. It has a population exceeding four thousand people, but the stream of settlers is so continuous in its direction, and the reputation which this province enjoys is so good, that it will certainly not be very long before these figures are largely exceeded.

The second day after his arrival at Calgary, Barton fell in with a stockman belonging to a large and thriving rancher in the locality, by whom he was taken in hand, and offered a position at one and a quarter dollars a day, which was accepted, so that for a time his troubles were at an end.

Barton's departure from the Ranch--where incidents of importance were not matters of common occurrence--was scarcely to be classed as a nine-days' wonder. His morose and taciturn disposition, which had kept him aloof from his mates, had brought him few friends; they were acquaintances, and that was all. No one was found regretting him, and but few missed him. Here and there, the brother was asked, "What's become of Charles?" but it was more for the sake of John himself than for the one who had gone. To one who did venture the additional inquiry, "Where's he gone too?" the reply was, "to Maple Creek or Calgary, whichever appears most suitable and promising."

John, however, missed him; which after all was but natural.

They were brothers, and had never been separated for a quarter of a century.

Charles had been but poor company for John, but it is not always the most talkative that are regarded as the choicest company, and John felt lonely now he was gone.

When he learned that he was safely and comfortably settled at Calgary, he was pleased, and after a time became more reconciled to the change; especially in the contemplation of another change which he hoped soon to be making himself.

*CHAPTER XXX.*

*KINBRAE.*

"And thou hast also tempted here to rise, 'Mid sheltering pines, this cottage rude and grey." WORDSWORTH.

With the arrival of the English mail came the expected letter from Mrs. Sinclair, conveying the welcome news to Fellows, which her telegram had prepared him for, that the Broadstone firm had decided to take no action upon the information supplied them about himself.

It also expressed the mother's great desire to see him; but he was urged to act as his circumstances might suggest. If he decided to come home, she would see that he did not want; but as her income was limited, she would not be able to supply him with pocket-money; and unless he saw his way to obtaining employment in England, it would not be wise to disturb present arrangements, if they were favourable. In his next letter, he was to be sure and inform her fully with regard to his position and prospects.

The decision at which he had practically arrived was only confirmed and strengthened by the receipt of this letter.

By the same mail the letter which the Broadstone solicitors had been instructed to send, came addressed to Charles at the Ranch.

Seeing, by the printed address on the envelope, that it was from a firm of solicitors at Broadstone, what had been but suspicions before were now regarded as facts,--that it was Charles who had overheard the conversation between Ranger and Fellows, and had at once communicated with Broadstone. There was nothing else that the brother knew of, which could bring him into correspondence with such a place as Broadstone.

"Look at that," said the farmer, as he handed the letter to John to be forwarded; "if anything was wanted to confirm the charge I made against your brother, is not that good proof?"

"It certainly looks like it," replied John, in a disgusted tone.

"Yes; and to play with words, as he did, up to the very last," added Ranger, "rather than try to undo the mischief he had been aiming at."

"I feel it very sorely, Ranger, he being my own brother; more especially when I remember that nearly his last words to me were a caution to beware of Fellows. I am quite at a loss to understand what he could have been dreaming about."

The letter, when it reached Charles, in no way tended to increase his happiness. He saw, only when it was too late, what a fool he had been. He had gained nothing, and had lost a good situation, besides being separated from a brother for whom he felt a very strong affection, although he may have had a queer way of showing it.

He would gladly have recalled the act, could he have done so, since it had involved him in its consequences; but no thought of reparation to the wronged ever entered his narrow mind.

Fellows--who now felt himself partially, at all events, re-habilitated--was anxious that the procuring of a home, to which he might be able to take the woman he was looking forward to making his wife, should not be delayed.

He had still another object in view. He had resolved, that if his efforts were attended with success, to invest his savings, in order to repay the firm the moneys belonging to them, which he had misappropriated. He had written a very full and penitential letter, informing them of his intention, and therefore he was desirous that no time might be lost. Ranger, who was a man of the highest integrity, commended him for his desire, and promised to aid him in every possible way.

Two days later, in pursuance of his promise, Ranger took Fellows with him into town, that together they might learn some particulars of Kinbrae, which was known to be in the market, and to see what other holdings were to be had.

Kinbrae was a small settlement some ten or twelve miles south-east of Crescent Lake, near to the head-waters of a tributary stream flowing into the Qu'Appelle River, after pursuing a fairly straight course for about fifty miles.

