Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.

THE PROSPECTOR

RALPH CONNOR

CONTENTS

     I.  A SOCIAL IMPOSSIBILITY
    II.  'VARSITY VERSUS MCGILL
   III.  THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS
    IV.  ONLY ONE CLAIM
     V.  "YEA, AND HIS OWN LIFE ALSO"
    VI.  ON THE TRAIL
   VII.  THE OUTPOST
  VIII.  THE OLD PROSPECTOR
    IX.  TIM CARROLL
     X.  THE TURF MEET
    XI.  "I WAS A STRANGER, AND YE TOOK ME IN"
   XII.  HIS KEEPER
  XIII.  THE PRESIDENT OF GUY'S, LONDON
   XIV.  OLD PROSPECTOR'S AWAKING
    XV.  EJECTED AND REJECTED
   XVI.  "STAY AT YOUR POST, LAD"
  XVII.  BETTY'S LAST WORDS
 XVIII.  THE DON'S RECOVERY
   XIX.  THE REGION BEYOND
    XX.  THE NEW POLICY
   XXI.  THE WAITING GAME

A SOCIAL IMPOSSIBILITY

It was one of November's rare days. The kindly air, vital with the
breath of the north wind and mellow with the genial sun, was full of
purple haze; the grass, still vividly green, gave no hint of the coming
winter; the trees, bony and bare but for a few rags of summer dress,
russet-brown and gold, stood softened of all their harshness in the
purple haze and slanting, yellow light of the autumn afternoon. Nature
wore a face of content. She had fulfilled her course for another year,
and, satisfied with her achievement, was obviously thinking of settling
herself into her winter's sleep.

It was a good day to be alive. The tingle in the air somehow got into
the blood.

So it felt to a young girl who danced out from under the trees on the
west boundary of the University campus.

"Oh!" she cried to her statelier, taller sister, who with a young man
followed more sedately into the open. "Oh, what a day! What a picture!"

She was a bonny maid just out of her teens, and, with her brown gown,
brown hair and eyes, red cheeks, and wholesome, happy face, she fitted
well into the picture she herself looked upon.

"Dear old 'Varsity," said her sister in a voice quiet, but thrilling
with intense feeling. "There is nothing so lovely in all this city of
Toronto."

"Toronto!" exclaimed the young man at her side. "Well, I should say!
Don't you know that a distinguished American art critic declares this
building the most symmetrical, the most harmonious, the most perfectly
proportioned bit of architecture on the American continent. And that is
something, from a citizen of the 'biggest nation on dry land.'"

They walked slowly and silently along the border of the matchless
velvety lawn, noting the many features of beauty in the old grey face
of the University building--the harmonious variety of lines and curves
in curious gargoyles, dragons, and gryphons that adorned the cornices
and the lintels, pausing long to admire the wonderful carved entrance
with its massive tower above.

"Great, isn't it?" said Lloyd. "The whole thing, I mean--park, lawn,
and the dear old, grey stones."

At this moment some men in football garb came running out of the
pillared portico.

"Oh, here's the team!" cried Betty, the younger sister, ecstatically.
"Are they going to play?"

"No, I think not," said Lloyd. "Campbell would not risk any scrimmaging
or tackling this evening, with McGill men even now in town thirsting
for their blood. He's got them out for a run to limber up their wind
and things for to-morrow."

The sisters were football enthusiasts. For the past four years the
beautiful Rosedale home of the Fairbanks had been the rendezvous for
students, and, as many of these had been football men, the young ladies
had become as devoted to the game and almost as expert in its fine
points as any of its champions.

"Don't they look well and fit," exclaimed Betty as the string of
runners went past.

"Yes, and fit they are every man," replied Lloyd. "There's Campbell!
He's a truly great captain, knows his men, and gets out of them all
that is possible."

"Yes, and there's Brown; and McNab, isn't it? Aren't they the
quarters?" asked Betty excitedly.

Lloyd nodded. "And yonder goes `Shock,' the great Shock."

"Oh, where?" cried Betty. "Yes, yes. Now, do you know I think he is
just as mean as he can be. Here I have been bowing and smiling my best
and sweetest for four years, and though he knows a lot of the men we
know he is just as much a stranger as ever," and Betty pouted in a
manner that would have brought deep satisfaction to Shock had he seen
her.

"Here are the three halves, aren't they?" inquired Helen, the elder
sister.

"Yes," replied Lloyd. "There's Martin and Bate. Fine fellow,
Bate--and--"

"Oh!" broke in Betty, "there's the 'The Don.' do wish they would look.
They needn't pretend they don't see us, the horrid things."

"Of course they see you," answered Lloyd, "but they are engaged in
serious business. You surely don't expect to divert their attention
from the pursuit of their noble art. Why, who, or what do you conceive
yourself to be?"

But Betty only smiled serenely, and shook her curls back saucily.

"Oh, I know," replied Lloyd, "I know what you are saying. `Some day,
some day they will grovel.' Alas, only too soon! And, indeed, here
comes The Don on his second round. I'll ask him what he means."

"If you dare!" cried Betty.

"Mr. Lloyd!" said Helen haughtily, and Mr. Lloyd thought better of it.

But "The Don" did not even glance toward the group.

"Look at that, now," said Lloyd disgustedly.

"Did anyone ever see such besotted devotion to a barbarous vocation."

"He did not see us at all," insisted Betty. "But why is Mr. Balfour
called 'The Don'?"

"Obviously, I should say, from his Don-like appearance, bearing,
carriage, etc. But I am not an authority. Ask little Brown, your
special slave. He knows all about both Shock and The Don."

"What absurd names you have," exclaimed Betty. "Now, what is the reason
for Shock's name? Is it the shock of his charge in the scrimmage?"

"Not bad, that. I rather fear, however, it has to do with his most
striking feature, if feature it be, for, when you pull him feet first
out of a scrimmage, a method not infrequently adopted, his head is a
sight to behold. But, as I said before, ask Brown."

"I will to-night. He's coming over after tea. You are coming, too, are
you not?"

Lloyd bowed. "I shall be delighted"

True to her word Betty greeted Brown, on his appearance in the cosy,
homelike parlour of the Fairbanks' that evening, with the question,
"How did 'The Don' come by his nickname?"

"Oh, did you never know that? Most fellows put it down to his style,
but it's not that. He got it from his blood. You know, his father was
one of those West India, sea-captains that one used to find strewn
thick through Halifax society, who made fortunes in rum and lost them
pretty much the same way. Well, the old captain married a Spanish girl.
I have seen her portrait, and she was a beauty, a `high-bred Spanish
lady,' sure enough. Lived somewhere in the islands. Came home with the
Captain, and died in Halifax, leaving her seven year old boy in charge
of an aunt. Father died soon afterwards. Grief, I believe, and drink.
Even then his people called the 'the little Don.' He had a little money
left him to start with, but that has long since vanished. At any rate,
for the last five or six years he has had to fend for himself."

"Quite a romance," said Lloyd.

"Isn't it?" exclaimed Betty. "And he never told a word."

"Well, The Don's not a publisher."

"But then he told you."

"Yes, he told me and Shock one night. He likes us, you see."

"'De gustibus non disputandum,'" murmured Lloyd, and in answer to
Betty's inquiring look added, "as the old woman said when she kissed
her cow."

"Now then, what about Shock's name?" continued Betty.

"Hair," said Brown laconically. "You have seen him come out of a
scrimmage like a crab?"

"Yes. Isn't he just lovely then?" exclaimed Betty.

"Lovely? Oh, woman, woman! A ghastly, bloody, fearsome spectacle.
Lovely! But it was ever thus. 'Butchered to make a Roman holiday,'"
replied Lloyd.

"Well, he is rather bloody. Bleeds easily, you; know, but it doesn't
hurt at all," said Brown. "He never really enjoys himself till the
blood flows."

"Disgusting old Berserker!" exclaimed Lloyd.

"But I think he is just a dear," went on Betty enthusiastically. "The
way he puts his head right down into a crowd of men, and lets them jump
on him and maul him!"

"Yes," replied her sister, who had taken little part in the
conversation, "and comes out smiling. That is what I like."

"And bloody," added Lloyd. "That's what Miss Betty likes."

"I want to know about him," cried Betty impatiently. "Why don't we get
to know him? Tell me about him," she insisted. "Where does he live? Who
are his people?"

Brown hesitated.

"Well, you see, Shock's shy. Does not go in for the sort of thing that
Lloyd, for instance, revels and glitters in--teas, functions, social
routs, and all that, you know. He has only his mother, a dear old
Highland lady, poor, proud, and independent. She lives in a quaint
little house out on the Commons away behind the college, and lives for,
in, with, by, and around Shock, and he vice versa. He shares everything
with her, his work down in the mission--"

"Mission!" interrupted Betty.

"Yes. Runs a mission down in St. John's ward. Gives her all his
experiences with the denizens of that precinct, keeps her in touch with
his college work, and even with his football. You ought to see him lay
a out the big matches before her on the tea table with plates, cups,
salt cellars, knives, spoons, and you ought to see her excitement and
hear her criticisms. Oh, she's a great sport!"

"Go on," said Helen, her fine eyes beginning to glow. "Go on. Tell us
more about her."

But Brown shut up abruptly, as if he had been taking a liberty with the
privacy of his friend's home.

"Oh," he said lightly, "there's nothing more to tell. They live a very
quiet, very simple, but, I think, a very beautiful life."

"And she's fond of football?" inquired Betty.

"Devoted to it."

"And has she never seen a game? Has she never seen Shock play?"
inquired Helen.

"Never."

"Would she be afraid?"

"Would you insult the widow of a Sutherland Highlander whose picture in
warlike regalia regards her daily from her cottage wall?"

"Well, I am going to see her," exclaimed Betty.

Brown looked annoyed.

"What for?"

"Why, I am going to call."

Brown laughed a little scornfully. "Yes, and be sure to leave three
cards--is it?--and tell her your day."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Betty indignantly. "You are not very
polite."

"Oh, I am sorry, really. But I imagined the old lady looking at you and
wondering what was your particular business, and then I thought of your
difficulty in making it quite clear to her."

"Why! does she not call on anyone?"

"No. She takes her knitting and visits."

"Well, I'm going anyway, somehow. I'll ask Shock to take me."

"Oh, Betty, you could not do that," said Helen. "No man would like
exhibiting his home, much less his mother."

But Betty shook her head decidedly, saying, "I'll find some way. Tell
me, what does she like?"

"Shock."

"But I mean what amusement and pleasure has she?"

"Amusement! Shades of the mighty past! Why, Miss Betty," Brown's tone
is sad and severe, "in my young days young people never thought of
amusement. We had no time for such follies."

"Oh, nonsense!" exclaimed Betty impatiently. "Has she no other interest
in life than Shock?"

"None. Her church,--she would regard your prelacy with horror,--and
Shock, and Shock's doings and goings--and football, of course, as I
have said. Shock plays, you see."

"Then I have an idea," cried Helen. "We'll--"

"Do go on," appealed Brown.

"Better give it to him," said Lloyd. "An idea, you know, is to some
people a rare and valuable asset."

"Not now. Perhaps later I may impart it," said Helen.

"It would be a great kindness," said Brown humbly, "if you could let me
have it soon."

"Nature abhors a vacuum, you know," put in Lloyd.

At this point the bell rang and The Don came in. He was a young man of
striking appearance, handsome, dark, well set up, with the eyes of his
Spanish mother, but with the head and jaw of his Scotch sea-captain
father. With all his ease of manner there was a shy, proud reserve
about him, and a kind of grand air that set him apart from any company
in which he might appear.

After saluting the young ladies with a somewhat formal bow, he
announced, "I want you, Brown."

"Oh, sit down," cried Betty. "Sit down, Mr. Balfour. We are not going
to allow you to carry off our visitor in this abrupt manner."

"Yes, take yourself off," cried Brown. "You see I can't be spared."

"Please sit down," urged Helen. "We want to ask you about the match."

"I really cannot," replied The Don. "I am on duty, you see."

"On duty?"

"Yes. Looking after men who would stay out to all hours, and regale
themselves upon cake and all sorts of indigestible stuff. And more than
that, Shock is outside waiting."

"Oh," cried Betty, "do bring him in. For years Helen and I have known
him, and yet we don't know him. Bring him in."

"Can you not persuade him to come in?" urged Helen.

"I am sure I cannot. But if you were to try--" The Don paused, looking
doubtfully at her. Helen hesitated.

"Oh, he's awful, I know. He will hardly speak to me," interrupted
Betty. "But if you'll come with me I'll humble myself before him."

In a moment or two, sure enough, they returned, with Shock following.

He was a big man, gaunt and bony, with a mighty pair of shoulders
topped by a square, massive head on which bristled a veritable shock of
coarse, yellow hair. But he had a strong, honest face, and good, deep
blue eyes. He seemed too big for the room, and after shaking hands
awkwardly with Helen, who had gone forward to meet him, he subsided
into, deep arm-chair, struggling with his hands and feet.

The contrast between Shock on the one hand, and the elegant Lloyd and
the handsome Don on the other, could hardly be more striking. All in
the room were conscious of this contrast and sought in every way to
minimise it. Betty plunged into football talk, to which Shock listened
for the most part smilingly silent.

She was determined to draw her unhappy visitor from his shell. But her
most brilliant efforts were in vain. Poor Shock remained hopelessly
engaged with his hands and feet, and replied at unexpected places, in
explosive monosyllables at once ludicrous and disconcerting. Not even
The Don, who came to her assistance, could relieve the awkwardness of
the situation. Shock was too large to be ignored, and too unwieldy to
be adjusted.

After a few minutes of hopeless endeavour The Don gave up the attempt
and rose to go, saying: "You will need to excuse us. We are due at a
meeting to-night. Come along, Brown."

The alacrity which Shock displayed in getting upon his feet gave
abundant testimony to the agony he had been suffering during the last
half hour.

"Yes, we must be off," said Brown, far more eager to go than was his
wont.

"Will you not come again?" said Betty to Shock, as she shook hands with
him. "My mother would be glad to see you."

