"They succeeded in driving away about forty head of cattle, which have
been traced into the neighbourhood of the Touchwood Hills."

"But," said Sam, after a pause, "what has this to do with the two men we
were talking about?"

"Everything," responded Stone.  "Perhaps you have heard of the Warple
Band?"

"To be sure I have."

"Well, the Warple Band are believed to have been for some time located
in the ’Touchwood’; and now I feel certain about it, for the description
you gave of the two men who were here answers exactly to that which I
have obtained of the two leaders, from one of whom it gets its name."

"Do you think so?"

"I don’t think at all about it—I’m certain!" added Stone, as he brought
his fist down on the table with a thump.

"Well, what will be your next move then?"

"Ah! that remains to be seen," he added, with a far-away look in his
eyes.

"Well, certainly appearances are deceiving, for I should never have
taken the two fellows, who, as I told you, looked like trappers, to be
the desperate characters you say they are."

"No; and yet they are wanted for some of the foulest and darkest of
crimes."

"What are you going to do to-night?" asked Sam.

"I shall return at once to Wolseley and report."

Calling to Langham, he bade that worthy have his horse saddled and
brought round at once; and, having settled his score, bade good-night to
the friends he was leaving, and taking a good look round the
drinking-bar as he passed through, he mounted his horse, and rode off
into the fast gathering darkness.

                             *CHAPTER XVI.*

                           *THE WARPLE BAND.*

"These high wild hills, and rough uneven ways,
Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome."—
                   _Richard II._, Act. II. sc. iii.

In the course of the ensuing week the farmers and ranchers for miles
round had notice from the police of the district of their intention to
raid the Touchwood Hills, in search of a nest of robbers believed to be
hiding there.

The settlers were directed to assemble at a point named, at a certain
hour, on a given day, with all the able-bodied men they could muster
capable of bearing arms, and to be prepared for what might probably
prove a stiffish job.

Early in the morning of the day appointed, a special train, which
started from Winnipeg the previous day, and calling at the various
stations on its way up had entrained detachments of mounted police,
reached M’Lean Station with a force of fifty horsemen, which was at once
sent forward across the prairie to the place of rendezvous.

After advancing about ten miles, they halted on the banks of a running
stream, so as to give the farmers who were expected to join them an
opportunity of coming on.

Some they found already at the place appointed, and others, by twos and
threes, kept dropping in, until by noon they had assembled about one
hundred and twenty all told.

The farmers, with their men, were in many cases as well mounted as the
police; their uniform and discipline differed, but in other respects
they looked equal to any amount of fatigue, and capable of holding their
own and rendering good service to the force they were about to
accompany.

Twenty-five of the police were sent on a little in advance, followed by
their ambulance waggons and staff, under the command of Captain Lean;
the yeomanry—for such they might be termed—formed the centre, followed
by their waggons, which were made to serve for ambulance purposes, and
were placed under the direction of Fellows from Ranger’s Ranch, who, by
training and experience acquired as an officer in a Volunteer corps in
England, it was considered, might safely be entrusted with that
important command.  The rear was brought up by the remainder of the
police; the whole force being commanded by Major Scott, a man who had
seen much service in the "States," was well acquainted with Indian
tactics, and had frequently been employed in border forays, and that
guerilla style of fighting, the men they were now in search of were
likely to indulge in.

Having accomplished another fifteen miles of their journey, they halted
at the edge of a wood and prepared to make such dispositions for a night
on the plains as their resources would admit of, due precautions being
taken to guard against a night surprise, which, however, did not take
place.

They were stirring with sunrise; and after watering and feeding their
horses, and supplying their own wants, they saddled up, and with
military precision were ready to start by eight o’clock, in the same
order as on the previous day.

No incident of importance occurred to mark their progress, and as the
second day began to close in they reckoned to be within about ten miles
of their destination.

Arrived on the bank of a small river, which, besides affording water for
both man and beast, in other respects seemed suitable for camping
purposes, a halt was sounded, fires lighted, and preparations soon in
progress for a good meal and a night’s repose.

Up to the present they had met with little difficulty in following in
the trail of the raiders, which was well marked.

The Major’s plan, as communicated to his lieutenants, was, if the trail
continued, to advance up to the foothills of the Touchstone, and then,
at suitable points to be selected, plant small bodies of the force at
his disposal round the base of the hill, which at a fixed hour were to
advance up the slopes, passing over intervening valleys or depressions,
to the centre, where the whole would be expected to assemble.

Before eight o’clock the next morning the little force was on the move,
silent, and alert for the developments of the next few hours.

After the lapse of about three hours they came to a spot covered with
thick clumps of trees, bordering a lake nearly a mile in extent from
east to west. The intervening spaces were uneven and billowy, running
into deep depressions covered with heavy luxuriant grasses.  The hill
they were making for was plainly visible in the distance, and had been
for some time.

Major Scott, halting his force here, resolved to await the return of a
scout sent on in advance two days previous, with orders to penetrate
into the recesses of the hill, and learn, if possible, the number and
location of the enemy.  Vedettes were assigned to positions, and no
precautions neglected which might prevent a possible, yet not an
expected, surprise.