The holding was one of one hundred and sixty acres, on which a well-built homestead had been erected, together with most of the buildings needed for carrying on the work of a farm. The owner, Dennis Crowley, on the death of his wife, three years previously, had, with his two sons, young men of eighteen and nineteen respectively, left their home in County Kerry, Ireland, to try their fortunes in the Far West.

With little experience to guide them, they had just managed to exist during the three years they had been in possession; and, having frittered away the small capital they possessed, were now only anxious to clear out and return, with whatever they might succeed in realising on the sale of their stock.

In a state of society such as that which prevails amidst the boundless prairies of the North-West, however favourable the circumstances may be,--and that they are _most_ favourable there is abundant testimony to prove,--there are sure to be some who will go to the wall. Like the men in other stratas of society, who, although they may be placed in positions of affluence to-day in a little while will be found grovelling amid scenes of penury and want, they seem to lack the secretive and acquisitive qualities which the more successful possess, and they fail. But the fault is never with themselves, it is their misfortune--at least, so they tell us!

This was Crowley's case, and the reason given for wishing to dispose of his holding. At the suggestion of Ranger, it was determined to ride over and view the place, but there was not time to do this at present.

The following week, however, when work was not quite so pressing, and their services could more readily be dispensed with, a day was selected, and, making an early start, they reached Kinbrae soon after midday.

The buildings were substantial, commodious, and in fairly good condition, but the so-called stock was poor in the extreme. The farming utensils were ill-conditioned and of little value; and the household furniture, which scarcely included the barest necessities, was rudely constructed, of the roughest material, and possessed no features of attractiveness. Three horses, five steers, two dogs, and one cat, constituted the live stock. About thirty acres had been under cultivation, but nothing had been done since the late harvest to prepare the land for the next.

Crowley--who originally had been asking three hundred pounds for the holding as it stood--was willing now to take almost any offer that would enable him to get away.

Ranger was well satisfied with the position of the location, and the prospects it held out, and had no hesitation in advising Fellows to offer two hundred pounds down, which, after a very little demur, was accepted, with option of possession within a month.

The farmer was pleased with the future which appeared to be opening for Fellows, notwithstanding it would be at some considerable sacrifice to himself.

The services of Barton he could well dispense with, but those of Fellows, and Russell in addition, would be a serious depletion of his working staff, which it might be a work of time efficiently to replace.

He, however, felt he had done no more than was his duty. It was the correct thing to do. And he had no fears that he would come out all right in the end.

*CHAPTER XXXI.*

*JOHN AND MARY.*

"I will hereupon confess, I am in love."
_Love's Labours Lost_, Act I. sc. ii.

Barton's duties at the Ranch were of such a nature, that he was seldom to be seen in the neighbourhood of the house during the daytime; for the most part he was out on the prairie, attending to the cattle, of which Ranger had now a pretty considerable stock.

Mary Truman's attention was chiefly devoted to the dairy, which of late had quite outgrown the powers of Mrs. Ranger, and she was only too glad to avail herself of the assistance which Mary was very willing and quite competent to render.

The two had but few opportunities of seeing each other; and during the week which was to elapse, according to arrangement, before the reply he had asked her for was to be given, they had seen nor heard nothing of one another.

Mary had learned from Mrs. Ranger of the departure of Charles, and the circumstances which had brought that event about.

Whatever may have been her feelings for John, she had no sympathy with Charles, and felt, in common with others, no pang of regret when told he had gone.

With the exception of his brother, the man seemed to have left not a friend behind him.

Mary kept herself as much in the house as possible, as though carefully bent upon putting obstacles in the way of any accidental meeting between herself and John.

The week, however, was barely out, when the anxious swain, eager to know his fate, and unwilling to brook delay, made his appearance at the dairy door, at the close of the day, to inquire if Mary was too busy to see him.

She herself was nowhere to be seen, but Mrs. Ranger chanced to be standing at the door, and to her he addressed his inquiry.

"Mary has just gone upstairs," replied Mrs. Ranger. "Shall I tell her you want her?"

Barton hesitated for a moment, scarcely knowing what reply to make, till at last, with a confused smile, he stammered out, "Yes, do please."

Going to the foot of the stairs which led to the rooms above, Mrs. Ranger called, "Mary! here's John wants to see you. Shall I tell him to wait?"