But Shock could only look at her blankly, evidently wondering what her
mother might wish to see him for, and when Betty tried to extract a
promise from him he muttered something about being "far behind in his
work and very busy."

But Betty was not to be baulked.

"I should like to call on your mother," she said. But again Shock
looked blank, while Brown began to make faces at her from behind his
back.

"When will your mother be in?" she persisted.

"Oh, she's in every day, except when she goes out for a walk, or--"

Brown kept up his signalling, and The Don began to look puzzled and
annoyed.

"Well," said Betty desperately, "I would like to go and see her some
day."

Shock hesitated, blushed, and then answered: "We have no friends in the
city, and we do not visit much, and--"

"Oh, I'll tell you, Miss Betty," burst in Brown. "Get a sharp attack of
typhoid and Mrs. Macgregor will then come and see you. She's a great
nurse."

"That she is," said Shock enthusiastically. "She would be glad to come."

"Come along, Brown," broke in The Don. "We are late now. Come along,
Shock," and the three men went off together, leaving Lloyd behind.

"Isn't he awful?" said Beth. "And didn't I humiliate myself?"

"You certainly deserved humiliation," said her sister indignantly. "You
might have seen he was dreadfully shy, and you ought to have left him
alone. And now for my great idea. I will take you both into my
confidence. I am going to drive Mrs. Macgregor to the match to-morrow."

"Splendid!" exclaimed Betty. "And I'll go with you. But how can you
persuade her?"

"I have thought about that," said Helen. "We'll ask Mr. Brown to drive
around with us a little before, and I'm sure she will go."

"Will you allow me to join the party?" humbly asked Lloyd, "or is there
someone else?"

"Oh," said Betty, "we are sure to need somebody, and you will do as
well as any other."

In obedience to an invitation conveyed by Lloyd, Brown appeared at the
Fairbanks house in the early morning. Eagerly the young ladies
propounded their plan. At once Brown entered heartily into it, and
calling with them in the afternoon persuaded the old lady that she
ought to attend the great match, emphasising especially the fact that
Shock would be delighted to see her there, and would be stimulated to
do his very best by her presence.

"It will likely be his last game, too," urged Brown.

This finally decided the matter, and so it turned out that perhaps the
most enthusiastic, and certainly the most picturesque, of all the
groups that surrounded the campus next day was that which filled the
Fairbanks carriage, consisting of two young ladies, an elegantly
attired young man, and a quaint, plainly dressed, but undeniably
dignified, old lady.

II

VARSITY VERSUS McGILL

It is a glorious autumn day. The smoky air with just a nip of the
coming frost in it hangs still over the trees, through whose bare tops
and interlacing boughs the genial sunlight falls in a golden glory upon
the grass below. The nip in the air, the golden light, the thrilling
uncertainty of the coming match, the magnitude of the issue at stake,
combine to raise the ardour of football enthusiasts to the highest
pitch.

The record of each team is unique. Each has gone through the
championship series without a single reverse. Perhaps never in their
history have both universities been more worthily represented than by
the teams that are to contest to-day the championship of the Dominion.

The McGill men are the first to appear on the campus, and are welcomed
with loud and generous cheers, which are, however, redoubled upon the
appearance of the 'Varsity champions.

Many eyes are turned upon the Fairbanks carriage. The young ladies are
well known in University circles; but the quaint old lady, looking so
handsome in spite of her plain black bonnet, awakens the curiosity of
the crowd, which only increases when it becomes known that she is
Shock's mother.

"Do you see Hamish, my dear?" inquires the old lady. "They are so much
alike I cannot distinguish him."

"Go and bring him," cries Betty, and Lloyd returns in a moment with
Shock and little Brown.

"Mother! mother! This is awful. You won't like it a bit. You'll think
I'm getting killed many a time."

But the old lady only smiles placidly. "Indeed, and I'm not afraid for
you. Run away, Hamish, and be careful of the laddies."

"Don't tell him that, Mrs. Macgregor," pleads Brown. "He's far too
gentle as it is."

Some few minutes are spent in arranging for the kick-off.

"Oh, I do wish they would start," exclaims Betty, standing up in the
carriage. "If they would only start!" she repeats. "I want to have a
chance to shriek."

"There they go!" exclaims Lloyd.

It is McGill's kick. Huntingdon, the big captain and centre forward,
takes it magnificently, following up hard with his whole team. Pepper,
the 'Varsity full back, however, is at the spot and returns into touch.
In the throw-in McGill secures the ball, and by a swift rush makes
fifteen or twenty feet, when, amid the cheers of the spectators, both
teams settle down into their first scrimmage.

These are the days of close scrimmage play, when nine men on each side
put their heads down with the ball between them, and shove for dear
life. Picking out, heeling out, or kicking out is strictly forbidden
and promptly penalised.

The first scrimmage results in a dead ball. Once more a scrimmage is
formed, but again the result is a dead ball. Over and over again this
play is repeated with very little gain on either side. It gradually
becomes apparent, however, that McGill in a scrimmage is slightly
heavier. Foot by foot they work their way toward the 'Varsity goal.

The cries of "Hold them, 'Varsity! Hold them, 'Varsity!" and, "You've
got 'em, McGill! You've got 'em!" indicate the judgment of the
spectators.

"Ay," says the old lady, "they are a bit heavy for them, I doubt."

"Who!" inquires Betty, much amused.

"The Montreal lads. But we will be waiting a meenute."

It is a very slow game for the crowds that line every side of the
field. Neither team will let the ball out. Again and again the quarters
nip up the ball and pass, but the tackling is so hard and swift that
the halves cannot get away, and by passing ground is almost always lost.

"Keep it in!" is the word. Inch by inch towards the 'Varsity goal the
McGill forwards fight their way.

Suddenly the McGill scrimmage weakens and breaks up. Their quarter
seizes the ball, passes it low and swift to Bunch, who is off like the
wind across the field, dodges through the quarters, knocks off Martin
and Bate, and with The Don coming hard upon his flank, sets off for the
'Varsity line with only Pepper between him and a touch-down.

But Pepper is waiting for him, cool and steady. As Bunch nears him he
crouches like a cat, creeping slowly to meet his coming foe. Ten feet
from the line straight at the full back goes Bunch. At two paces
distance he changes his mind and swerves to the left with the hope of
dodging past.

But he has ventured too far. Pepper takes two short steps, and like a
tiger springs at his foe, winds his arms round his hips and drags him
down, while The Don from the side leaps fiercely on him and holds the
ball safe, five feet from the line.

'Varsity goes wild with relief.

"Pepper! Pepper! Red hot Pepper!" they chant rapturously in
enthusiastic groups here and there, as Pepper's red head emerges from
the crowd piled upon him and the prostrate Bunch. Again and again rises
the chant, as the full back returns at a slow trot to his place behind
the line.

"Indeed, it is Pepper is the grand laddie," says the old lady
approvingly. "Many's the game he has saved, Hamish will be telling me."

"Now, McGill!" calls out a Montreal man, leading his fellows. "Stone
wall! Stone wall! Shove 'em in! Shove 'em in!"

But the 'Varsity captain is alive to his danger, and getting his men
low down he determines to hold the enemy fast till the fury of their
attack be somewhat spent, or till fortune shall bring him aid.

"Get up! Get up there, 'Varsity!" yells the McGill contingent.

"Look at 'em saying their prayers!" shouts a boy.

"They need to," answers another.

"Get up, 'Varsity! Get up! Don't be afraid!" they yell derisively.

"Make 'em stand up, referee," a Montreal man insists.

Again and again the McGill captain appeals to the referee, who
remonstrates, urges, and finally orders the 'Varsity to get up or be
penalised.

Campbell perceives that something must be done. He moves Shock from the
centre to the left wing of the scrimmage and calls in Martin and Bate
from half.

By this time every 'Varsity man is on his feet, for he knows that Shock
is about to lead the "screw" and before the scrimmage is well formed
the McGill stone wall is broken, and Campbell is boring through it with
the bat, gaining a good ten feet and by a quick re-form ten more.

"Man, man, take heed. Yon's a dangerous game, I'm thinking," murmurs
Shock's mother anxiously, to the amazed amusement of Lloyd, who
replies, "Why, Mrs. Macgregor, you seem to know the game as well as the
rest of us."

"Ay, Hamish has often showed me the working of the screw, and it is not
to be depended upon in a place like yon."

The 'Varsity team breathe freely again and go in with new vim, while
McGill settles down on the ball to recover steadiness.

But the 'Varsity captain has seen the screw work and resolves to try it
again. Once more he move Shock to the wing, signals to the quarters,
and again the Montreal stone wall is demoralised. But instead of
Campbell boring over the prostrate form of his big centre with the ball
the McGill captain, securing it, passes to Carroll, his quarter, who
dashing off as a feint to the right, passes far across the field to
Bunch on the left.

Bunch as usual is in his place, catches beautifully and is off down the
field like a whirlwind, dodging one, knocking off another, running
round a third, till between him and the goal line he has only the half
back, Martin, and the full.

The McGill people go wild again. "Bunch! Bunch!" they yell frantically,
crowding down the line after him. "He's in! He's in!"

But not yet. Red Pepper is swiftly bearing down upon him, and as he
comes within reach springs at him. But the wily Bunch has learned to
measure that long reach, and dodging back sharply, he slips round
Pepper and makes for the line ten yards away.

A long groan goes up from the 'Varsity support, while from a hundred
McGill throats rises the cry again--"He's in! He's in! A touch! A
touch!"

But close upon him, and gaining at every foot, is The Don, the fleetest
man in the 'Varsity team. For half a second it looks as if Bunch must
make the line, but within three yards of the goal, and just as he is
about to throw himself toward it, Balfour shoots out his arm, grasps
his enemy by the back of the neck, and turning round, hurls him back
with terrific force to the ground and clambers on top of him. It is a
fierce tackle, giving great satisfaction to all the 'Varsity
supporters, but to none more than to Mrs. Macgregor, who, as she sees
the unfortunate Bunch hurled to earth, exclaims with quiet
satisfaction, "That will be doing for ye, I'm thinking."

"Isn't she a great old warrior?" says Lloyd aside, to the young ladies.

"The Don! The Don!" cry the 'Varsity contingent. "We-like-Don!
We-like-Don!" they chant, surging across the corner of the field in the
wildest enthusiasm.

"Keep back! Keep back! Give him air." The referee, and the captains
with their teams, push the crowd back, for Bunch is lying motionless
upon the ground. "It's simply a case of wind," says little Carroll, the
McGill quarter, lightly.

"The want of it, you mean," says big Mooney, hauling Carroll back by
the neck.

In a few minutes, however, the plucky McGill half back is up again, and
once more the scrimmage is formed.

Gradually it grows more evident that McGill is heavier in the
scrimmage, but this advantage is offset by the remarkable boring
quality of the 'Varsity captain, who, upon the break up of a scrimmage,
generally succeeds in making a few feet, frequently over Shock's huge
body. As for Shock, he apparently enjoys being walked upon by his
captain, and emerges from each successive scrimmage with his yellow
hair fiercely erect, his face covered with blood, and always wreathed
in smiles. No amount of hacking and scragging in a scrimmage can damp
his ardour or ruffle the serenity of his temper.

"Isn't he ghastly?" exclaims Lloyd to the young ladies at his side.

"Perfectly lovely!" cries Betty in return.

"Ah, the old story of the bloodthirsty sex," replies Lloyd. "Hello,
there goes half time," he adds, "and no score yet. This is truly a
great game." Eagerly the men are taken charge of by their respective
attendants, stripped, rubbed, slapped, and sponged.

Up come Shock and Brown. The blood on Shock's face gives him a
terrifying appearance.

"Oh!" cries Helen anxiously, "you are hurt."

"Not a bit," he replies cheerily, glancing in surprise at her.

"How do you like it, Mrs Macgregor?" inquires Brown.

"Man, laddie, they are a grand team, and it will be no easy matter to
wheep them."

"Don't you think now that Shock is a little too gentle with them?" asks
Brown wickedly.

"Well, it will not do to allow them to have their own way altogether,"
she replies cautiously. "But run away, Hamish, and get yourself put
right. There is much before you yet."

"Say, old man," says Brown as they trot off, "it's no credit to you to
be a great centre. You'd disgrace your blood if you were anything else."

Into the 'Varsity dressing room strolls old Black, the greatest captain
of the greatest team 'Varsity has ever seen.

"Well, old chap," he calls out cheerfully to Campbell, "how goes it?"

"All right," says Campbell. "They are a great team, but I think we are
holding them."

"They are the greatest team McGill ever sent here," replies Black.

"Oh, thanks, awfully," says Campbell, "but they are hardly up to the
team of four years ago."

"Quite, I assure you, and you are holding them down."

"Do you think so?" There was no anxiety in the captain's tone, but
there was a serious earnestness that somehow caught the ear of all the
men in the room.

Black noticed it.

"Yes, you are holding them so far, without a doubt. Their weight tells
in the scrimmage, and of course we do not know their back play yet, and
that fellow Bunch Cameron is a wonder."

"That's what!" sings out little Brown. "But what's the matter with The
Don?"

Immediately the roar comes back, "He's--all--right!"

"Yes," replies Black quietly, "Balfour is swifter, and harder in
tackle."

"Have you anything to suggest?" asks Campbell, with a reverence which a
man in the struggle feels for one who has achieved. The men are all
quiet, listening. But Black knows his place.

"Not in the least. You have a great team, and you are handling them
perfectly."

"Hear that now, will you?" cries little Brown "We're It!"

"Do you think we had better open up a little?" But Black is a gentleman
and knows better than to offer advice.

"I really cannot offer an opinion. You know your men better than I.
Besides, it is better to find out your enemy's tactics than to be too
stuck on your own. Remember, those fellows are doing some thinking at
this blessed minute. Of course," he went on hesitatingly, "if they keep
playing the same close game--well--you might try--that is--you have got
a great defence, you know, and The Don can run away from any of them."

"All right," said the captain. "We'll feel 'em first, boys. Keep at the
old game. Close and steady till we get inside their heads. Watch their
quarters. They're lightning in a pass."