Scarcely had these dispositions been arranged, when the return of the
scout was announced, and in a few minutes, without much ceremony, he
made his way into the presence of the Major, who was seated on an
upturned camp-kettle.

"Well, sonny, what success?" he cried out.

"You shall hear, Major.  It was a dark night when I reached the
foot-hills, which, for my purpose, was fortunate.  Making my way as
cautiously as possible through the pines and cedars, and the masses of
thickly-growing fern which are abundant there, in a short while I found
myself overlooking a grass-covered glade of some extent, at the
extremity of which the face of the hill seemed to rise sheer and steep
for hundreds of feet.  Seated round a bivouac fire, engaged in an
animated conversation, were a dozen men, with their blankets over their
shoulders. They were rough-bearded looking fellows with one exception,
and he had all the appearance of a half-breed; and no doubt was, as I
took him to be, the guide of the band.  Their feet were encased in
moccasins, and provided with big rowelled spurs. A similar number of
horses were not far distant, hobbled, Indian fashion, with strips of
hide.

"From the conversation, which reached me but indistinctly, I gathered
that four of the band were doing duty as sentries, making sixteen in
all.  They were all fully armed with pistols and knives and Winchesters.
No signs of cattle were visible.  They did not seem to be under any fear
of a surprise; and as there appeared to be little further to learn I
hastened back as rapidly as possible."

The band was smaller than the Major had expected, he therefore resolved
to move forward at once.

Dividing his force into four sections, he directed one to proceed to the
west, and another to the east, and each to penetrate the hill until they
met.  A third section was directed to skirt the hill until they faced
its northern side, and then, in like manner, ascend, until they met the
two flanking columns, when they would unite and advance south until they
came across the band, or met his column, which would move up in time to
join them.

Whilst the three columns were making a detour round the hill to reach
the posts assigned, the Major resolved to wait where he was at present,
until daylight was on the wane, to give time for each to be well
advanced before he attempted to move forward, and so possibly the better
escape detection by any watchful eye which might be on the look-out for
the unexpected.

The day wore to its close.  The sky was obscured with dense masses of
heavy clouds, indicating a coming storm.  The waning moon would not make
its appearance yet for some hours.  The occasional rumble of distant
thunder was to be heard, whilst vivid flashes of lightning from time to
time lit up the wide expanse, only to render the succeeding darkness the
more intense.

Favoured by the elements, Major Scott cautiously but steadily advanced
his little force until they were close up to the ascent of the hill, but
well screened by the wild luxuriance of the vegetation, the growth of
ages, as yet undisturbed by the demands or needs of man, or the onward
march of those civilising forces which are ever working for the
advancement of the race.

Pulling their blankets around them, his men bivouacked where they had
halted, to snatch a few hours’ repose, in order that they might be the
better prepared to face what was before them.

A little more than an hour had passed when the distant sounds of
rifle-firing came echoing down the hill, which no sooner reached the
slumbering groups than Major Scott gave the signal, and his bugler
sounded the call to arms, and in a very brief space of time his little
party was up, saddled, and in motion at a brisk trot.

Guided by the information which their scout had brought them,—and who
was now to the front, with the Major, leading,—they soon reached the
spot described by him, where he had seen the band encamped.

Save the dying embers of a solitary fire, the darkness was too profound
to render objects visible at a distance.  Nor could they detect the
sounds of any life present, except those which came from their own
party.

As the men moved across the plain, the horse of one stumbled over an
object in the darkness, which its rider, on dismounting, found was the
body of a man apparently lifeless, indicating that the firing which had
aroused them must have been in this locality, and that the place could
only recently have been abandoned.

In a few moments their attention was arrested by the sounds of
approaching horsemen, and an occasional shot being fired.

That familiarity with darkness which renders objects at first all but
invisible gradually distinguishable through the gloom, had enabled Scott
and his contingent with some degree of certainty to fix their
surroundings, as well as to form a tolerable conception of their
position.

Directing a trooper to sound a bugle blast, it was answered by one from
the advancing party, and in a short while they could distinguish the
figures of men and horses as they came round a bend of the hill to the
left of where they had halted.

In answer to the Major’s challenge, these forces were soon discovered to
be the two divisions which had ascended to the hill on its eastern and
western slopes.

It appeared that, warned of the danger with which they were threatened,
the band had fled before they could reach them, but from sheltered
clefts in the hills above they had kept up a desultory fire upon their
pursuers, without exposing themselves to danger.

It would have been useless in the darkness to endeavour to search for a
concealed foe well acquainted with the ground, to which they were
comparative strangers, exposing themselves to chance shots which they
might possibly be in no condition to return.

They were compelled, however, to await the arrival of the fourth
division of their force, which, advancing by the northern slope, owing
to the longer distance to be covered, might yet be some time before
reaching the appointed rendezvous.

An hour went by, when from the other side of the hill there came faint
sounds of a rifle discharge, repeated at more frequent intervals.