"Oh, tell him I can't come at present," was the reply, which was plainly heard by those in the room below.

"Is he to wait?"

"No; please tell him I can't be bothered to-night."

On her return, John remarked, "I heard what the young lady said, and I suppose I must be content with that for my answer."

"Is it anything you want, John, that I can do for you?" asked Mrs. Ranger, with a good-humoured smile.

"No, I think not--at least, I know you can't," he added, quickly correcting himself.

"Do you care to wait then?" she inquired.

"No; I daresay I shall see her before long,--I should be sorry to bother her."

Following him to the door, as he was leaving, she whispered, "I think I can see what's brewing. Now, don't be offended if I offer you a bit of advice. I have had some experience, and seen a little of life, and have some knowledge of the ways of my own sex. Don't be too ready to take a woman at her word. Just remember, she doesn't always mean all she says. You see what I mean, I think? No offence. Good-night."

It was with very mixed feelings that John returned to his solitary dwelling. He had considerable confidence in Mrs. Ranger, as a shrewd, common-sense woman, yet he hesitated to place full reliance upon her judgment. She no doubt meant well, and spoke as she did with a desire to reassure him. But he felt sorely puzzled to account for Mary's unwillingness to see him. Experience he had none; he had learned nothing in that school. He had but just entered as a pupil, and the first lesson was now being studied.

Books had been his only tutors, and the few he had read had imparted theories which opportunity had not enabled him to test.

Men with a wider knowledge, and a deeper insight into the mysteries of the female mind, could have told him that Mary's unwillingness to see him, and her brusque--it might even be rude--message, were favourable rather than unfavourable auguries of what was likely to be the nature of her reply.

But he had no one he could draw inspiration from. Imagination was therefore allowed to run riot, and the most unfavourable result anticipated, rather than the sensible advice of Mrs. Ranger being allowed to have its way.

Before retiring for the night, he had so far overcome his scruples--or shall we rather call them doubts?--as to resolve that he would make another effort on the morrow to see her, and learn the fate that was in store for him.

When Mary joined the couple in the sitting-room below, some ten to fifteen minutes later, there was a mischievous gleam in her sparkling eyes, and slightly nervous but mirthful twitching about the corners of her pretty lips, which betrayed the humour she had been indulging at the expense of her love-sick swain.

A broad smile was upon Ranger's face, but his wife, looking up from the work she had in hand, merely remarked, "Mary, I could not help noticing how disappointed John seemed with your message."

"Indeed? I don't see why he should be," was Mary's reply, in a tone of assumed ignorance which was far from deceiving the older couple.

"He said he should be sorry to bother you, but he had no doubt he should see you before long."

"Will he! Perhaps he may or he may not." Then, after a brief pause, she asked, as though anxious the subject should not be dropped, "Did he say what he wanted me for?"

"Not likely, child! Did you imagine he would?"

"I never took the trouble to think. Why should he not? I have no secrets!"

"Are you sure, Mary?" asked Mrs. Ranger, looking round at her with a comical kind of questioning glance.

"Oh, dear me, yes!" she replied.

"Well, I think I had very little difficulty in reading John's secret, which I imagine is not much of a secret to you."

"I suppose, if I cared to take the trouble, I might guess what brought him here to-night."

"No doubt of it, my dear."

"And I don't know any reason why I should hesitate to tell you. The fact is," she added, "a week ago he asked me if I would be his wife."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That it was a subject I had not thought about, and did not want to."

"Of course that was all quite true, Mary?"

"I daresay it was," she replied; "at all events, it was as true as most of the things said under such circumstances are."

"Did the answer satisfy him?"

"Oh, dear no!" she replied, with a laugh. "He wanted a reply in a week."

"And you promised to give it?"

"No, I did not! I told him if he wanted a different answer to the one I had given, he must let me have a month to consider it."

"Well, and what then?"

"On his pressing me to be, as he termed it, more reasonable, and to let him know in a week, I promised that I would try what could be done in the time."

"And so he came to receive your answer tonight--which you were not prepared to give. Is that it?"

"My opinion is," answered Mary, "that a woman gains nothing by making herself too cheap."

"Well, it's a serious matter, my child, and one not to be trifled with," Mrs. Ranger added seriously.

"Yes, I know; but really I cannot help laughing when I see what long faces the men put on if they want to tell a woman they love her."