It turns out that old Black is right. The McGills have been doing some
thinking. From the kick-off they abandon the close scrimmage for a
time, playing an open, dribbling, punting game, and they are playing it
superbly. While they are sure in their catching and fierce in their
tackle, their specialty is punting and following up. In this they are
exceedingly dangerous. For the first ten minutes the 'Varsity men are
forced within their own twenty-five yard line and are put upon their
defence. The quarters and forwards begin to "back," a sure sign of
coming doom.

"What in thunder are you doing back here!" roars Martin to little
Brown. "Do you see anything wrong with this line?"

Nothing so maddens a half back as to see the forward line fall back
into defence. Little Brown, accepting his rebuke with extraordinary
meekness, abandons the defence and with the other quarters and
forwards, who had been falling back, goes up where Campbell and Shock
are doing their best to break the punting game and are waiting their
chance for a run.

Every moment is dangerous; for the McGills have the spirit of victory
strong upon them, and from their supporters on the side lines the
triumphant and exasperating refrain is rising:

  "Got'em going, going, going,
  Got'em going home."

And indeed for a few minutes it looks like it. Again and again the
McGill forward line, fed carefully and judiciously by their defence,
rush to the attack, and it is all Campbell can do to hold his men in
place. Seizing the opportunity of a throw-in for 'Varsity, he passes
the word to his halves and quarters, "Don't give away the ball. Hold
and run. Don't pass," and soon he has the team steady again and ready
for aggressive work. Before long, by resolutely refusing to kick or
pass and by close, hard tackling, 'Varsity forces McGill to abandon
open play, and once more the game settles down into the old, terrible,
grinding scrimmage.

"Oh, why don't they let The Don have it?" exclaims Betty. "I am sure he
could get through."

The crowd seem to hold the same opinion, for they begin to call out,
"Let it out, Alec. Let The Don have it."

But Campbell still plays cautiously a close game. His men are staying
well, and he is conscious of a reserve in his back line that he can
call upon at the fitting moment. For that moment, however, he waits
anxiously, for while his scrim is playing with bulldog grit it is
losing snap. True, Shock comes out of every tussle bloody, serene, and
smiling as usual, but the other men are showing the punishment of the
last hour's terrible scrimmage. The extra weight of the McGill line is
beginning surely to tell. It is an anxious moment for the 'Varsity
captain, for any serious weakening of the scrimmage line is disastrous
to the morals of a team.

"You are holding them all right, old chap," says old Black, taking
advantage of a pause in the play while little Brown's leg is being
rubbed into suppleness.

"I'd like to open out, but I'm afraid to do it," replies Campbell.

"Well, I think your back line is safe enough. Their scrimmage is
gaining on you. I almost think you might venture to try a pass game."

It is upon the passing of his back line that Campbell has in previous
matches depended for winning, and with ordinary opponents he would have
adopted long ago this style of play, but these McGill men are so hard
upon the ball, so deadly in tackling, and so sure in their catch that
he hesitates to give them the opportunities that open play affords. But
he has every confidence in The Don, his great half back; he has never
played him in any match where he has not proved himself superior to
everything in the field, and he resolves to give him a chance.

At this moment something happens, no one knows how. A high punt from
behind sends the ball far up into the 'Varsity territory, and far
before all others Bunch, who seems to have a kind of uncanny instinct
for what is going to happen, catches the ball on the bound and makes
for the 'Varsity line with a comparatively open field before him.
Fifteen yards from the line he is tackled by Martin, but ere he falls
passes to Huntingdon, his captain, who, catching neatly and dodging
between Campbell and another 'Varsity man, hurls his huge weight upon
Pepper, who is waiting for him, crouched low after his usual style.

The full back catches him fairly and throws him over his shoulder. As
both come heavily to the ground there is a sickening crack heard over
the field. The McGill captain, with Pepper hanging desperately to his
hips, drags himself over the line and secures a touchdown for McGill.

At once there rises a wild tumult of triumph from the McGill
contingent, but after a minute or two the noise is followed by an
anxious hush, and when the crowd about the prostrate players is
dispersed Pepper is seen lying on his face tearing up the grass. Two or
three doctors rush in from the crowd, and before long Pepper is carried
off the field. His leg is broken.

A number of people begin to leave the field.

"Oh, isn't it horrible," groans Betty, turning very pale. "Shall we go
home, Mrs. Macgregor?"

Helen looks at the old lady anxiously.

"Here is Hamish," she replies quickly. "We will wait."

Shock runs up, much disturbed.

"Awful, is it not?" he says to Helen, who is the first to meet him. "I
am sorry, mother, you are here."

"Will they be stopping, think you, Hamish?" asks his mother. There is a
shade of anxiety in her voice.

"No, mother, we must play it out."

"Then I will just be waiting for the end," says the old lady calmly.
"Poor laddie--but he was bravely defending his post. And you must just
be going, Hamish man."

As Shock moved off the young ladies and Lloyd looked at her in
amazement. It was in some such spirit that she had sent her husband to
his last fight twenty years ago.

A cloud of grief and foreboding settles down upon the 'Varsity team,
for Pepper is not only a great favourite with them, but as a full back
they have learned to depend upon him. Huntingdon is full of regrets,
and at once offers Campbell and the referee to forego the touchdown,
and to scrimmage at the point of tackle.

"He would have held me, I know, bar the accident," he says.

The referee is willing, but Campbell will not hear of it.

"Put off a man," he says shortly, "and go on with the game."

Bate is moved from half to full, a man is taken from the scrimmage to
supply his place, McGill makes a similar shift, and the game proceeds.

Huntingdon fails to convert the touchdown into a goal. Bate kicks back
into touch, and with desperate determination 'Varsity goes in to even
the score.

Campbell resolves now to abandon the close game. He has everything to
win, and to lose by four points is as much a loss as by a dozen.

"Play to your halves every time," he orders the quarters, and no sooner
is play begun than the wisdom of the plan is seen. With a brilliant
series of passes the 'Varsity quarters and halves work the ball through
the McGill twenty-five line, and by following hard a high punt, force
the enemy to a safety touch. No sooner has the McGill captain kicked
off than the ball is returned and again McGill is forced to rouge.

The score now stands four to two in favour of McGill, but the 'Varsity
men have come to their strongest and are playing with an aggressiveness
that cannot be denied. Again and again they press their opponents
behind their twenty-five line.

"Oh," exclaims Betty, "if there is only time they can win yet. Do find
out," she says to Lloyd, "what time there is left." And Lloyd comes
back to announce that there are only six minutes to play.

"Hamish will be telling me that a game is often won in the last
minute," remarks the old lady encouragingly.

As Campbell perceives his desperate case, he begins to swear low,
fierce oaths at his quarters. In all their experience of their captain
the 'Varsity men have never heard him swear, and they awake to the fact
that they are face to face with a situation entirely unparalleled in
their history as a team. They are being defeated, and about to lose
their one chance of the proud distinction of holding the championship
of Canada.

From man to man Campbell goes as he finds opportunity his face white,
his eyes ablaze, adjuring, urging, entreating, commanding, in a way
quite unusual with him.

A new spirit seizes the men. Savagely they press the enemy. They are
never off the ball, but follow it as hounds a hare, and they fling
themselves so fiercely at their foe that in every tackle a McGill man
goes down to earth.

But try as they may it seems impossible to get the ball to The Don. The
McGill men have realised their danger and have men specially detailed
to block the great 'Varsity half. Again and again The Don receives the
ball; but before he can get away these men are upon him.

At length, however, the opportunity comes. By a low, swift pass from
Brown, Martin receives the ball and immediately transfers it to The
Don. Straight into the midst of a crowd of McGill men he plunges,
knocking off the hands reaching for him, slipping through impossible
apertures, till he emerges at the McGill line with little Carroll
hanging on to his shoulders, and staggering across falls fairly into
the arms of big Mooney.

Down they go all three together, with hands on the ball.

"What is it? Oh, what is it?" shrieks Betty, springing upon the box.

"I am thinking it is what they will be calling a maul in goal, and it
is a peety we cannot be seeing it," replies the dauntless old lady.

"Oh, it's The Don," exclaims Betty anxiously. "What are they doing to
him? Run, oh, run and see!" and Lloyd runs off.

"It's a maul sure enough. Two of them have The Don down," he announces,
"but he'll hold all right," he adds quickly, glancing keenly at Betty.

"Let me go," cried Betty. "I must go."

"Betty," says Helen, in a low voice, "be quiet."

"Oh, I don't care," cries Betty passionately. "I want to go."

"He'll hold all right," says Lloyd confidently, and Betty grows
suddenly quiet.

"Ay, that he will, yon chap," agrees Mrs. Macgregor, standing up and
trying to see what is going on.

"If The Don can hold for three minutes it will count two for his side;
if Mooney and Carroll can get the ball away it will only count one,"
explained Lloyd.

About the three players struggling on the ground the crowd pours
itself, yelling, urging, imploring, shrieking directions. Campbell
stoops down over The Don and shouts into his ear. "Hold on, Don. It
means the game," and The Don, lying on his back, winds his arms round
the ball and sets himself to resist the efforts of Mooney and Carroll
to get it away.

In vain the police and field censors try to keep back the crowd. They
are swept helpless into the centre. Madder and wilder grows the tumult,
while the referee stands, watch in hand, over the struggling three.

"Stop that choking, Carroll," says Shock to the little quarter, who is
gripping The Don hard about the throat.

"Get off, Mooney," cries Campbell. "Get off his chest with your knees.
Get off, I say, or I'll knock your head off."

But Mooney persists in boring into The Don's stomach with his knees,
tugging viciously at the ball. With a curse Campbell springs at him.
But as he springs a dozen hands reach for him. There is a wild rush of
twenty men for each other's throats. Too close to strike they can only
choke and scrag and hack each other fiercely. The policemen push in,
threatening with their batons, and there is a prospect of a general
fight when the referee's whistle goes. Time is up. The MAUL is over.
'Varsity has its two points. The score now stand even, four to four,
with two minutes to play.

They lift The Don from the ground. His breath is coming in gasps and he
is trembling with the tremendous exertions of the last three minutes.

"Time there!" calls out Shock, who has Balfour in his arms.

The smile is all gone from Shock's face. As he watches The Don
struggling in deep gasps to recover his breath, for the first time in
his football life he loses himself. He hands his friend to a couple of
men standing near, strides over to Mooney, and catching him by the
throat begins to shove him back through the crowd.

"You brute, you!" he roars. "What kind of a game do you call that!
Jumping on a man when he is down, with your knees! For very little," he
continues, struggling to get his arm free from the men who are hanging
on it, "I would knock your face off."

Men from both sides throw themselves upon Shock and his foe and tear
them apart.

"That's all right, Shock," cries The Don, laughing between his gasps,
and Shock, suddenly coming to himself, slinks shamefacedly into the
crowd.

"It is not often Hamish forgets himself in yon fashion," says his
mother, shaking her head. "He must be sorely tried indeed," she adds
confidently.

"I am quite sure of it," replies Helen. "He always comes out smiling."
And the old lady looks at her approvingly a moment, and says, "Indeed,
and you are right, lassie."

In a few minutes The Don is as fit as ever, and slapping Shock on the
back says pleasantly, "Come, along, old fire-eater. We've got to win
this game yet," and Shock goes off with him, still looking much ashamed.

McGill kicks from the twenty-five line, but before the scrimmage that
follows is over time is called, with an even score.

The crowd streams on the field tumultuously enthusiastic over a game
such as has never been seen on that campus. Both sides are eager to go
on, and it is arranged that the time be extended half an hour.

Old Black gets Campbell aside and urges, "Take ten minutes off and get
your men into quarters." Campbell takes his advice and the rubbers get
vigorously to work at legs and loins, rubbing, sponging, slapping,
until the men declare themselves fresh as ever.

"Not hurt, Don?" inquires Campbell anxiously.

"Not a bit," says The Don. "It didn't bother me at all. I was winded,
you see, before I fell."

"Well," says Campbell, "we're going to give you a chance now. There's
only one thing to do, men. Rush 'em. They play best in attack, and our
defence is safe enough. What do you say, Black?"

"I entirely agree. But begin steady. I should use your whole half back
line, however, for a while. They will lay for Balfour there."

"That's right," says the captain. "Begin steady and pass to Martin and
McLaren for the first while, and then everyone give The Don a chance."

"And Shock," calls out little Brown, "don't be a fool, and stop
fighting," at which everybody roars except Shock himself, who, ashamed
of his recent display of temper, hurries off to the field.

Once more the campus is cleared. Battered and bloody as to features,
torn and dishevelled as to attire, but all eager and resolved, the
teams again line up, knowing well that they have before them a half
hour such as they have never yet faced in all their football career.

It is 'Varsity's kick. Campbell takes it carefully, and places it in
touch well within the McGill twenty-five. After the throw in, the teams
settle down to scrimmage as steady as at the first, with this
difference, however, that 'Varsity shows perceptibly weaker. Back step
by step their scrimmage is forced toward the centre, the retreat
counterbalanced somewhat by the splendid individual boring of Campbell
and Shock. But both teams are alert and swift at the quarters, fierce
in tackle and playing with amazing steadiness.

Suddenly Carroll nips up the ball and passes hard and swift to the half
back immediately behind him, who in turn passes far out to Bunch on the
left wing. With a beautiful catch Bunch, never slacking speed, runs
round the crowd, dodges the quarters, knocks off Martin, and with a
crowd of men of both teams close upon his heels, makes for the line.

Before him stands Bate alone. From his tall, lank make one might easily
think him none too secure on his legs. Bunch determines to charge, and
like a little bull rushes full at him.

But Bate's whole football life has been one long series of deceptions,
and so he is quite prepared for this kind of attack. As Bunch comes at
him he steps lightly aside, catches the half back about the neck,
swings him round and lands him prone with such terrific impact that the
ball flies out of his grasp.

Immediately little Brown has it, passes to Martin, who on being tackled
passes to The Don. The field before him is full of the enemy, but The
Don never hesitates. Doubling, twisting, knocking of, he eludes man
after man, while the crowds on the line grow more and more frantic, and
at length, clearing the main body, he sets off across the field to more
open country on the 'Varsity left. Behind him come Campbell, Shock,
Martin and others, following hard; before him stand three of the McGill
defence. Dorion, McDonnell, and Mooney. He has already made a great
run, and it looks as if he cannot possibly make through.