Turning in the direction from which they proceeded, and putting their
horses to the trot, Major Scott’s division, reinforced by the other two
bands, made such haste as the nature of the ground to be traversed, and
the dim light to guide them, would permit, in order to reach their
comrades, who appeared to have met with the band of outlaws.

Aided by rifts in the clouds overhead, through which "the stars in their
courses" occasionally looked down, rendering objects slightly less
obscure than during the earlier hours of the night, they were able to
make fair progress.

But the country being so well covered with clumps of pine and maple,
spruce and cedar, and the dense bush and scrub, with hundreds of
interlacing creeping plants making up a tangled mass difficult to
penetrate, speed had frequently to be slackened until a passage could be
found, or forced, through the obstructions which nature with such
prodigality and lavishness had spread in their path.

Emerging at length on to a spacious plateau, they found themselves
facing a series of well-wooded terraces, from which, however, they were
separated by a deep ravine, now dry, but in the rainy season the source
of drainage from the hills to the plains.

As they came into the open they saw before them, in the dim and
uncertain light of early day, Red Dick and his lawless band of followers
spread out at the edge of the plateau, taking pot-shots at their
pursuers, just discernible on the terraced slopes the other side of the
ravine.

Bold and reckless as Dick’s band was reputed to be, they felt that they
were now in what might be called "a tight fix."

With an impassable gorge in front, and a rapidly advancing force in
their rear, their only chance left was to gain a narrow winding pathway
in the face of the hill which led down into the bed of the ravine.

The alternative was to throw up the sponge and to allow themselves to be
taken prisoners, but as that meant certain death, since their many
crimes had long since placed them beyond all claims to mercy, they
determined to make a virtue of necessity, and run. Two were shot down in
attempting to reach the descending path; one missed his footing and was
dashed headlong to the bottom; whilst the fourth was fatally wounded by
a shot from the opposite side of the ravine.

Parties of mounted men were at once despatched to try and intercept the
escape of the fugitives at each end of the bed of the torrent.

They were successful to the extent of making two captures, but when it
was discovered that one of these was no less a personage than the
redoubtable Red Dick himself, the entire party felt that all their
efforts had been well rewarded.

When the roll was called, five of the constabulary were reported killed
and eleven wounded; whilst of the farmers one had been killed and seven
wounded.

With the capture of the leader of this desperate band, the chief object
of the foray had been attained; it was therefore considered useless to
delay the return in the hope of securing the remainder of the outlaws.

The return was accomplished without incident, and the two prisoners
safely lodged at Regina, to await instructions from Ottawa.

                            *CHAPTER XVII.*

                            *A CONFESSION.*

"My life upon her faith."—_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.

To the average man, woman is a riddle.  Her ways are past finding out.

Without doubt, the noble deeds of women are not always those which are
blazoned forth to the public eye in books and pamphlets, or by means of
the press.

The quiet, unobtrusive host of duties they perform in the midst of
unheard-of difficulties; their patient endurance of suffering; the
privations they are willing to undergo for those they love; the
obscurity and loneliness in which much of their lives are passed, yet
the unmurmuring and ungrudging way in which devoted service is given:
all this is known to the few, and has yet to be revealed.

It was probably due to one or more of these phases or traits of
character, which the illness of Fellows had developed in Jessie Russell,
that had caused the feeling of friendship he imagined he entertained for
her to reveal itself to him as that of a much warmer and tenderer
attachment, which might more properly be attributed to one of those
well-directed shafts from Cupid’s artillery which the little god, with
so much precision, is so well able and so ready to discharge.

Fellows was in love with Jessie Russell.  He had to admit that to
himself, and he was longing to confess it to her.

But whenever the occasion presented itself—and opportunities occurred in
abundance—remorse restrained him and kept him silent.  Dare he link her
future with one whose past was a record of shame and crime?  If she
cared for him—as he sometimes flattered himself she did—need he trouble
her with that which could not possibly do her any good, and might do
much harm?

Whatever may have been the follies and sins of his past life, his moral
perceptions were still keen enough to see that such a course of conduct
would be most dishonouring and dishonourable to the woman he professed
to have a supreme regard for.

Thoughts such as these naturally cast a shadow over his life; he avoided
the society of his fellows, or, when circumstances compelled him to
associate with them, he was moody, taciturn, and reserved, so that in
the house or in the field his converse or communications were of the
briefest, and marked by no feature to lead to its continuance.

His habits and general demeanour had not escaped the notice of Mrs.
Ranger, and, with that womanly intuitiveness so characteristic of the
sex, she had not been long in divining the cause.

Taking advantage of an opportunity one evening when alone together, and
the work of the day was over, she mentioned the subject to her husband.

"Have you noticed how quiet and reserved our chap Fellows has been
lately?"

"Yes, I have, Bess; it seems difficult to get a word out of him."

"What do you suppose to be the cause?"

"Well, I have thought at times he was in love with that girl of
Russell’s."

"And if he is, I can’t see the reason for his going about moping as he
appears to be doing."

"Nor can I; although I know how hard it is to understand the goings on
of two people in love."