"Well, that may be because they feel how very serious are the consequences of such an act."

"Bother the seriousness! I don't believe that enters into their minds. They are too frequently wondering what sort of figure they will cut if the woman or girl should happen to say 'No' to them."

"That's not the case with all of them."

"It may not be, but it is with most of them."

"I'm afraid you are rather cynical, Mary."

"Well, I can't help it if I am."

"And I don't think you care much for poor John."

"To tell the downright truth," added Mary, "I don't think I do, either."

"Then, regardless of the man's feelings, don't say yes to him unless you feel you can love him."

"That's why I want more time," she replied a little more soberly. Then, after reflecting for a while, she continued, "You know, when I came out here it was with the intention of marrying my cousin; and but for the sad accident which befell us, I should in all probability by this time have been Joe's wife. The change was so sudden, and his loss comparatively so recent, that really I have scarcely had time to get over it, and to examine the state of my own feelings thoroughly."

"I can quite believe you, my dear," was Mrs. Ranger's motherly comment.

"Candidly," she went on, "I do not dislike the man, but I cannot say that I love him; and unless I can bring myself to do that, I shall certainly act upon your advice and not say yes."

"Quite right, so far," said Mrs. Ranger; "but your duty now is, not to refuse to see John, nor to play too much with honest love, but to tell him what you have told us; and if he cares for you, as I believe he does, he will see the reasonableness of your request, and be prepared to wait. At all events, try him."

"Well, perhaps I will. I think very likely the next time he comes I'll act upon your advice."

The farmer, who had listened with interest to the conversation which had been carried on by the two women, seeing they were on the point of leaving him, ventured to add, "And I think you have come to a very sensible conclusion."

"But please, Mr. Ranger," exclaimed Mary, "I hope you will not mention any portion of our conversation to John, if you should see him."

"Trust me for that, my girl," he replied. "I shall leave him to fight his own battle; and you may reckon that what has been said to-night is safe in my keeping."

*CHAPTER XXXII.*

*PREPARATIONS.*

"The food of hope is meditated action."--WORDSWORTH.

Fellows--or rather Sinclair, as we may now call him, since all necessity for concealment of identity had passed--was not free from some little excitement whenever he reflected upon the change which he contemplated so soon making in his position.

He had not forgotten those at home at "Railton." Ralph had written a long letter to his mother, giving a full account of his Jessie--the wedding that was in prospect--and the home he hoped to have the happiness so soon of taking her to.

She lost nothing from his description of her personal charms; and her character and conduct, and everything that affected her, were so graphically and faithfully delineated, that to the mother's imagination she appeared a paragon of all the virtues.

He expressed sincere and heartfelt regret that his mother and sister could not be present to take part in the celebration of what must be regarded as the event of his life.

It was a source of much satisfaction to Mrs. Sinclair thus to learn of her son's progress and happiness. But occurring so far from home, in a land to which she was an entire stranger, and under circumstances which she was only able but dimly to realise, the event which, had it happened at home, would have been a joy to anticipate and prepare for, and a more than "nine-days' wonder" to talk about, was shorn of much of that exciting interest a mother might naturally be expected to feel at the coming marriage of her only son.

Her congratulations and good wishes, with such maternal counsel as seemed to her only fitting, were at once put into a letter and posted, that it might reach him before his wedding-day should have passed.

Crowley had been informed by Sinclair that he would be prepared to complete the contract entered into, and to take possession at the end of the third week; which had been assented to.

It was Sinclair's intention to spend a week or so at "Kinbrae," seeing that everything was prepared for the "home-coming," which it was contemplated should be at the end of the month.

Russell had arranged to quit his shanty also, a week before, in order to help Sinclair as much as possible; and during that last week Jessie was to be the guest of Mrs. Ranger, who, woman-like, was full of excitement at the prospect.

From time to time much animation prevailed at the Ranch. Silks and satins were not expected to be in evidence, but the women were busy putting little mysterious touches to dresses and hats, and adding pieces of finery when obtainable, so as to mark the occasion, which was a new experience, yet one which it would never do to allow to pass without a decent show being made.

The wedding was to take place at the homestead, and a parson from the town had been arranged with to come over and "hitch-on" the couple.

The day was to be observed as a holiday for the hands, and all were to be invited to the wedding-feast.