First Dorion springs at him, but The Don's open hand at the end of a
rigid arm catches him full in the neck, and Dorion goes down like a
stick.

Big McDonnell bears swiftly down upon him and leaps high at him, but
The Don lowers his shoulder, catches McDonnell below the wind and
slides him over his back; but before he can get up speed again little
Carroll is clutching at his hips, and Mooney, the McGill full back,
comes rushing at him. Swinging round, The Don shakes Carroll partly
off, and with that fierce downward cut of his arm which is his special
trick, sends the little quarter flying, and just as Mooney tackles,
passes the ball over his shoulder to Shock, who is immediately pounced
upon by half a dozen McGill men, but who, ere he is held, passes to
Campbell, who in turn works forward a few yards, and again on being
tackled, passes to The Don. It is a magnificent bit of play.

The spectators have long since passed all bounds of control, and are
pouring on the field, yelling like mad people. Even the imperturbable
old lady loses her calm for a moment, and griping Helen's arm exclaims,
"Look at that, now! Man, man, yon is a grand laddie."

There is no chance for The Don to run, for a swarm of the McGill men
stand between him and the line only a few yards off. Then he does the
only possible thing. Putting his head down he plunges into the crowd in
front of him.

"Come on, Shock," yells Campbell. Instantly a dozen 'Varsity men
respond to the cry and fall in behind Campbell and Shock, who, locking
arms about The Don, are shoving him through for dear life.

There are two minutes of fierce struggle. Twenty men in a mass,
kicking, scragging, fighting, but slowly moving toward the McGill line,
while behind them and around them the excited spectators wildly, madly
yelling, leaping, imploring, adjuring by all kinds of weird oaths to
"shove" or to "hold." In vain the McGill men throw themselves in the
way of the advancing mass. Steadily, irresistibly the movement goes on.
They are being beaten and they know it.

"Down! down!" yells big Huntingdon, dropping on his knees on the line
in front of the tramping, kicking 'Varsity phalanx.

A moment's pause, and there is a mass of mingling arms, legs, heads and
bodies, piled on the goal line.

"Held! held!" yell the McGill men and their supporters.

But before the referee can respond Shock seizes The Don below the
waist, lifts him clear of the mob, and trampling on friend and foe
alike, projects him over the struggling mass beyond the enemy's line,
where he is immediately buried beneath a swarm of McGill men, who
savagely jump upon him and jam his head and body into the turf.

"He's in! he's in!" shrieks Betty, wildly waving her hand.

"Will it be a win, think ye?" anxiously inquires Shock's mother. "It
will hardly be that, I doubt. But, eh--h, yon's the lad."

"Down! down!" cries the 'Varsity captain. "Get off the man! Get off the
man! Let him up, there!"

But the McGill men are slow to move.

"Get up!" roars Shock, picking them off and hurling them aside.

"Get up, men! Get up! That ball is down," yells the referee through the
din, into the ears of those who are holding The Don in a death grip.

With difficulty they are persuaded to allow him to rise. When he stands
up, breathless, bleeding at the mouth, but otherwise sound, the crowd
of 'Varsity admirers go into a riot of rapture, throwing up caps,
hugging each other in ecstatic war dances, while the team walk quietly
about recovering their wind, and resisting the efforts of their friends
to elevate them.

"Quit it!" growls Campbell. "Get off the field! Get back, you hoodlums!"

Meantime Huntingdon is protesting to the referee.

"I claim that ball was fairly held, back there. Balfour was brought to
a dead stand."

"How do you know, Huntingdon?" returns Campbell. "Your head was down in
the scrim."

"I could see his legs. I know his boots."

It is true that The Don has a peculiar toe on his boots.

"Oh," jeers Campbell scornfully, "that's all rot, you know, Huntingdon."

"Look here, Campbell, listen to what I say. I want you to remember I am
speaking the truth."

Huntingdon's quiet tone has its effect.

"I would never think of challenging your word," replies Campbell, "but
I think it is quite impossible that you could absolutely know that The
Don came to a dead stand."

"I repeat, I can pick out Balfour's boots from a whole crowd, and I
know he was brought to a stand. I am prepared to swear that. Can any
man swear to the contrary?"

"Why, certainly," cries Campbell, "half a dozen men can. There's Shock,
who was right behind him."

But Shock thus appealed to, hesitates. He has an unfortunate conscience.

"I can't say for sure," he says, looking piteously, at his captain.

"Weren't you moving all the time, Shock?"

"Well, I was shoving all the time."

"But hold on," says Huntingdon. "Will you say that Balfour was never
brought to a stand? Will you swear that?"

"Well, I cannot say for sure," replies Shock in great distress. "It was
not very long, anyway."

Yells of triumphant laughter break from the McGill crowd.

The referee is in great difficulty. He has a reputation for courage and
fairness. He hesitates a moment or two, and then, while the crowd wait
breathless for his decision, says, "You can all see that it is almost
impossible to be certain, but on the whole I shall give it a 'hold.'"

It was a bitter moment to the 'Varsity men, but Campbell is a true
sport.

"Shut up, men," he says in answer to the loud protests of his team.
"Get behind the ball."

Every second is precious now, and the line is only three feet away.

Again the field is cleared. The teams, springing to their places in the
scrimmage, began to shove furiously before the ball is in play.

"Get up, men!" says the referee. "You must get up. Let me get this ball
in. Get up, McGill! Get off your knees!" for the McGill men are on
their goal line in an attitude of devotion.

Again and again the scrimmage is formed, only be broken by the
eagerness of the combatants. At length the referee succeeds in placing
the ball. Instantly Shock is upon it, and begins to crawl toward the
line with half a dozen men on his back, gripping him by nose, ears,
face, throat, wherever a hand can find a vulnerable spot.

"Hold there!" calls the referee. "'Varsity ball."

"Get off the man! Get off!" cry the 'Varsity men, pulling the McGill
fellows by legs and heads, till at length Shock rises from the bottom
of the heap, grimy, bloody, but smiling, grimly holding to the ball. He
has made six inches. The line is two feet and a half away.

It is again 'Varsity's ball, however, and that means a great deal, for
with Campbell lies the choice of the moment for attack.

Placing Shock on the wing, and summoning his halves and quarters,
Campbell prepares for a supreme effort. It is obviously the place for
the screw.

The McGill men are down, crouching on hands and feet, some on their
knees.

Campbell refuses to play and appeals to the referee in a tone of
righteous indignation, "What sort of game is this? Look at those
fellows!"

"Get up McGill! Get up, or I'll penalise you," says the referee.
Everyone knows he will keep his word. There is a movement on the part
of McGill to rise. Campbell seizes the opportunity, lowers his head,
and with a yell drops the ball in front of Shock. In the whirl of the
screw the ball slips out to Brown, who tips it to The Don, but before
he can take a single step half a dozen men are upon him and he is
shoved back a couple of feet.

"Man, man," ejaculates the old lady, "will you not be careful!"

"I say!" exclaims old Black to a McGill enthusiast whom he had fought
in the famous championship battle four years ago. "This is something
like."

"Great ball," replies his friend. "We'll hold them yet. I've often seen
a ball forced back from two feet off the line."

It is still the 'Varsity ball. The crowds are howling like maniacs,
while the policeman and field censors are vainly trying to keep the
field decently clear.

The Don resigns the ball to the captain and falls in behind. Every man
is wet, panting, disfigured, but eager for the fight. Again the scrim
forms, only to fall upon the ball.

"Dead ball," announces the referee, and both teams begin to manoeuvre
for advantage of position. A few inches is a serious thing.

Again the ball is placed and the men throw themselves upon it, Shock as
usual at the bottom of the heap with the ball under him.

Old Black runs up through the crowd and whispers in Campbell's ear,
"Put Balfour and Martin in the scrim. They are fresher." He has noticed
that the scrim line on both sides is growing stale, and can do no more
than grimly hold on. At once Campbell sees the wisdom of this
suggestion. The Don, though not so heavy as Shock, is quite as strong,
and is quicker than the big centre, who is beginning to show the effect
of the tremendous series of scrimmages he has just passed through.
Martin, though neither so strong nor so heavy, is like an eel.

Quietly Campbell thrusts the halves into the first line on the right,
whispering to Shock, "Let Balfour have it, and back him up."

As The Don gets the ball Campbell throws himself behind him with the
yell, "'Varsity! now!" At the same instant The Don drops the ball, and
with the weight of the whole team behind him begins to bore through the
enemy.

For a few moments both teams hang in the balance, neither giving an
inch, when old Black, yelling and waving wildly, attracts the attention
of Bate.

"Go in!" he cries. "Go in!" and Bate, coming up with a rush, throws
himself behind the scrim.

His weight turns the scale. Slowly at first, but gaining momentum with
every inch, the mass yields, sways, and begins to move. The McGill men,
shoving, hacking, scragging, fighting fiercely, finally dropping on
their knees, strive to check that relentless advance. It is in vain.
Their hour has come.

With hoarse cries, regardless of kicks and blows, trampling on
prostrate foes, and followed by a mob of spectators tumultuously
cheering, the 'Varsity wedge cleaves its way, till on the other side
The Don appears with the ball hugged to his breast and Huntingdon
hanging to his throat. A final rush and the ball is down. "The ball is
down!" cries the referee, and almost immediately time is called.

The great match is over. By four points 'Varsity holds the championship
of the Dominion.

"The greatest match ever played on this ground," cries old Black,
pushing through the crowd to Campbell, with both hands outstretched.

After him comes the Montreal captain.

"I congratulate you most heartily," he says, in a voice that breaks in
spite of all he can do.

"Thanks, old man," says Campbell quietly. "It was a case of sheer luck."

"Not a bit of it," replies Huntingdon, recovering himself. "You have a
great team. I never saw a better."

"Well," replies Campbell heartily, "I have just seen as good, and
there's none we would rather win from than McGill."

"And none," replies Huntingdon, "McGill would rather lick than
'Varsity."

Meantime Shock, breaking from a crowd of admirers who are bound to
carry him in on their shoulders, makes for the Fairbanks carriage, and
greets his mother quietly.

"Well, mother, it's over at last."

"Ay, it is. Poor fellows, they will be feeling bad. But come along,
laddie. You will be needing your supper, I doubt."

Shock laughs loud. He knows his mother, and needs no words to tell him
her heart is bursting with pride and triumph.

"Come in. Let us have the glory of driving you home," cries Betty.

"In this garb?" laughs Shock.

"That's the garb of your glory," says Helen, her fine eyes lustrous
with excitement.

"Come, Hamish man, you will get your things and we will be waiting for
you."

"Very well," he replies, turning away. "I will be only a minute."

He is not allowed to escape, but with a roar the crowd seize him, lift
him shoulder high, and chanting, "Shock! Shock! we--like--Shock!" bear
him away, in triumph.

"Eh, what are the daft laddies saying now?" inquires the old lady,
struggling hard to keep out of her voice the pride that shone in her
eyes.

"Listen," cries Helen, her eyes shining with the same light. "Listen to
them," and beating time with her hand she joins in the chant, "Shock!
Shock! we--like--Shock."

THE VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

The Superintendent had come from the West on his spring round-up. New
settlements in anticipation of and following the new Railway, old
settlements in British Columbia valleys, formed twenty years ago and
forgotten, ranches of the foot-hill country, the mining camps to the
north and south of the new line--these were beginning to fire the
imagination of older Canada. Fresh from the new and wonderful land
lying west of the Great Lakes, with its spell upon him, its miseries,
its infamies, its loneliness aching in his heart, but with the
starlight of its promise burning in his eyes, he came to tell the men
of the Colleges of their duty, their privilege, their opportunity
waiting in the West. For the most part his was a voice crying in the
wilderness. Not yet had Canadians come to their faith in their Western
Empire. Among the great leaders were still found those who poured
contempt upon the project of the trans-continental railway, and even
those who favoured the scheme based their support upon political rather
than upon economic grounds. It was all so far away and all so unreal
that men who prided themselves upon being governed by shrewd business
sense held aloof from western enterprises, waiting in calm assurance
for their certain collapse. Still, here and there men like Bompas,
McLean, McDougall, and Robertson were holding high the light that fell
upon prairie and foothill, mountain peak and canyon, where speculators,
adventurers, broken men, men with shamed names seeking hiding, and
human wolves seeking their prey were pouring in.

Discouraged with the results of his work in the Eastern Colleges, the
Superintendent arrived at Knox, and to-night he stood facing the crowd
of students and their friends that filled the long Dining Hall to
overflowing. With heart hot from disappointment and voice strident with
intensity of emotion, he told of the things he had seen and heard in
that great new land. Descriptions of scenery, statistics, tales
humorous and pathetic, patriotic appeal, and prophetic vision came
pouring forth in an overwhelming flood from the great man, whose tall,
sinewy form swayed and rocked in his passion, and whose Scotch voice
burred through his sonorous periods. "For your Church, for your
fellowmen, for Canada," rang out his last appeal, and the men passed
out into the corridor toward the Entrance Hall, silent or conversing in
low, earnest tones. There was none of the usual chaffing or larking.
They had been thinking great thoughts and seeing great visions.

"I want to thank you for asking me in to-night, Lloyd," said The Don.
His voice was quiet and his fine eyes were lustrous with light. "That
man ought to be in Parliament. I shall see that country soon, I hope.
What a master he is! What a grasp! What handling of facts! There's a
great Canadian, I say, and he ought to be in Parliament."

The men gathered round, for the great 'Varsity half back was well known
and well liked in that company; but they all knew him as one of the gay
'Varsity set, and some of the older men knew, too, that in his early
college career were passages that neither he nor his friends cared to
remember. Hence all of them, but especially Shock, whom he loved, and
Lloyd, whom he greatly admired, listened with surprise to The Don's
enthusiastic words, for they both had stood beside him in those dark
days, and had played toward him the brother's part. The men waited in
silence for Lloyd's reply. They knew him to be by far the strongest man
in the college, the readiest in debate, as well as the most popular in
the pulpit; but, with the sure instinct of college men, they had come
to recognise his ambitious spirit, and, indeed, to be more influenced
by it than they would have cared to acknowledge.