"I’m sure it’s not because there is any difficulty on her side.  She is
quite as much in love with him as ever he is with her.  It’s a case
where the man has only got to ask to have."

"I wonder whether he has said anything yet to Jessie on the subject?"

"Well, you need not wonder long, for I can tell you that he has not."

"How do you know that, Bess?"

"Why, of course, from the girl herself.  Having a women’s natural
curiosity, and exercising that privilege which my age gives me, I asked
her if there was anything between them, and she assured me there was
not."

"Well then, I’ll tell you what my opinion is, wife; the chap has got
something else on his mind which troubles him."

"What makes you think that?"

"Little things I have noticed from time to time; but more especially the
few words dropped when he first came here, to the effect that his had
been a wasted life.  He said, if I remember right, that he had disgraced
a good name, and now wanted to hide and escape recognition."

"Have you ever tried to gain his confidence?"

"No, Bess, for I have always felt a delicacy about it.  In my opinion,
the confidence that is worth the name, should be given willingly, and
not forced."

"A little encouragement might not be thrown away,—natures, you know, are
so different."

"Well, the very next opportunity that offers I will endeavour to draw
him out."

Not many days after this conversation had taken place, Ranger was seated
with Fellows, at the close of the day’s labour, outside the house,
smoking their pipes, which seemed to offer the opportunity the former
was waiting for.

Breaking the silence which had reigned for some time, Ranger started by
saying—

"Look here, Fellows, you have been here now sufficiently long to know
that I am not the sort of chap that is anxious to pry into the private
affairs of other people, and therefore what I am about to say is not
with any desire to gratify an idle curiosity."

"That I am quite prepared to believe," he replied; "and anything you
want to know, which I am able to tell, I shall be quite ready to do."

"Well then, to come to the point at once, from your manner of late I
should judge you have something on your mind which is troubling you.  Am
I right?"

"Suppose I have!  What then?"

"Why, my boy, it will relieve your mind if you feel you can tell me what
is troubling you.  And who knows but that I may be able to help you, as
I shall be willing to do if I can."

"Your kindness touches me, but I am afraid your offer will not avail me
much."

"The way to prove that will be by letting me know your difficulty."

"My difficulty, farmer, is the story of my life, which recent events
have brought more prominently before me.  For some time I have felt that
I needed a friend,—one in whom I could confide, and who would be capable
of advising me.

"Well, all I will say is, that if you feel you can do so, you may trust
me; and if I am not able to help you, you will find that Ranger is not a
man to betray a trust reposed in him."

"I quite believe you, my friend; and as a proof of the opinion I had
formed of you, I may say I have several times of late been on the point
of opening my mind to you, but something or other has occurred to
prevent my doing so."

After pausing awhile, he proceeded—

"When I came over to this country, I left, away up in the north of
England, a widowed mother and sister with the full conviction that I had
met my death by drowning.  This is how it happened: I was travelling for
a well-known firm of manufacturers in the Midlands, and had been absent
on the Continent for some months.  I had collected a lot of money on
their account, when I was tempted one evening, with a so-called friend,
to visit one of the many gambling hells which abound in most Continental
cities.  I was persuaded to play, and under the influence of the cursed
drink, and the excitement of the game,—in which I met with some success
at first,—I was led to plunge recklessly; until, when at length I was
induced to leave, I found that I had lost heavily, and, what was worse,
it was not my own money I had lost.  In returning I had formed no clear
idea as to what I was to do about the money lost, until, on board the
boat I was travelling by, an event occurred which in a moment shaped out
my course.

[Illustration: THE ALARM WAS GIVEN, AND THE ENGINES WERE AT ONCE SLOWED
DOWN.]

"During the passage, which was a rough one, a man fell overboard.  The
alarm was given, the engines were at once slowed down, and a boat was
lowered, and for an hour every effort made to recover him.  It was
unavailing, as the body was not found.

"I had seen the man who was lost, and had been led to notice him rather
closely, from the fact of his having taken up what I regarded as a
dangerous position, with such a sea as was then on, in the stern of the
vessel.  So that when, from the sheltered position in which I was
standing on the cabin stairs, I saw him fall over, I blamed myself that
I had not warned him of the danger he was in.

"Whilst the attention of all on deck were engaged with the efforts being
made to recover the body, a thought occurred to me which I at once
proceeded to give effect to.

"I hastened down below, sought out the bunk in which I had seen the
missing man during the morning,—it was next but one to my own,—and, as I
remembered he was about my own age and size, I felt little hesitation in
changing my own clothes for such of his as I found there, and with the
result that, by remaining silent as to what I knew, on my clothes being
found where his had been, and with papers in the pockets proclaiming who
they belonged to, it was reported that I had been lost; whilst nothing,
so far as I was able to learn, appears to have ever been said about the
real man who was drowned, so that he must have had very few friends to
inquire after him.

"Having thus effaced myself, I resolved to expatriate myself for fear of
being discovered, and that is how I come to be here."

"A very infamous ruse on your part," said Ranger, who had listened with
attention to all that Fellows had been relating.  "Have you never
written to let your mother know that you were alive?"