Ralph and Jessie had to endure a deal of rough, but good-humoured, chaff during the intervening period.

Society in the Far West, at the time of which we write, was not that unsophisticated and half-civilised agglomeration of human beings which before the advent of the Pacific Railway was to be found in the isolated and sometimes sparsely-populated settlements dotted about the prairie, or away up in the backwoods, remote from the haunts of men. Facilities for improved transit had created growing towns and cities, and the influx of the stranger from many lands had given rise to wants which traders found it their interest to meet.

The ubiquitous representatives of the great emporiums in the "States," as of the large commercial houses of the foreigner from across the seas, were indefatigable in pushing the wares of the firms they were commissioned to represent; not only supplying, but contributing largely to sustain a demand their energy had done so much to create.

With the exception of some few of the labourers on the Ranch, the whole of Ranger's people might be described as belonging to the upper strata of the working classes.

Sinclair himself--before his fall--was not what would be generally defined as a working-man. The working-men would be the first to resent his inclusion in their ranks, whilst those resembling Ralph would not be over-eager to claim the doubtful privilege. Since his arrival at the Ranch he had found it necessary to step down, and don the appearance, as well as join in the tasks of, the working-man.

Humiliated, as he already felt himself to be, by his past career, this was no hardship, for he knew that if he had received the due reward of his deeds, he would probably now be working out a sentence of imprisonment, only to emerge, it might be, as a hardened ruffian, further to prey upon society; or else to take his place with the lowest dregs of a society which the honest working-class look down upon, sometimes with pity but too often with contempt.

On the day the contract for "Kinbrae" was to be settled, Ranger rode over with Sinclair and Russell to the neighbourhood of the Crescent Lake to complete the transaction.

Crowley was ready for them on their arrival. His luggage, and such things as he intended to take with him, had been packed, and carted to Bredenbury the previous day, for transmission by a branch of the Pacific Railway running from Yorkton, until it unites with the main line a short distance east of Winnipeg. The stock having been inspected, the business was soon completed, and wishing the homeward voyagers farewell, the three men were left in possession of "Kinbrae."

Besides the stock, there was one farm-hand--a youth of about seventeen, employed by Crowley, who had consented to remain with the new owner.

When Ranger had left, the two men set out on a general tour of inspection.

"It strikes me, Russell, that fellow Crowley, who has just gone back home, must have been a very lazy chap to be willing to part with such a capital location as this is for the money he did!"

"I don't understand him at all, sir," said Russell, as they walked over the fields, and through the rich grasses of much that was still untouched prairie-land. "He appears to have done very little. There has not been more than about thirty acres under cultivation all the time he was here."

"I suppose he must have run out his capital, and left nothing to buy stock with."

"I daresay that was about it. He probably sent all he raised the first season to market, or nearly all, and the quantity for the next harvest was so small that he never recovered."

"What I think of doing is, to try and get about fifty acres under wheat for next harvest. We ought to be able to manage that."

"Yes, with some little additional labour, which I daresay can be hired in town."

"What's the distance into town?" inquired Sinclair.

"I think the nearest is Church Bridge, about seven miles; the next is Bredenbury, which is about two miles farther."

"I'll see to it to-morrow," he added.

The week that elapsed prior to the event which all were looking forward to was a busy one for Sinclair and his two companions.

The house, with its farm-buildings, although sound and in a fairly good condition, had been sadly neglected, and needed a considerable amount of attention to render them clean and presentable and worthy of their new tenant.

The waggons and carts wanted repairing,--nuts were missing, bolts were loose, damaged spokes required replacing, and loosened tyres demanded skilled handling.

Harness was not much better: where buckles had fled, cord or thong had been substituted; broken straps were found pieced together with string; and, in fact, every contrivance seemed to have been adopted to patch or conceal a flaw rather than spend a penny on a necessary repair.

Agricultural implements were in a like shady condition; many being cast aside as valueless which a trifling outlay would easily restore to utility again.

The easy, negligent, and happy-go-lucky disposition of the Irishman was so stamped on all around, that, had he not already known it, it would have been a comparatively easy matter to have arrived at the conclusion, from the condition in which things had been left, that the last tenant must have been one of Erin's sons.

At the Ranch, Mrs. Ranger, with the two women, were fully employed, or so they thought they were, and endeavoured to impress everyone else with their own belief that they were. And if the difficulty experienced in getting a plain answer to an ordinary question might be regarded as some proof of the truth of the representation, there was abundant evidence of the fact from that source alone.