"Yes," said Lloyd, "it was certainly a statesman-like address. It
contained all the elements of a great speech. But he--of
course--well--he sees only one thing--The West."

"That's right," said little Brown, who had come in at Shock's earnest
invitation, and because he was anxious to hear about the new country
from one who was coming to be recognised as an authority, "he sees one
thing sure enough. I say, what a drummer he'd make! Talk like that is
worth 100 a minute to any firm. I'll put my Governor on to him. When
that chap opened his sample case he wouldn't talk weather and politics,
and then sidle up to business. Not much! He'd give them Brown's Axle
Oil, Brown's Baking Powder, or anything else of Brown's he was showing,
till his customer would see nothing but Brown's Axle Oil and Brown's
Baking Powder all over his shop, and he'd be reaching for the whole
output. One thing! You bet!"

A general laugh of approval followed Brown's speech.

"That's true enough," said Lloyd in a tone of calm superiority, "but
there is other work to do and other places to do it in."

"The Park Church, for instance, eh, Lloyd?" suggested the voice slyly.

"Why not?" answered Lloyd. "The centres must be manned--that's a safe
principle in strategy."

"Certainly," cried another voice ironically. "Our neglected masses!"

"Yes, and neglected classes, too." Lloyd's tone was earnest and sincere.

"I agree with you, Lloyd," said The Don emphatically, "if any fellows
need to be, ah--well--shaken up, you know, it's us poor devils who
attend the city churches. For my part, I would like to see you in the
Park Church, and I promise you I would go regularly."

On all sides there was frank approval of The Don's position, while
Lloyd, flushed and laughing, lightly replied: "Oh, there won't be any
trouble, I fancy, in getting a man for the Park Church."

"Not in the least, I assure you," said Brown. "Brown Bros., Commission
Merchants, etc., etc., will undertake to supply men in half-dozen lots
willing for a consideration to offer themselves upon the altar of Park
Church."

"There's more than willingness necessary, unfortunately, and besides,
lots of men would be willing to go West," answered Lloyd.

"Yes, and lots of men deucedly unwilling, too, from what your old man
there says, not to speak of the young lady, who apparently must also be
willing. Oh! I say, wasn't that a great yarn; and if ever that chap
gets a look at himself from that particular point of view, that 'll be
the time to buy him."

"Brown, my boy," said The Don solemnly, "your limitations are obvious.
The commercial in you has run to seed."

"That may be, but I can spot a man that knows how to show his goods,
and when that old gentleman set forth the West in those high lights of
his, I tell you what, I almost wished I was a Theologue."

"What a pity you are not," replied The Don thoughtfully, "for
apparently they want strong men." At which the crowd again laughed.

"What's the matter with Shock?" suggested someone; "he's a good strong
man." There was a general laugh.

"You're the man, Shock. You would clear out those saloons."

"Can you ride a broncho, Shock?"

At the good-natured chaff Shock blushed a deeper red than usual. No one
expected much of poor Shock. Indeed, most of his classmates wondered if
he would ever "get a place," and none more than Shock himself.

But Brown, resenting the laugh and its all too evident implication,
replied indignantly: "You bet Shock's the man for the West, or any
place else where solid men are wanted, and where Shock goes there will
be something doing! And," striking an attitude, "the country will be
the better for it! Oh, I am a Canadian!" he continued, smiting his
breast dramatically. "Come along, Shock, we've got an appointment," and
Brown, linking his arm affectionately through that of his big friend,
stuck his cap on the back of his head and marched off whistling "The
Maple Leaf."

"Say!" he cried, as he passed out into the street, "won't a lot of
those fellows volunteer, or will they hunt round for a nice little bunk
in Ontario?"

"Many would like to go if they could," said Shock thoughtfully, "but
you know there are many things that must be considered."

"Young ladies, eh?" asked Brown with a laugh.

"Oh! didn't he tell that yarn well? It was great. But I'd hate to be
the fellow."

"But you are not fair," replied Shock. "A man can't answer every
appeal. He must think what he is fit for, and, in short, where he is
called to work. There's Lloyd, now--"

"Oh, Lloyd!" broke in Brown impatiently. "He's a quitter."

"Not he. He's anything but that."

"No," owned Brown, "he's not a quitter, but he puts in overtime
thinking of what's good for Lloyd. Of course, I do that sort of thing
myself, but from a fellow like Lloyd one expects something better."

Soon they were at Shock's door.

"Come in," said Shock cordially, "mother will be glad to see you."

And Brown went in.

IV

ONLY ONE CLAIM

It always gave Brown a sense of content to enter the Macgregor cottage.
Even among the thrifty North country folk the widow Macgregor's home,
while not as pretentious as those of the well-to-do farmers, had been
famous as a model of tidy house-keeping. Her present home was a little
cottage of three rooms with the kitchen at the back. The front room
where Mrs. Macgregor received her few visitors, and where Shock did
most of his reading, except when driven to his bedroom by the said
visitors, was lighted by two candles in high, polished, old-fashioned
brass candlesticks, and by the fire from the hearth, which radiated a
peace and comfort which even the shiny hair-cloth chairs and sofa and
the remaining somewhat severe furniture of the room could not chill. It
was the hearth and mantel that had decided Mrs. Macgregor and Shock in
their purchase of the little cottage, which in many eyes was none too
desirable. On the walls hung old-fashioned prints of Robbie Burns and
his Highland Mary, the Queen and the Prince Consort, one or two quaint
family groups, and over the mantel a large portrait of a tall soldier
in full Highland dress. Upon a bracket in a corner stood a glass case
enclosing a wreath of flowers wrought in worsted, and under it in a
frame hung a sampler with the Lord's Prayer similarly wrought. On one
side of the room stood a clock upon a shelf, flanked by the Family
Bible and such books as "The Saint's Rest," "Holy Living," "The
Fourfold State," "Scots Worthies," all ancient and well worn. On the
other side stood a bookcase which was Shock's, and beside it a table
where he did his work. Altogether it was a very plain room, but the
fireplace and the shining candlesticks and the rag carpet on the floor
redeemed it from any feeling of discomfort, while the flowers that
filled the windows left an air of purity and sweetness.

"Come away, my lad, come away," said Mrs. Macgregor, who sat knitting
by the fire. "The night is chill enough. Come away up to the fire."

"Thanks, Mrs. Macgregor," said Brown, "it does me good to look at you
by the fire there with your knitting. When I'm an old man I only hope
I'll have a cozy hearthstone like this to draw up to, and on the other
side a cozy old lady like you with pink cheeks like these which I must
now kiss."

"Tut, tut, it's a daft laddie you are whatever," said the old lady,
blushing a little, but not ill-pleased. "Sit ye down yonder." Brown,
ever since his illness, when Mrs. Macgregor and Shock had nursed him
back from death's door two years ago, was one of the family, and,
indeed, he used endearments with the old lady that the undemonstrative
Shock would never have dared to use. "Ye're late, Hamish. Surely yon
man had much to say," said his mother, looking lovingly upon her great,
sturdy son.

"That he had, mother, and great it was, I can tell you."

Then Shock proceeded, after his habit, to give his mother a full share
of what he had been enjoying. Mrs. Macgregor listened intently, pausing
now and then in her knitting to ejaculate, "Well-a-well!" "Look at
that, now!" "Hear to him!" When Shock had finished, Brown broke in: "It
was truly magnificent, I assure you, Mrs. Macgregor, and the enthusiasm
of the man! And his yarns! Oh, he is truly, great!"

"And what would he be doing at the college?" enquired the old lady.
"There would not be much money there, I doubt."

"Men, mother, men," cried Shock with some excitement. "Volunteers for
the Great West, and a hard time he is having, too, what with the
foreign field, and needy vacancies in this country, and city pulpits,
and the like."

Mrs. Macgregor sat silent, her needles flying fast and her lips pressed
together.

"I wish you could have heard him, Mrs. Macgregor," said Brown,
enthusiastically. "He has a tongue like a rasp, and at times it takes
off the skin. That was fine, Shock, about the fellows who could not
give him answer till they had asked the Lord about it. 'I find a good
many men,' the old chap said, 'who, after anxiously enquiring as to the
work expected of them, remuneration, prospects of advance, etc., always
want to lay the matter before the Lord before giving their answer. And
I am beginning to think that the Lord has some grudge against the West,
for almost invariably He appears to advise these men to leave it
severely alone.' Oh, it was great!" Little Brown hugged his knee in
delight at the memory of that rasping tongue.

"But surely there are plenty of men," said Mrs. Macgregor a little
impatiently, "for there's no want of them whateffer when a congregation
falls vacant."

"That's so," replied Brown; "but you see he wants only first-class
men--men ready for anything in the way of hardship, and not to be
daunted by man or devil."

"Ou ay!" said the old lady, nodding her head grimly; "he will not be
finding so many of yon kind."

"But it must be a great country," went on Brown. "You ought to bear him
tell of the rivers with sands of gold, running through beds of coal
sixty feet thick."

The old lady shook her cap at him, peering over her glasses. "Ye're a
gay callant, and you will be taking your fun off me."

"But it's true. Ask Shock there."

"What?" said Shock, waking up from a deep study. Brown explained.

"Yes," said Shock. "The sands of the Saskatchewan are full of gold, and
you know, mother, about the rivers in Cariboo."

"Ay, I remember fine the Cariboo, and Cariboo Cameron and his gold. But
not much good did it do him, poor fellow."

"But," said Shock, gazing into the fire, "it was terrible to hear his
tales of these men in the mines with their saloons and awful gambling
places, and the men and women in their lonely shacks in the foot-hills.
My! I could see them all."

Mrs. Macgregor looked sharply into her son's face, then laying her
knitting down in her lap she turned to him and said severely, "And what
took them out yonder? And did they not know what-na country it was
before they went out?"

"Yes," said Shock, still looking into the fire, "but there they are,
Mother, there they are, and no living soul to speak a good word to
them."

"Well then," said the old lady, even more impatiently, "let them put up
with it, as better before them have done to their credit, ay, and to
their good as well."

"Meantime the saloons and worse are getting them," replied Shock, "and
fine fellows they are, too, he says."

"And is yon man wanting the lads from the college to go out yonder to
those terrible-like mines and things so far from their homes? Why does
he not send the men who are wanting places?" Mrs. Macgregor's tone was
unusually sharp. Both Shock and Brown looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, you may look," she went on, "but I say let them that's not needed
here go out yonder, and there will be plenty of them, I warrant."

"'And they'd none of them be missed,'" sang Brown.

"I doubt they wouldn't do," said Shock, shaking his head sadly.

"Well, mother," cried Brown, "you'll have a chance of hearing him
yourself to-morrow morning, for he is going to preach in your church, I
see."

The old lady shrugged her shoulders. "Indeed, and I wish our meenister
wouldn't be so ready with his pulpit for every Bill and Bob that comes
the way. He will not be needing a rest again, will he?"

Shock gazed at his mother in sheer amazement. He had never seen her
like this before. This bitter impatience was so unlike her usual calm,
dignified self-control.

"But mother," he ventured, "the cause will be needing money and the
people will need to hear about it, surely."

"Oh, as to that," she answered in a relieved tone, "it is not much that
we can give, but what we can we will, and, indeed, there are many of
them in that Kirk that would be the better of giving a little of their
money. But, lad," she added as if dismissing a painful subject, "you
must be at your books."

"Which means I must go. I know you, Mother Macgregor," said Brown,
using his pet name for the woman who had for two years been more of a
mother to him than his own.

"Ay, and within a few weeks you will be wishing, as well, that someone
had set you to your books, for the examinators will be upon you."

"And, doubtless, shear me as bare as Delilah did Samson of old. But I
am not promising you I am going to work. My physician warns me against
work on Saturday nights, so I am going to hunt up The Don."

"Indeed then, you will know well where to look for him," said the old
lady shrewdly.

"Ah, mother, you're too sharp for any of us. Not much escapes your
eyes."

"Indeed, one does not require eyes to see some things, and yon laddie
is daft enough."

"Daft's the word," said Brown, "and has been for the last three years.
Is not it astonishing and profoundly humiliating," he added solemnly,
"to see a chit of a girl, just because she has brown curls and brown
eyes with a most bewildering skill in using them, so twiddle a man? It
passes my comprehension."

The old lady shook her head at him. "Wait you, my lad. Your day will
come."

"I hear The Don has got the offer of a great appointment in connection
with the new railway in that country and I fear that means trouble for
him. There are those who would be delighted to see him out of the way
for a couple of years or so."

But the old lady would not gossip, so Brown was forced to drop the
subject with the remark, "But I'll do what I can to assist the Fates,
and I'll begin by bringing both those young ladies to hear your big gun
to-morrow if I can, Shock. They ought to know more about their own
country."

Shock glanced up quickly as if to speak, but seemed to think better of
it and poked the fire instead.

"I doubt they would be more profited in their own church," said Mrs.
Macgregor. "'Traivellin' sheep are sair tae keep,' as they say in the
South country. No, it's little enough the poor things will be getting
in yon church of theirs with their read prayers and their bit
sairmon--a sairmonette, they will be calling it. Ay, a sairmonette!"
The old lady indulged herself in a quiet chuckle of indescribable
contempt.

"Why, mother," said Shock in a reproving tone, "don't you know that
their minister is just a splendid preacher. There is no better in the
city."

"And that's not saying much," said the old lady. "But I'm glad to hear
it."

"My! mother, but you are censorious to-night. You can't expect to find
men like Candlish, Chalmers, and Macdonald of Ferintosh in every age."

"Ay," said the old lady with an emphatic shake of her head, "and that's
a true word. Men like yon are not to be found, and like McCheyae and
Burns and Guthrie and the rest of them. Oh! it iss manys the Sabbath
morning when I wass a lass that I walked with my shoes and stockings in
my hand down the glen to hear these men preach. And yon was the
preaching. Yon was the preaching. None of your puny, peeping,
fifteen-meenute sairmonettes, but preaching, terrible heart-smiting
preaching." The old lady had ceased her knitting and was sitting erect
in her chair gazing straight before her. The young men sat silent,
fearing to break the spell that was upon her, and waiting eagerly for
what they knew was coming.