"No; I have always felt that that would be too risky a proceeding."

"Well, since this must have been a great trouble to you, and a burden on
your mind ever since you went wrong, what circumstance has given rise to
your present anxiety?"

"You may well ask, since, but for what has lately arisen, I should not
have sought to inflict upon you my life’s sad story."

"Out with it then, man, and make an end of the matter!"

"The simple fact is, I have formed what some would consider, in my
circumstances, a mad attachment to Jessie Russell."

"No need to be ashamed of that, my boy!  She’s as fine a girl, and as
good a girl, as can be found anywhere this side of the Rockies!"

"That thought, if anything, only increases my difficulty.  You see, at
present she is quite ignorant as to my past; and my fear is that if I
tell her what I feel she ought to know, she will be inclined to despise
me, and refuse to listen to me.  On the other hand, if the goodness of
her heart should prompt her to overlook my past misdeeds, and to
favourably consider my suit, the knowledge of my past will only serve to
increase her anxiety on my account, and burden her with a load of care
which silence on my part might materially lessen.  I cannot make up my
mind as to what to do."

Ranger refrained from giving any immediate reply, and appeared for a
time to be lost in thought.  After considerable reflection he said—

"I have no hesitation about the advice I am going to give.  There is
undoubtedly much force in what you urge, as to the advantages of
concealing all that relates to your past life; but I look upon it, that
the woman who is to be a man’s wife ought to be one he can trust.  They
should both possess each other’s confidence.  There should, therefore,
be no secrets between them.  And especially to begin married life it
forms a bad precedent.

"Besides, we none of us know what the future may turn up for any of us;
and although what you have told me seems hidden away secure enough at
present, it would be almost too much to say that no circumstance, or
combination of circumstances, could ever bring the past to light.  And
since it would be not only very awkward, but might be the means of
wrecking your happiness, if anything should cause the past to be
revealed, I say, by all means risk the reception it is likely to meet
with, and tell Jessie all you have told me.  She has a right to know the
kind of man who is asking her to marry him.  She deserves to have every
confidence placed in her; and, unless I am very much mistaken in her
character, she is not likely to cause a man’s past to be a bar to his
future in the matter contemplated, if she has any regard for him."

"I am neither surprised nor disconcerted at your advice," was Fellows’
rejoinder.  "It is, in fact, just what I expected from you.  It is
counsel which is quite in accordance with my own feelings, and what my
conscience tells me is the correct course to pursue. I feel strongly
disposed to act upon it at once; but I will just let the matter rest
where it is at present, whilst I think over what you have said."

"But there is still another bit of advice I should like to add, if I
may," said Ranger.

"I think I can guess what that is,—still you may as well give it."

"Write at once home, and to your employers, a full account of all you
have told me."

"Why?  In order that a detective may be put upon my track?"

"That was not my idea.  But if you fear such a result, then why not
write your mother, and get her to call upon your firm with a statement
from you, but without naming your present place of abode, and leave her
to decide, after seeing them, whether it would be wise to let them know
where you are?"

"I am very much obliged to you, farmer; but as what you have suggested
will require very careful thought, and very delicate handling, I will
let that stand over for further consideration.  It has waited so long
that no harm will be done by a still further delay."

"Except so far as your mother is concerned,—you do not know what state
she may be in at present."

"Quite true!  Yet—  Well, I will think it over, and let you know in a
day or two."

It was with that understanding they separated.

But their rest would have been less easy had they known that all which
had passed between them that night had been overheard, and was being
treasured up for future use.

                            *CHAPTER XVIII.*

                        *A SNAKE IN THE GRASS.*

           "... Warily
I stole into a neighbour thicket by,
And overheard what you shall overhear."
           _Love’s Labours Lost_, Act V. sc. ii.

Ranger’s homestead had been erected on a clearing, in the midst of what
at one period was a well-wooded stretch of country, thickly overgrown
with the pine, balsam, maple, and other trees indigenous to the soil,
interspersed with a rich undergrowth of luxuriant vegetation, the
alternate growth and reproduction of ages.

The rear of this house, which all this wealth and prodigality of
nature’s productions extended up to, had been left untouched by the axe
or saw of the invader, except where a narrow path had been cleared to
admit of easy access to a patch of garden-ground beyond.  Here and there
a trailing creeper had been captured, until it seemed to have become
part and parcel of the dwelling itself, so that at times it was not easy
to decide where the house ended and the scrub or wood began.

If Ranger and his companion had been less intent upon the subject of
their conversation, their attention might have been attracted by a
suspicious movement, which occasionally agitated the undergrowth not far
from where they were seated.  It passed, however, unnoticed.

It was dark when they closed their conversation and entered into the
house.

When, however, all was quiet around, the figure of a man might have been
seen stealing stealthily away from amidst the thick bush which lay
within a few feet of where the two men had been holding converse, and
making towards a log-shanty, dimly discernible in the darkness on a
piece of rising-ground beyond the circle forming the enclosure of the
homestead.