Ranger was about the only person who seemed to be unmoved by pending events. To judge from the equanimity of his temper, and the apparent unconcern manifested at all that was transpiring, or the little heed he gave to the flurry and excitement in the house, one might well have supposed him to be entirely engrossed with the cares of the farm and the duties which its out-door work involved.

Jessie, as the prospective chief actor in the coming ceremony, was anything but an unmoved spectator of what was taking place.

Possessing, however, considerable powers of self-control to the outward observer, there was little to mark the deep feelings of excitement working within, which only by a vigorous effort she was able at all to repress.

Until Sinclair made his appearance at the Ranch, followed shortly afterwards by the Bartons, she had seen very few of the male sex, except the labourers from time to time hired for the season by Ranger, with the appearance of none of whom had she been in the least favourably impressed. Her father and Ranger were her only male companions, if we except the youth called Tom, who was generally looked upon as a little "daft," and a common "butt" for everyone.

In the person of Ralph Sinclair, her woman's ready wit had been quick to discover a man of more than ordinary intelligence, capable of noble actions from honourable motives. Well-formed, and strongly-built, with a pair of dark, thoughtful-looking eyes beneath a broad, high forehead, his appearance won her admiration,---a sentiment, circumstance, or feeling, known only to herself, and carefully hidden within the treasury of her own breast. But the feeling of admiration was not allowed long to sit solitary. It gathered strength, and rapidly developed into a warmer and more tender emotion, which the teaching of her sex, as well as her own natural modesty, would not allow her to confess to.

The attention given during the period of his illness and convalescence but tended to strengthen and confirm the feeling she had been led to cherish, adding volume and power to the influences which had been so forcibly working to prepare the way for an all too easy conquest.

The revelation of Ralph's delinquencies came at first as a great blow to her, as it threatened to rob her idol of some of the sterling qualities she had in her imagination invested him with. Quickly recovering from its effects she allowed her affections to centre on him with all the ardour of which her nature was capable, so that now she was contemplating marriage as the crown of true womanhood and the commencement of a useful and a happy life.

*CHAPTER XXXIII.*

*"TILL DEATH DO US PART."*

"That man ... who shall report he has A better wife, let him in naught be trusted." _Henry VIII._, Act II. sc. iv.

Since his last rebuff, John Barton had been vainly seeking an opportunity of meeting Mary Truman alone.

Her efforts to avoid him had been persistent and successful; but whether dictated by a spirit of mischief, which finds delight in tantalising the ardent swain, or from a mere desire to enjoy a little flirtation,--by some designated "harmless," but which at the best is dangerous and should be discouraged by the sex,--Barton felt at a loss to determine. Shakespeare says--

"... Where love reigns, disturbing Jealousy
Doth call himself Affection's sentinel."

But as there did not happen to be a second possible candidate for Mary's favours at present on the Ranch, there was an entire absence of employment for such a guard. That was a foe of whom he had no dread.

The week prior to the coming wedding, Mrs. Ranger had determined to spend a day in town, making some necessary purchases; Tom was accordingly ordered to have the buggy ready early on the day the farmer had agreed to drive her in.

When Barton heard this, he thought he saw the opportunity offering he had been waiting for. Leaving the fields sooner than usual, he marched straight up to the house, where he had the good fortune to find Mary seated alone.

"At last, Mary!" he said.

"What's at last?" she asked quite innocently.

"Why, do you know how hard I've tried to see you, and what a many times you have refused me."

"Well, why keep on coming? I'm sure I never asked you to."

"You know why, Mary."

"You seem in a dreadful hurry," she added sharply.

"Not so much in a hurry, Mary, as anxious to know your answer."

"I'd much rather you were not so pressing," she replied.

"But you promised to let me have your reply to my question in a week."

"No! I only promised to see what I could do in that period, when you urged that a month was too long a time to take for consideration. There are circumstances which alter cases, you know."

"Do such circumstances exist in my case?" he asked.

"Yes, I think they do," she replied, a little nervous tremor visible in her tone.

"I'm sorry if it is so."

"Besides, I'm not at all anxious to give up my liberty," she added laughingly.

"I don't ask you to be my slave, Mary, but my wife," he replied with some emphasis.

"And in too many instances there is little difference between the two states."