"Man! man!" she continued, "those were the days! and those were the
men! I have heard such preaching as would cause your heart to quake
within you, and make you to listen with the fear of death upon you lest
it should stop."

"It must have been terrible preaching, indeed," said Brown softly.

"Terrible! ay, terrible's the word. Lad, lad," said the old lady,
turning upon Brown her piercing blue-grey eyes, "in the old Mullin
Church I have seen the very rafters throbbing, and strong men and women
swaying like the tree-tops in the glen while Burns was raging forth
upon them like the Tummel in spate, while visions of the eternal
things--the throne of God and the Judgment Day--filled our eyes." She
paused a few moments and then sinking back into her chair she went on,
"Ay, terrible preaching, yon, like the storm-blast sweeping the
hillsides and rending the firs in the Pass. Yes! yes! But gentle at
times and winning, like the rain falling soft at night, wooing at the
bluebells and the daisies in the glen, or like a mother croonin over
the babe at her breast, till men wept for love and longing after
Himself. Ay, lad, lad, yon was the preaching."

There was a long silence while they waited for her to continue.

"What was that sermon, mother, at Mullin that time upon the words 'Will
ye also go away?' you remember?" at length asked Shock cunningly.

His mother sighed. "Ay, and that was a sairmon to draw the heart out o'
you. That was the melting day, while the big men gripped their sticks
hard and the women wiped at their eyes that would never be done
running, and that man's voice soughing over them like the wind in the
pines in the evening, Yes! yes! But," suddenly recalling herself,
"come, lads, you must be off to your books."

The young men sat a few moments silently gazing into the fire, and then
Brown rose and said, "Good-night, mother. You're the greatest preacher
I know, and I would not mind a whole hour from you." His voice was
earnest and his eyes soft and tender as he stooped and kissed her cheek.

"Good-night, laddie," answered Mrs. Macgregor, patting his hand gently.
"I doubt, after all, the fault nowadays is not with the preaching so
much as with the hearing."

"Well, I'm off. You will see me to-morrow with my flock of straying
sheep. But I warn you that after you hear that man from the West you
will all be volunteering as missionaries."

The old lady took up her knitting again and after the door had closed
upon Brown sat back in her chair with a weary sigh.

"You're tired to-night, mother," said Shock gently.

"Tired? And what for would I be tired? No, no, but the day is long."

"Yes, some days, mother. But the longest pass."

She glanced quickly at her son, but save for a quivering of the lips
usually so firm, there was no sign of the pain which both knew lay at
the heart of each. Her mood of impatience had passed. She was once more
herself, calm and strong, looking with steadfast eyes into the future,
knowing well that whatever the days might bring, He who for fifty years
had been her refuge and her strength would not fail her.

The appeal for the West was the theme of conversation at the Fairbanks
home, where the usual company had assembled. The Don was describing the
Superintendent's address at the College and thrilling his listeners
with his own enthusiasm, when Brown entered.

"Hello! At it again?" cried Brown. "If he doesn't avoid that fiery
cross fellow, The Don will be off for the West first thing you know."

"Tell us," cried Betty, "was he as great as all that? Mr. Balfour here
would have us believe that this Western man is really something
wonderful."

"Well, I don't know," said Brown. "You never think of whether he is
wonderful or not, but one thing I know, he makes you see things--the
mountains and that foot-hill country, the mining camps and all that
saloon and gambling-hell business, till you can smell the brimstone and
you want to be in it."

"What? Into the brimstone?" laughed Lloyd.

"I am rather incoherent, I confess. But that old chap suits me. If I
were a Theologue, and unattached, I'd be there."

"There's no doubt it is a great country, with vast opportunities," said
The Don, glancing at Betty.

"Yes," said Mrs. Fairbanks, frowning as she noted the glance, "and
doubtless any young man who has the necessary enterprise and courage
will make his fortune with the growth of that country."

"But why unattached? What do you mean by that?" enquired Betty.

"Unattached? Why, you know, just like me--a man with no family ties to
speak of. Did you tell them that yarn, Lloyd? Well, I'll tell you. You
know the Superintendent was telling the fellows of the difficulty he
had in securing men. Well, he managed to get a man from an Eastern
College whom he appointed to the Cariboo--right sort of chap, too,
apparently--accepted the appointment--everything was
arranged--happened, however, he was engaged to a young lady brought up
in the lap of luxury, and that sort of thing. When she heard of her
young man being appointed to this outlandish place, she promptly
collapsed into a faint, sister went into hysterics, mother into a blind
rage, result--young man resigned. 'So you see, gentlemen,' said the old
chap dryly, 'when you have to consider the tastes and temperament, not
only of the young man, but of his young lady and of all her near family
relatives, the difficulty of securing men for the West is sensibly
increased."

"I think that is just horrid of him," exclaimed Betty indignantly. "The
young lady ought to be consulted. Don't you think so?" turning to Lloyd.

"Why certainly, and yet--"

"Most assuredly," said Mrs. Fairbanks. "Would you ask a young lady to
go out and bury herself alive in such a country as that, or ask her to
wait an indefinite number of years till the young man should return?
Why it is simply monstrous." And Mrs. Fairbanks fixed her glasses
firmly on her nose and gazed at Brown as if she would annihilate him.

"Why certainly I would," replied Brown, quite unabashed; "and if she
loved me," placing his hand over his heart, "she would be glad to do
either. I would simply remark, 'My love, I'm off for Greenland.' 'Wait,
my dear,' she would promptly reply, 'till I get my furs.'"

"All the same," said Lloyd seriously, "it would be a terrible life for
any woman, and a man should hesitate before asking her to share it."

"No society, nothing congenial in environment! Quite impossible!"
exclaimed Mrs. Fairbanks with great emphasis. "And quite absurd to
dream of it."

"Then," replied Brown warmly to Lloyd, "the only available men for your
Chief, apparently, are hopeless old bachelors or young men, however
worthy like myself, who are still unappropriated."

"Exactly," said Mrs. Fairbanks with an air of finality.

"But, Mrs. Fairbanks," exclaimed The Don, "what of our soldiers and
officers who go to India and other outlandish places? They take their
wives along with them, I understand?"

"That's quite a different thing, Mr. Balfour," said Mrs. Fairbanks.
"These men go out to serve their Queen and country, and it is
recognised as the proper thing, and--well, you see, it is quite
different."

"I must say," exclaimed Helen, fastening to forestall the hot answer
she knew to be at The Don's lips, "I agree with Mr. Brown. If a man's
work calls him to Greenland, his wife ought to go with him or she ought
to be willing to wait his return."

"Helen, you speak like a sentimental school-girl," replied Mrs.
Fairbanks with a touch of haughty scorn. "Of course if a man is married
and duty calls him to a foreign land, he must go. But why should a girl
throw away her prospects and condemn herself to a life of obscurity and
isolation by attaching herself to a man who chooses to take up some
fantastic mission in some outlandish place or other?"

"Why? Because she loves a man whose duty calls him there," exclaimed
Helen, her grey eyes glowing.

"Bravo!" replied Brown. "If I see a Western missionary wanting a
helpmeet--that's the proper word, I believe--I shall know where to send
him."

"Nonsense," cried Mrs. Fairbanks quite crossly, "but surely we need not
discuss the question any further."

"Well, if I may offer an opinion," said The Don in a deliberate,
strained voice, "that country is the place for men with enterprise who
believe in themselves, and I think no man is throwing his prospects
away who identifies himself with it--nor woman either, for that matter.
And what is true of other professions ought to be true of the ministry."

"I agree," cried Brown, adding wickedly, "just the spot for you, Lloyd."

"Why, I should like nothing better," said Lloyd, "if circumstances
indicated that my work lay there."

"Well, well, what's come to you all?" cried Mrs. Fairbanks, holding up
her jewelled hands in despair.

"The Occidental microbe," suggested Brown.

"And the monumental nonsense it is," said Mrs. Fairbanks, "for men of
high culture and special training to lose themselves in such a country
as that."

"But," persisted Brown, "they say that that's the very place for such
men. Why, that country is full of high-class chaps--University grads,
Lords, Dukes, and such, as well as the professional gambler, and other
highly technical experts. The Superintendent declared to-night he
wouldn't have any but high-class men hence, Lloyd!" and Brown waved his
hand toward that gentleman.

"I have no doubt," said Mrs. Fairbanks with severe deliberation, "that
Mr. Lloyd has the good sense to perceive that his special training fits
him for something quite different, and I think he will not be mad
enough to throw away his brilliant prospects in any such silly manner.
But come, let us have some music. Mr. Lloyd, you and Betty sing
something for us."

As they moved to the piano, Brown looked up at The Don. His handsome,
haughty face was set hard and in his eyes burned a light that Brown had
often seen there on the football field.

"He's going to tackle and tackle hard, too, poor old chap. Not much
chance, though, against that combination of Church and State."

"Oh, that we two were Maying," sang Lloyd in his fine tenor voice, with
Betty responding in like sentiment.

"Well, I rather hope not," muttered Brown to himself as he crossed the
room to where Helen was seated. Pausing a moment beside her he said in
a low tone, "The Don has had an offer on the new railway construction
in the West--two years' appointment. Go and talk to him about it. Looks
fierce, doesn't he?" And Helen, nodding intelligently, lingered a
moment and then moved to where The Don sat, while Brown went toward the
piano. "Must get these youngsters inoculated with the Occidental
microbe," he muttered as he took his place beside Mrs. Fairbanks, who
was listening with pleased approval to the "Maying" duet, the pauses of
which Brown industriously employed in soothing her ruffled feelings. So
well did he succeed that when he proffered the humble request that the
young ladies should be allowed to accompany him to Shock's church in
the morning, Mrs. Fairbanks gave a reluctant assent.

"Undoubtedly, I am a great strategist," said Brown to himself next
morning as he sat watching with surreptitious glances the faces of the
young ladies beside him. The preacher was at his best. The great land
where his life mission lay, with its prairies, foot-hills mountains,
and valleys, and all their marvellous resources, was spread out before
the eyes of the congregation with all the passionate pride of the
patriot. The life of the lonely rancher and of his more lonely wife,
the desperate struggle for manhood by the mean of the mine and the
railroad and the lumber camp, the magnitude of the issues at stake; the
pathos of defeat, the glory of triumph, were all portrayed with a power
that compelled the sympathy of his hearers, while the shrewd
common-sense vein that ran through all convinced their intellects and
won their confidence. Perplexity, wonder, horror, compassion, filled
their hearts and were reflected with rapid succession on their faces,
as he told his stories of the wreck of human lives and consequent agony
of human hearts.

"By Jove! they've got it," exclaimed Brown to himself. "The dear Mrs.
Fairbanks has no anti-toxine for this microbe." His eyes turned to
Shock and there were held fast. "He's got it, too, confound him," he
grumbled. "Surely, he wouldn't be beast enough to leave his old mother
alone." The mother's face was a strange sight. On it the anguish of her
heart was plainly to be seen, but with the anguish the rapt glory of
those who triumph by sacrifice.

As the congregation broke up the young ladies hurried to greet Mrs.
Macgregor. From the day of the football match they had carefully and
persistently nursed the acquaintance then begun till they had come to
feel at home in the Macgregor cottage. Hence, when Betty fell into
severe illness and they were at their wits' end for a nurse, they
gladly accepted Mrs. Macgregor's proffered help, and during the long
anxious weeks that followed, the whole family came to regard with
respect, confidence, and finally warm affection, the dignified old lady
who, with such kindly, shrewd, and tender care, nursed the sick girl
back to strength. Helen especially, who had shared the long watch with
her, had made for herself a large place in her heart. To-day, after an
exchange of greetings, Helen drew Mrs. Macgregor back and allowed the
others to go on. For some time they walked in silence, Helen holding
the old lady tight by the arm.

"Well, what do you think of that?" she said finally. "Wasn't it
wonderful? It makes one proud to be a Canadian. What a country that
must be! If I were only a man! It's too bad that men have all the good
things. Wouldn't you like to go yourself?"

"That I would," said the old lady eagerly, "that I would. But I doubt
it's not for me. But yon's a man."

"Yes," cried Helen enthusiastically, "he is a man to follow. Of course,
it was a strange sermon for a church--those stories of his, I mean, and
all those figures about coal beds and gold and cattle. I'm not used to
that sort of thing and I don't like to see the people laugh."

"Ay, he's wise," replied the old lady shrewdly. "When a man laughs he's
nearer to letting his money go. Ay, he's wise, yon man."

"Of course, I think he's extreme," said Helen. "You would think to hear
him there was no place but the West and that every young minister must
go out there and give up everything."

"There's few to go, I doubt," said the old lady in a musing tone, "and
yon are terrible-like places for those lads to live."

"Yes, but everyone can't go."

"No, no. That's it. That's just it. Not many can go and not many are
fit to go. But those that can--" the old lady paused, drawing her
breath in sharply.

"But surely a man may do his work without giving up everything he holds
dear," persisted Helen.

"'Forsaketh not all that he hath,'" quoted the old lady softly.

"Yes, but that's not for everybody," insisted Helen.

"'Whosoever,'" quoted Mrs. Macgregor again, with a stern relentlessness
in her tone. "Ay, there will be no slipping out from under yon."

"But surely," argued Helen, "it is not reasonable to think that every
young minister is bound to forsake home and friends, and all that, and
go out to these wild places."

"Not every one will be called. The application will not be easy for any
of us, I doubt. Oh, no! it will not be easy."

"But surely, Mrs. Macgregor, there are other claims upon men."

"There iss only one claim, lassie, only one claim. His claim is the
first. All other claims will just be working out that first one. Ay,
that's it," she said, as if arriving at decision, "only one claim. God
peety us! One claim," she added with a sudden break in her voice.

At that break Helen glanced at the old lady. The strong face was
working strangely. The tears were slowly making their way down the
wrinkled face.

"Oh, Mrs. Macgregor!" exclaimed Helen, "that seems an awfully hard
doctrine. Do you think God ever wants a man to leave father, mother,
wife, helpless behind?"