It was the abode of the Bartons; and Charles, the younger of the two
brothers, was the figure from the wood now to be seen entering the door.

The room was unoccupied, John having been sent on business to M’Lean
Station, which would prevent his return until next day.

Procuring a light, and seating himself at a table, he seemed to be
reflecting deeply.  His thoughts were inspired by the conversation which
had been passing between Ranger and Fellows, and to which it must be
confessed he had been an attentive, because an interested, listener.

It was while passing through the bush behind the former’s homestead, on
his way home, at the close of work for the day, that his attention had
been arrested by the mention of a name which caused him to stop, and
gradually but quietly to draw as close to the speakers as he felt it
would be safe to do.  On discovering the nature of the conversation, he
did not hesitate remaining concealed, in such a position, however, as
would enable him to hear the whole of what was passing.

Charles Barton, for some time a silent admirer of Jessie Russell, had
been only waiting a favourable opportunity to declare his passion.

But Jessie was not a girl who would willingly afford any young man the
opportunity so desired, if she had the slightest suspicion that it was
being looked for.  She was no prude, yet she was not a flirt; and that,
in an unsettled region where men were in abundance, whilst the women
were few and far between, was saying a great deal in her favour.

She had not failed to notice that several times of late Charles was to
be seen lounging in the neighbourhood of her father’s shanty, and this
had caused her to still more carefully seclude herself from the rough
settler’s gaze.

Charles was a man with big ideas, but a small soul. The god he
worshipped was _self_; and anything that seemed to stand in the way of
self must be made to give place by fair means or foul.  Scruples he had
none, where _self_ was in question.  He had learned this evening, for
the first time, of the additional difficulty which lay in his path to
Jessie Russell’s affections.  After long and careful reflection he made
up his mind how he would endeavour to get that difficulty "entirely
removed."

Having provided himself with pen and ink and paper, he sat down at the
table and began to write rapidly.  At the end of about an hour he had
finished a letter, which lay folded, sealed, and addressed in front of
him.

It bore the inscription—

Messrs. H. & E. Quinion
       Broadstone
              England.

It contained a statement of the confession he had that evening heard
given by Fellows, with an intimation of where he was now to be found in
case the firm felt any desire to possess that information.

After hinting at sources of further information, it concluded with an
urgent request that the writer’s name, which was communicated in strict
confidence, as a proof of _bonâ fides_, should be kept a profound
secret.

How to get this letter posted without its destination becoming a topic
for conversation, was the difficulty which next presented itself.

For several days he was at a loss to know how to overcome this obstacle
to the success of his scheme.

On the fourth day after the events narrated, Ranger announced his
intention of riding over to Wolseley Station on business which would
detain him until the evening of the next day.

It was too good an opportunity to be missed; so a few hours after the
farmer’s departure, securing a horse from amongst the many that are
allowed free range without detriment, it being only imported horses of
the better class which, as a rule, are stabled, he soon had it saddled,
and was off for "Indian Head," where he expected to find a post-box
convenient, into which his letter might be dropped.

After a couple of hours’ sharp ride, he entered the little town, where,
without much difficulty, he discovered the object of his search.

Having accomplished his mission, and given his horse breathing time, he
set out on his return.  The moon had not yet risen, but the stars shone
out in a clear sky; and objects were plainly visible on the road to be
traversed.

Mounting the crest of a hill, he was proceeding at an easy trot to
descend a winding pathway which led on to the plains, when something—it
was never known what—caused the horse to swerve and stumble, and the
next minute, before its rider could recover himself, he was pitched
forward with the horse on top of him.

Recovering his feet without much difficulty, the horse stood for a few
moments, and then, as if it had taken in the situation, galloped off in
the direction of home.

Barton was stunned by the fall, and lay on the road insensible.

Two hours passed before the man showed signs of returning consciousness.
Then the keen wind which blew across his face, as he lay extended on the
ground, caused a tremor to pass through his body, and opening his eyes
he endeavoured to sit up, but at first the pain which the effort
inflicted was so great he lay for a time trying to collect thoughts
which were confused and scattered.  A second effort was attended with
more success, when he proceeded to make a careful examination of his
limbs, to ascertain what, if any, injury had been sustained.

Satisfied with the result that no bones had been broken, yet suffering
intensely from a sprained ankle and an injured knee-joint, which he
found would prevent him standing, let alone attempting to walk, he
realised that however desirous he might be of making progress, there was
nothing for it but to remain where he was, with what fortitude he might
be able to summon to his support.

By dint of a little exertion he managed to crawl on to the bank at the
side of the track, and there, against the trunk of a large oak, he
prepared to make the best of his position, in the hope that help of some
kind would sooner or later turn up.

He had lain there some time—dozing between whiles—when he became
conscious of sounds as of the distant grind of heavy wheels, and the
slow measured tread of horses’ feet.  Listening intently, he soon made
it out to be a waggon-team, which he judged to be from some neighbouring
homestead, on its way to one of the stations,—M’Lean or Indian
Head,—and, as subsequently proved to be the case, with produce to be
railed on to Regina or Winnipeg. When within range of his voice, Barton
had little difficulty in arresting the attention of the teamster, who,
stopping his horses and dropping the reins, quickly dismounted, and,
with lantern in hand made his way to the side of the track from whence
the sounds proceeded.

The position of affairs was explained, when, calling his companion to
help him, they together lifted the all but helpless man into as
comfortable a position as it was possible to make for him in the waggon,
an operation which was only accomplished with considerable difficulty,
seeing that nearly every inch of space was well occupied with farm
produce of a marketable kind.

Indian Head—his destination—was reached as daylight began to break,
when, handing Barton over for the time being to some of the railway
officials, he had just sufficient time left to get his load transferred
to one of the empty trucks in waiting, before the whistle sounded and
the heavily loaded train steamed out of the station on its way to
Regina, distant about some forty miles farther.

Having successfully accomplished the object he had in view, the
waggoner—a farmer whose homestead was but a few miles off the rail—next
proceeded to question Barton as to what was to be done with him.

On learning that he was one of Ranger’s men, and that Ranger could
probably be found at Wolseley, having intended to stay the night there,
he at once decided to send on a wire in the hope of intercepting him
there and getting him to take Indian Head as his route home in order to
pick up Barton.

In the course of the morning a reply came to say he would be there; and
late in the afternoon Ranger drove up, not a little surprised at
discovering who it was that was awaiting him, as well as the condition
he was in.

Having had the injured man transferred to his own conveyance, he mounted
and drove off.

On reaching home, he found an uneasy feeling had been spreading at the
prolonged absence of Barton, especially when it got reported that a
horse, saddled and bridled, had been found grazing, which it was
believed must have been the one Barton had started out upon the evening
before, and which had apparently returned riderless; but where his rider
had been left, no one had any means of telling, since it did not appear
to be known in which direction he had gone.

The farmer’s return with the missing man at once put an end to all
doubts, and, with as little delay as possible, he was conveyed to his
own shanty, where both his sprained ankle and damaged knee received the
attention needed, so that he was soon able to resume his usual duties on
the farm.

When Barton explained to Ranger the object of his journey, which he did
as they drove home, it was one of such common occurrence that it left no
impression upon his mind as to there being anything peculiar in it.

                             *CHAPTER XIX.*

                             *HESITATING.*

           "... At this hour
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies."
                 _The Tempest_, Act IV. sc. i.

When, in due course, Barton’s letter reached Broadstone, the
astonishment and surprise it gave rise to was beyond all description.
The excitement it created in the breasts of the partners was intense.
Old memories were aroused with regard to incidents long since regarded
as for ever buried.

The circumstances under which they were now revived seemed to possess
more the character of fiction than fact.  Yet the details given, and the
circumstantial nature of the narration, seemed to preclude all
possibility of doubt.

What ought to be the action of the firm in the matter now?  This was the
problem which faced them, demanding a decision,—but a decision which
they found themselves unable to agree upon.

It was therefore wisely resolved to leave the matter where it was at
present, and to return to the subject later on, after each had been able
to think out what was the best course to pursue.

A week went by, during which the solicitors to the firm had been seen
and consulted.  Their advice was friendly, but cautious.  Whilst from a
strictly legal point of view it might be right to take steps to have the
culprit arrested and prosecuted, perfectly legitimate reasons could be
adduced for taking no notice of the letter and refraining from any
action in the matter.

Their advice was to have inquiries made, through their agents in
Ontario, as to the truth of the information forwarded, and the character
of the writer of the letter; as well as to learn, if possible, his
object in writing.  It was pointed out that this need not involve any
very great expense, and on the information received they could then
decide how to act.

They resolved to follow this advice, especially as the further delay
would afford additional opportunity for reflection.

Acting upon instructions received, their solicitors wrote their agents
in Quebec, by the next outward mail, giving a full account of their
client’s case, and requesting them to obtain, through the agency of the
police—or by any other means, if considered more desirable: The
character of Ranger, his holding and belongings, and his status in the
country; whether anyone known as Fellows—but whose real name was Ralph
Sinclair—was at present in his employ; the date when he came there;
where he came from; what position he was filling; and the reputation he
was held in.

The same information as to a Charles Barton; and, as this was the person
sending certain information with regard to the first named, to ascertain
to what extent they associated, and, if possible, the causes which had
induced him to reveal what he had done about the man known as Fellows.

It was specially enjoined that the information was to be obtained with
the greatest caution, as on no account must it leak out that these
inquiries were being made from England.

As the matter seemed to be one possessing features of interest which
might lead to important developments, the agents lost no time in seeking
an interview with the chief of police; who, after a careful perusal of
the letter from their correspondents, promised he would write for full
information to their headquarters staff at Regina, who would no doubt be
able to get what was wanted.

In the attitude taken up by the great firm of Quinion towards their
former employé, there was no feeling of vindictiveness manifested.  They
had, in fact, never yet been known to prosecute a defaulting servant,
although many opportunities had offered for so doing.  Their leniency
towards men who had been detected defrauding them had almost become
proverbial, so that they were beginning to look upon it themselves as a
matter of reproach.