"No, no, lassie, not helpless. But--," she could go no further. "But,"
she continued after a moment or two, clutching Helen by the arm,
"he--will--be--going--away, lassie, he will be going away. He will be
leaving me and--it iss the will of the Lord. Oh! lassie, lassie, heed
me not. He must never see the tears on my face."

"Don't! don't!" cried Helen in a sudden anguish. She had no need of
further words to tell her what the old lady meant. "He would never do
such a thing! He could not do it!"

"Could not?" answered Mrs. Macgregor. "Ay, he could," she said proudly.
"Thank God he could. He will not be shaming his blood. But oh! it iss
himself will carry a sore heart away with him and leave a sore heart
behind."

"Oh, Mrs. Macgregor!" cried Helen, while her breath came fast and her
hand went to her own heart, "perhaps he will not think it to be his
duty. Perhaps he will not--"

"Indeed, indeed, and I saw it in hiss face last night, and clearer than
ever to-day. He hass heard the voice and it iss for him to obey--and
for us."

They were near Mrs. Macgregor's home, where the others stood waiting
for them at the gate.

"May I come to see you?" said Helen hurriedly.

"Ay, come," said Mrs. Macgregor with a keen look at her, "you will be
needing--I will be needing help."

The others they found eagerly discussing the sermon, but there was
little criticism. The Superintendent had won his volunteers. On Shock's
face sat the serenity of a great decision, in his deep blue eyes the
light of a great enterprise. As he said good-bye to Helen, she became
aware that his usual hesitating, nervous awkwardness had given place to
quiet, thoughtful dignity. A great resolve and a great sacrifice had
lifted him far above things small and common.

V

"YEA, AND HIS OWN LIFE ALSO"

When Helen entered her own room she had leisure to analyse the tumult
of emotion filling her heart. Amazement, shame, anger, dismay, grief,
were surging across her soul.

"How can he think of leaving his mother? It is a shame!" she cried
indignantly to herself. But why this hot sense of shame? "Nonsense!"
she protested vehemently to herself, "it is that poor, dear old lady I
am thinking of." She remembered that sudden stab at her heart at the
old lady's broken words, "He will be going away, lassie," and her cheek
flamed hot again. "It is all nonsense," she repeated angrily, and there
being no one to contradict her, she said it again with even greater
emphasis. But suddenly she sat down, and before long she found herself
smiling at the memory of the old lady's proud cry, "Could not? Ay, he
could." And now she knew why her heart was so full of happy pride. It
was for Shock. He was a man strong enough to see his duty and brave
enough to face what to him was the bitterness of death, for well she
knew what his mother was to him.

"He will go," she whispered to her looking-glass, "and I'd go with him
to-morrow. But"--and her race flamed hot--"he must never know."

But he did come to know, to his own great amazement and overwhelming,
humbling gladness.

Shock's determination to offer himself to the far West awakened in his
friends various emotions.

"It is just another instance of how religious fanaticism will lead men
to the most fantastic and selfish acts," was Mrs. Fairbanks' verdict,
which effected in Brown a swift conversion. Hitherto he had striven
with might and main to turn Shock from his purpose, using any and every
argument, fair or unfair, to persuade him that his work lay where it
had been begun, in the city wards. He was the more urged to this course
that he had shrewdly guessed Helen's secret, so sacredly guarded. But
on hearing Mrs. Fairbanks' exclamation, he at once plunged into a warm
defence of his friend's course.

"The finest thing I ever heard of," he declared. "No one knows what
these two are to each other, and yet there they are, both of them,
arriving at the opinion that Shock's work lies in the West."

"But to leave his mother alone!" exclaimed Mrs. Fairbanks indignantly.

"She is not to be alone," said Brown, making there and then a sudden
resolve. "By the greatest of luck for me I am turned out of my
quarters, and she is to take me in, and while I can't fill Shock's
place, still I am somebody," added Brown, fervently hoping the old lady
would not refuse him shelter.

"I am not sure that a man is ever called to leave his mother to the
care of strangers," said Lloyd, who, after long indecision and much
consultation with various friends, had determined that his particular
gifts and training fitted him for Park Church.

"Oh! blank it all!" said Brown to Helen, "I can't stand that rot!"

"I beg your pardon," said Mrs. Fairbanks, looking haughtily at Brown
through her glasses.

"I was about to say," replied Brown, in the sweetest of tones, "that if
these two who are most interested, and who are extremely sane and
reasonable persons, have come to an agreement upon a question, I'd bank
on that decision as being about the thing." At which Helen gave his arm
a quick squeeze.

"Well, mother," said Betty, "I think he's fine, and I never admired him
so much as now. You know he may never see her again, and she has the
whole of his heart."

"Not quite, I guess," said Brown in a low tone to Helen, who, blushing
vividly, replied in like tone, "You seem to be remarkably well
informed."

"I know," said Brown confidently. "But he is a mine of blind stupidity!
If some one would dig him up, explore him--blast him, in short!
Confound him!"

But when the Superintendent learned of all that Shock's decision
involved, he made a point to insert among his multitudinous engagements
a visit to the Macgregor cottage.

"It was a great scene, I assure you," said Brown, who was describing it
afterwards to the young ladies.

"Those two old Spartans, all ice and granite outside, all molten lava
within, stood up looking at each other a minute or two without the
quiver of an eyelid and then the old chief burred out:"

"'You are to be congratulated upon your son, Mrs. Macgregor.'"

"'Ay,' said she in a matter of fact tone, 'he will be doing his duty, I
warrant.'"

"'And, believe me, your mutual sacrifice has not been unnoticed.'"

"'It is not great beside His own, but it iss all we could. It iss our
life.'"

"The old chap bowed like a prince and then his voice burred like a buzz
saw as he answered, 'Remember I did not ask you for him!'"

"'No, it wass not you.'"

"'But I want to tell you,' said the chief, 'I am proud to get a son who
for the Cause can forsake such a mother, and I thank God for the mother
that can give up such a son.'"

"And then he gripped her hand with that downward pull of his,--he gave
it to me once when he heard I was Shock's friend, and nearly jerked me
off my feet,--and without more words he was gone, while I stood behind
them like a blubbering idiot."

"Oh, isn't she a dear!" exclaimed Betty, "poor thing."

"Poor thing!" echoed Helen warmly, "indeed she doesn't think so. She's
as proud of him as she can be, and feels herself rich in his love; and
so she is."

Her tone and manner struck Brown with sudden pity.

"Hang his stupidity!" he said to himself, "can't the old bloke see. But
he has not such a blamed low opinion of himself that he can't imagine
any girl, much less a girl like that, looking at him, and even if he
did come to see it he would not think of asking her to share the life
he's going to out there; and, by Jove! it would be hard enough for her.
I guess I won't take the responsibility of interfering in this
business."

But Brown had no need to interfere. Mrs. Fairbanks, of all people, did
what was necessary. On the morning of Shock's departure it was she who
declared that someone should take pity on "that dear old lady," and
should stand by her in her hour of "desertion."

"So I think I shall drive over this afternoon; and, Helen, perhaps you
had better come with me. You seem to have great influence with her."

But Helen was of quite another mind. She shrank from intruding upon
what she knew would be a sacred hour to mother and son. But when Mrs.
Fairbanks expressed her determination to go Helen finally agreed to
accompany her.

"Oh, let's all go, mother," said Betty.

"I do not think they will want you, Betty, but you may go along," and
so the three ladies proceeded in the afternoon to the Macgregor home.

But at the parting of Shock and his mother there were no tears or
lamentations, or at least none that any could witness. Through the long
night before, they each knew the other to be keeping the watch of love
and agony; yet, each alone, they drank the cup of sacrifice. It was
only when the morning was nearing that Shock could bear it no longer,
and hastily dressing he came into his mother's room and kneeling by her
bedside put his arms about her.

"Mother, mother, why have you not been sleeping?" he whispered.

His mother turned to him and took his head to her bosom in a close
embrace, but no words came from her.

"But, mother, don't be grieving like this," sobbed Shock, "or how can I
leave you at all."

"Laddie, laddie, why did you come in to me? I had minded to give you up
without tears, and this iss my hour of weakness. There now, let your
head lie there. Whist! lad, och-hone. It iss twenty-four years since
first you lay there, lad, and though grief hass come to me many's the
day, yet never through you, never once through you, and you will be
remembering that, lad. It will comfort you after--after--after I'm
gone."

"Gone, mother!" cried Shock in surprise.

"Yess, for this iss the word given to me this night, that you will see
my face no more."

"Oh, mother! mother! don't say that word, for I cannot bear it," and
poor Shock buried his face in the pillow, while his great frame shook
with sobs.

"Whist now, laddie! There now. It iss the Lord."

Her voice grew steady and grave. "It iss the Lord, and He gave you to
me for these few happy years, and, Shock, man, you will be heeding me."

Shock turned his face toward her again and laid his face close to her
cheek.

"Remember, I gave you to Himself in convenant that day, and that
covenant you will keep now and--afterwards, and I must be keeping it
too."

"Yes, mother," said Shock brokenly, while he held her tight. "But it is
only for two years, and then I will be coming home, or you to me, and
before that, perhaps."

"Yes, yes, laddie, it may be--it may be," said his mother soothingly,
"but whether or no, we will not be taking back with the one hand what
we give with the other. I had minded to give you without tears,
but--but oh, lad, you are all--all--all--I have. There is no one left
to me."

There was a long silence between them. Under cover of darkness they let
their tears freely mingle. In all his life Shock had never seen his
mother sob, and now he was heart--stricken with grief and terror.

"Whist now, mother, you must not cry like that. Surely God will be good
to us, and before long I will get a little place for you yonder. Why
should you not come to me? There are missionaries' wives out there," he
said.

"No, lad," his mother replied quietly, "I will not be deceiving myself,
nor you. And yet it may be the Lord's will. But go away now and lie you
down. You will need to sleep a bit, to-morrow will be a hard day to
you."

For twenty years and more she had thought first of her boy, and now,
even in the midst of her own great sorrow, she thought mostly of him
and his grief.

"Let me stay here, mother," whispered Shock. And so in each other's
arms they lay, and from sheer exhaustion both soon fell asleep.

The morning's sun was shining through the chink by the curtain when
Mrs. Macgregor awoke. Gently she slipped out of the bed and before
dressing lighted the kitchen fire, put on the kettle for the tea and
the pot for the porridge. Then she dressed herself and stepping about
on tiptoe prepared breakfast, peering in now and then at her sleeping
son.

It was with a face calm and strong, and even bright, that she went in
at last to waken him.

"Now, mother," exclaimed Shock, springing off the bed, "this is really
too bad, and I meant to give you your breakfast in bed to-day."

"Ay, it's myself knew that much," she cried with a little laugh of
delight.

"Oh, but you're hard to manage," said Shock severely, "but wait until I
get you out yonder in my own house."

"Ay, lad," answered his mother brightly, "it will be your turn then."

They were determined, these two, to look only at the bright side
to-day. No sun should shine upon their tears. The parting would be sore
enough with all the help that hope could bring. And so the morning
passed in last preparations for Shock's going, and the last counsels
and promises, and in planning for the new home that was to be made in
the shadow of the Rockies in the far West.

"And the time will soon pass, mother," said Shock cheerfully, "and it
will be good for you to have Brown with you. He will need your care,
you know," he hastened to add, knowing well that not for her own sake
could she have been persuaded to receive even Brown into her little
home.

"Ay, I will do for him what I can," she replied, "and indeed," she
added warmly, "he's a kind lad, poor fellow."

"And the young ladies will be looking in on you now and then, so they
said," and Shock bent low over his trunk working with the roping of it.

"Yes, indeed," replied his mother heartily, "never you fear."

And so with united and determined purpose they kept at arm's length the
heart's sorrow they knew would fall upon each when alone.

To go to the ends of the earth in these globe-trotting days is attended
with little anxiety, much less heart-break, but in those days when
Canada was cut off at the Lakes, the land beyond was a wilderness,
untravelled for the most part but by the Indian or trapper, and
considered a fit dwelling place only for the Hudson Bay officer kept
there by his loyalty to "the Company," or the half-breed runner to whom
it was native land, or the more adventurous land-hungry settler, or the
reckless gold-fevered miner. Only under some great passion did men
leave home and those dearer than life, and casting aside dreams of
social, commercial, or other greatness, devote themselves to life on
that rude frontier. But such a passion had seized upon Shock, and in it
his mother shared. Together these two simple souls, who were all in all
to each other, made their offering for the great cause, bringing each
their all without stint, without measure, without grudging, though not
without heart-break, and gaining that full exquisite joy, to so many
unknown, of love's complete sacrifice.

To none but themselves, however, was the greatness of the sacrifice
apparent. For when the carriage arrived with Mrs. Fairbanks and her
daughters there was no sign of tears or heart-break in the quiet faces
that welcomed them. And Mrs. Fairbanks, who had come prepared to offer
overflowing sympathy to the old lady "deserted" by her "fanatical" son,
was somewhat taken aback by the quiet dignity and perfect control that
distinguished the lady's voice and manner. After the first effusive
kiss, which Mrs. Fairbanks hurried to bestow and which Mrs. Macgregor
suffered with calm surprise, it became difficult to go on with the
programme of tearful consolation which had been prepared. There seemed
hardly a place for sympathy, much less for tearful consolation, in this
well-ordered home, and with these self-sufficient folk.

"We thought we would like to come over and--and--help, perhaps drive
you to the station to see your son off," said Mrs. Fairbanks, who was
readjusting her scenery and changing her role with all speed.

"That was kind, indeed," said Mrs. Macgregor, "but Hamish will be
walking, I doubt, and I will just be waiting at home."

She had the instinct of the wounded to hide in some sheltered and
familiar haunt.

"I shall be glad to remain with you, Mrs. Macgregor, if I can be of any
service," repeated Mrs. Fairbanks.

"It will not be necessary; everything is done, and there is nothing
needed."

The voice was more than quiet, as if it came from a heart whose passion
had been spent.

"It is very kind, indeed, and we are grateful," said Shock, feeling
that his mother's manner might be misunderstood.

"Yess, yess," said the old lady hastily, "it iss very good of you and
of the young ladies," turning to look at Helen with kindly eyes. "You
will not be thinking me ungrateful," she added with a suspicion of
tears in her voice. "I have been spoiled by Hamish yonder," turning her
face toward her son.

"Whist now, mother," said Hamish to her in a low tone, in which
depreciation and warning were mingled. He knew how hard the next hour
would be for himself and for his mother, and he knew, too, that they
could not indulge themselves in the luxury of uttered grief and love.
At this moment, to the relief of all, Brown entered with an exaggerated
air of carelessness.

"Here's a man for your 'settler's effect,'" he cried cheerily. "Lucky
dog, aint he," he cried, turning to Helen, "and don't I wish I was in
his place. Think of the times he will have riding over the claims with
those jolly cowboys, not to speak of the claims he will be staking, and
the gold he will be washing out of those parish streams of his. Don't I
wish I were going! I am, too, when I can persuade those old
iron-livered professors to let me through. However, next year I'm to
pass. Mrs. Macgregor is to see to that."

"Indeed, I hope so," cried Betty, "an hour's study at least, before
breakfast and no gallivanting at night. I will help you, Mrs.
Macgregor. We will get him through this time."

"Ay, I doubt I will not be much the better of your help," replied Mrs.
Macgregor, with a shrewd kindly smile.

"There now, take that," said Brown to Betty, adding ruefully to Shock,
"You see what I'm in for."

"You'll survive," said Shock.

Then he rose and lifted his coat from the peg behind the door. At the
same instant Helen rose hurriedly and with paling face said to her
mother: "Let us go now."

"Well, Mrs. Macgregor, if we cannot serve you we will be going," said
Mrs. Fairbanks; "but we would be glad to drive Mr. Macgregor to the
station."

She was anxious to justify her visit to herself and her friends.

"That's a first-rate idea," cried Brown, "that is, if you can give me a
lift, too."

"Of course," cried Betty.

"Thank you, I shall be very glad," said Shock, seeing it would please
Mrs. Fairbanks.

"Come along, then," said Betty. "I suppose we have not too much time."

"Good-bye, for the present," said Mrs. Fairbanks, offering her hand to
the old lady, who was standing erect, white but calm, facing the hour
whose bitterness she had already tasted.

"Good-bye," said Betty softly, kissing the white cheek, and trying to
hurry her mother towards the door.

At this, Helen, who had been standing with face growing whiter and
whiter, went to Mrs. Macgregor and put her arms around her and kissed
her good-bye. When she was nearing the door she came hurriedly back.
"Oh, let me stay with you. I cannot bear to go," she whispered.

The old lady turned and scrutinised steadily the young face turned so
pleadingly toward her. Slowly under that steady gaze the red crept up
into the white cheek, like the first dawning of day, till the whole
face and neck were in a hot flame of colour. Yet the grey, lustrous
eyes never wavered, but, unshrinking, answered the old lady's searching
look. At that revealing wave of colour Shock's mother made as if to
push the girl away from her, but, with a quick change of mood, she took
her in her arms instead.

"Ay, poor lassie, you too! Yes, yes, you may stay with me now."

The motherly touch and tone and the knowledge that her secret had been
read were more than Helen could bear. She clung to Mrs. Macgregor,
sobbing passionate sobs.

At this extraordinary outburst Mrs. Fairbanks came back into the room
and stood with Shock and the others gazing in utter amazement upon this
scene.

"Whist now, lassie, whist now," Mrs. Macgregor was saying, "never you
fear, he'll come back again."

"What on earth is this nonsense, Helen?" Mrs. Fairbanks' voice was
haughty and suspicious. "What does this mean?"

"It means," said Mrs. Macgregor with quiet dignity, "what neither you
nor I can help or harm."

"Helen, speak to me."

At the stern command Helen lifted her face, still hot with blushes, and
stood looking straight into her mother's eyes. Her mother turned from
her impatiently.

"Do you know what this means?" she said to Shock.

"What? I don't understand," replied Shock, gazing helplessly at the
haughty, angry face turned toward him.

"Have you dared to speak to my daughter?"

"Oh, mamma," cried Helen, in an agony of mortification, "how can you?"

"You may well be ashamed," said Mrs. Fairbanks, who had quite lost
control of herself, "throwing yourself at the head of a man so far
beneath you, with no prospects, and who does not even want you."

"So far beneath, did you say?" cried Mrs. Macgregor quickly. "Woman,
say no more. You shame yourself, let alone your child.
Whist,"--checking the other's speech--"the blood in the veins of Hector
Macgregor yonder" (pointing to the portrait of the Highland soldier on
the wall) "was as proud as that in any Lowland trader of you."

"What sort of conduct, then, is this?" answered Mrs. Fairbanks angrily.
"Have you encouraged your son?"

"Hush, mother," said Shock, suddenly awakening to an understanding of
what was happening, "let me speak."

The stern voice compelled silence. Shock was a new man to them all. He
was thinking quickly now for his mother, for himself, but most of all
for the girl he loved, who stood with face turned away and eyes cast
down in intolerable humiliation.

"Mrs. Fairbanks," said Shock, speaking slowly and with quiet dignity,
"if I have not spoken of love to your daughter, it is not because I
have not loved her well and for long, but because I could not feel
myself worthy of her. Hush, mother; I am not worthy of her, nor shall I
ever be, not by reason of any difference in blood,--for there is no
difference,--but because of what she is herself, so far above me. I
have never spoken with my lips of love, and yet for many and many a day
I have feared that my eyes, and all else that could speak, must have
told her I loved her. And if it should be--for I will not pretend to
misunderstand you--if it should be that it is possible she should ever
love me, then there has come to me a joy greater than I could have
hoped, and whatever may, come of it, this day is the happiest of my
life."

As Shock began to speak, Helen lifted her face, and as she listened her
look of grief and shame fled, and in her eyes a light of joy began to
dawn, then grew till it seemed to overflow in waves across her
beautiful face. And as Shock continued his calm, manly words pride
mingled in her joy, and her head lifted itself with a grace and dignity
that matched that of the old lady standing by her side.

Mrs. Fairbanks stood fairly speechless at Shock's words and at the look
of joy and pride she saw upon her daughter's face.

"This is absurd!" she cried at length. "It's preposterous, and it must
end now and forever. I forbid absolutely anything in the way of--of
engagement or understanding. I will not have my daughter tie herself to
a man with such prospects."

"Wait, mother," said Shock, putting his hand out toward the old lady,
who was about to speak. "Mrs. Fairbanks," he continued quietly, "far be
it from me to take advantage of your daughter in any way, and I say to
you here that she is as free now as when she came into this room. I
shall not ask her to bind herself to me, but I will be false to myself,
and false to her, if I do not say that I love her as dearly as man ever
loved woman, and come what may, I shall love her till I die."

The ring in Shock's voice as he spoke the last words thrilled everyone
in the room.

"Ay, lad that you will," said his mother proudly.

"Oh, aint he great," whispered Brown to Betty, who in her excitement
had drawn close to him. Betty responded with a look, but could not
trust herself to speak.

The moment was pregnant with possibilities.

As Shock finished speaking, Helen, with an indescribable mingling of
shy grace and calm strength, came and stood by his side. For the first
time Shock lost control of himself. He flushed hotly, then grew pale,
then with a slightly defiant look in his face, he put his arm lightly
about her.

"Time for that train," said Brown, who had slipped to the outer door.
"That is," he continued in his briskest manner, "if you're going."

With a quick gasp Helen turned towards Shock. He tightened his arm
about the girl, and putting his hand upon her shoulder, turned her face
toward him and looked down into her face.

"Good-bye," he said gently. "Remember you are free, free as ever you
were. I have no claim upon you, but don't forget that I will always
love you. I will never forget you."

"Good-bye, Shock," she replied in a low, sweet tone, lifting her face
to him. "I will not forget. You know I will not forget."

She slipped her arm around his neck, and while his great frame trembled
with emotion she held him fast.

"I'll not forget," she said again, the light in her great grey eyes
quenched in a quick rush of tears. "You know, Shock, I will not
forget." Her lips quivered piteously.

Then Shock cast restraint to the winds. "No," he cried aloud, "you will
not forget, thank God, you will not forget, and you are mine!"

He drew her close to him, held her a moment or two, looking into her
eyes, and as she lay limp and clinging in his arms he kissed her on the
brow, and then on the lips, and gave her to his mother.

"Here, mother," he said, "take her, be good to her, love her for my
sake."

He put his arms around his mother, kissed her twice, and was gone.

"He'll never get that train," cried Betty.

"Take the carriage," said Mrs. Fairbanks shortly, "and follow him."

"Come along! hurry!" said Betty, catching Brown's arm.

"The station, John!"

"Oh, I say," gasped Brown, seizing Betty's hand and crushing it
ecstatically, "may I embrace you? It's either you or John there."

"Do be quiet. It seems to me we have had as much of that sort of thing
as I can stand. Wasn't it awful?"

"Awful? Awfully jolly!" gasped Brown, hugging himself. "Haven't had a
thrill approaching that since the McGill match, and even that was only
a pale adumbration of what I've just been through."

"I'm sure I don't know what to think. It's so dreadfully startling."

"Startling!" cried Brown. "Come now, Miss Betty, you don't mean to say
you haven't seen this growing for the past six months!"

"No, truly I haven't."

"Well, that's only because you have been so occupied with your own
affairs."

"Nonsense," cried Betty indignantly, with a sudden flame of colour in
her cheeks. "You're quite rude."

"I don't care for anything now," cried Brown recklessly. "My prayers,
tears, and alms-giving haven't been without avail. The terrors and
agonies I've endured this last few days lest that old blockhead should
take himself off without saying or doing anything, no man will ever
know. And he would have gone off, too, had it not been for that lucky
fluke of your mother's. Do you mind if I yell?"

"Hush! Here, let my hand go, it's quite useless," said Betty, looking
at that member which Brown had just relinquished.

"John," gravely enquired Brown, "are you using both your hands?"

"I beg pardon, sir," enquired the astonished coachman, half turning
round.

"Here, do stop your nonsense," cried Betty in a shocked voice.

"Oh, all right, John, this will do," said Brown, seizing Betty's hand
again, as John gave his attention to the horses.

"I say, pull up beside Mr. Macgregor there, will you? Here, Shock, get
in. You'll miss your train. Here, you old bloke, come along, don't gape
like a sick duck. Get in here. You have got to get that train now."

"Mr. Brown," said Betty in a severe whisper, "mind, don't say a word to
him about this business. I can't stand it."

"Certainly not," said Brown, in a matter of fact tone. "There's nothing
to be said."

But there was one last word to be said, and that was Betty's.

"Good-bye, Shock," she whispered to him, as he stepped upon his train.
"I think--I know--I'm very glad."

Poor Shock could only grasp her hand in mute farewell. It was just
dawning upon him that he had some further offering to bring to make his
sacrifice complete.

VI

ON THE TRAIL

"That's the trail. Loon Lake lies yonder."

Shock's Convener, who had charge for his Church of this district, stood
by the buck-board wheel pointing southwest. He was a man about middle
life, rather short but well set up, with a strong, honest face, tanned
and bearded, redeemed abundantly from commonness by the eye, deep blue
and fearless, that spoke of the genius in the soul. It was a kindly
face withal, and with humour lurking about the eyes and mouth. During
the day and night spent with him Shock had come to feel that in this
man there was anchorage for any who might feel themselves adrift, and
somehow the great West, with its long leagues of empty prairie through
which he had passed, travelling by the slow progress of construction
trains, would now seem a little less empty because of this man. Between
the new field toward which this trail led and the home and folk in the
far East there would always be this man who would know him, and would
sometimes be thinking of him. The thought heartened Shock more than a
little.

"That's the trail," repeated the Convener; "follow that; it will lead
you to your home."

"Home!" thought Shock with a tug at his heart and a queer little smile
on his face.

"Yes, a man's home is where his heart is, and his heart is where his
work lies."

Shock glanced quickly at the man's tanned face. Did he suspect, Shock
wondered, the homesickness and the longing in his heart?

Last night, as they had sat together in late talk, he had drawn from
Shock with cunning skill (those who knew him would recognise the trick)
the picture of his new missionary's home, and had interpreted aright
the thrill in the voice that told of the old lady left behind. But now,
as Shock glanced at his Convener's face, there was nothing to indicate
any hidden meaning in his words. The speaker's eyes were far down the
trail that wound like a wavering white ribbon over the yellow-green
billows of prairie that reached to the horizon before and up to the
great mountains on the right.

"Twenty miles will bring you to Spruce Creek stopping-place; twenty
miles more and you are at Big River--not so very big either. You will
see there a little school and beside it, on the left, a little
house--you might call it a shack, but we make the most of things out
here. That's Mr. McIntyre's manse, and proud of it they all are, I can
tell you. You will stay with him over night--a fine fellow you will
find him, a Nova Scotian, very silent; and better than himself is the
little brave woman he has for a wife; a really superior woman. I
sometimes wonder--but never mind, for people doubtless wonder at our
wives: one can never get at the bottom of the mystery of why some women
do it. They will see you on your way. Up to this time he was the last
man we had in that direction. Now you are our outpost--a distinction I
envy you."

The Convener's blue eye was alight with enthusiasm. The call of the new
land was ever ringing in his heart, and the sound of the strife at the
front in his ear.

Unconsciously Shock drew in a long breath, the homesickness and
heart-longing gave back before the spirit of high courage and
enterprise which breathed through the words of the little man beside
him, whose fame was in all the Western Church.

"Up these valleys somewhere," continued the Convener, waving his hands
towards the southern sky-line, "are the men--the ranchers and cowboys I
told you of last night. Some good men, and some of them devils--men
good by nature, devils by circumstance, poor fellows. They won't want
you, perhaps, but they need you badly. And the Church wants them,
and"--after a little pause--"God wants them."

The Convener paused, still looking at the distant flowing hills. Then
he turned to Shock and said solemnly, "We look to you to get them."

Shock gasped. "To me! to get them!"

"Yes, that's what we expect. Why! do you remember the old chap I told
you about--that old prospector who lives at Loon Lake?--you will come