The members of the firm were men of high principle, anxious not only to
stand well in the public gaze, but desirous that their motives should be
beyond suspicion.  They were nominally religious men, but making no very
pronounced profession of their opinions and beliefs.  Crooked and
perverse as the treatment of their London employés had been, their
conduct was so surrounded with sophisms for arguments, that shadows had
assumed substantial form, and they seemed to have persuaded themselves,
if not others, that in all that they had done they had been guided only
by the highest principles of moral rectitude, leaving nothing of which
they need feel ashamed.

Burns has very aptly said—

    "Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
    To see oursel’s as others see us!
    It wad frae monie a blunder free us
      And foolish notion."

They had not lost sight of the mother of Sinclair,—or Fellows, as we
must continue to call him,—since their first impulse was to acquaint her
with what they had heard.

Upon reflection, they felt it would be wiser to wait until, with the
fresh light which they hoped to receive as the result of the inquiries
set on foot, their mind was better made up as to the course they ought
to pursue.

                             *CHAPTER XX.*

                            *ON THE TRAIL.*

"Thou art a fellow of a good report,
Thy life hath had some snatch of honour in it."
                   _Julius Cæsar_, Act V. sc. v.

Regina, which, prior to the advent of the Great Trunk Line of the
Canadian Pacific Railway, was possessed of but a few straggling
log-shanties—the rough dwellings of settlers and squatters, the early
pioneers in the great North-West of those civilising forces which are
marching with so much rapidity across the face of the American
Continent—is not only the principal town, but has the honour of being
the capital of the province and the seat of the legislature.

Yet, rejoicing in a population of not more than some two thousand, it is
making such rapid advances as bids fair to raise it, in a very little
while, to a position of importance and pre-eminence.

The mounted police have here their headquarters, and it was therefore in
the order of things official, as well as natural, that the inquiry set
on foot at Quebec should be forwarded to this little but important
centre for further elucidation.

To John Stone, or "Puffey," as the name by which he is best known, was
entrusted the task of obtaining the required information.

The work, although of an eminently peaceful character, was beset with no
ordinary difficulties, from the secrecy with which the information had
to be obtained.

Taking Nat Langham’s Store on his route, he soon found himself in the
midst of a company of the roughest and lowest of the labouring-class
population of the district.  Smoking, drinking, gambling, and betting,
were the usual order of proceedings; occasionally varied by a free
fight, in which the use of knives and firearms were not unknown.

Beyond a few brief glances from carelessly turned heads—the usual
greeting to a fresh-comer—but little notice was taken of his advent into
their midst. Calling for a liquor, and lighting his pipe, he joined a
group at one of the tables, where play was in progress, and soon became
an apparently interested spectator.

Presently one of the players, turning to Stone, asked—

"What are they going to do with Red Dick, Puffey?"

"Oh, he is of too much importance to be dealt with by the authorities
hereabouts."

"What! do they intend sending him up to Quebec?"

"Yes," replied Puffey; "and there he’ll stand a very poor chance."

After a pause, "What do you know about him?" inquired Puffey.

"I don’t know the fellow, and don’t want to," was the rejoinder.  "I
only felt interested because I was with the force when he was caught."

"Oh, I see! you were one of the volunteer force that aided the police."

"That’s so, sonny."

"What was the name of him who took command of the volunteer force?  Do
you remember him?"

"Yes, very well.  It was a chap named Fellows, at Ranger’s."

"Not been hereabouts long, has he?" inquired Puffey indifferently.

"Not above six or seven months, I believe," was the reply.

"Came from England, I think we were told?"

"Yes."

"He seemed to understand his business very well. Know much about him?"

"I only know that he is said to be on friendly terms with Ranger, and is
believed to be rather sweet on one of the women on his station."

"Is that so?" added Puffey.  "Then the fellow hasn’t lost much time."

"Well, I can’t say for certain," continued the speaker, "as I work on a
neighbouring farm; but I heard one of my mates talking a while ago about
him."

Puffey felt that here, at all events, was a source from whence some
useful information might in all probability be gathered, but he was
anxious not to appear too eager, for fear of exciting unnecessary
inquiry.

Allowing the conversation to drop, he sat and watched the players until
the one he had held converse with gave signs of intending departure.

Rising from his seat, Puffey sauntered out of the store, and lounged
about for a while until he saw the other come out, when, accosting him,
he said—

"Look here, mate, I should like to have a word or two with you, if you
can spare a few moments."

"All right, Puffey," replied the fellow; "say on."

"You were speaking of a girl on Ranger’s farm that the chap Fellows was
supposed to be sweet on. Now, as there is one on the same farm that I
have had my eye upon for some time, you’ll understand the interest I may
appear to be taking in this matter. I should like to know the name of
the girl referred to, if you can tell me?"

"Oh! is that how the wind blows?" laughed the other.

"Well, I don’t want you to go blabbing about the matter; we’ve all got
soft moments in our lives."

"Never fear, my boy!  Jack Hart’s not the chap to spoil sport."

"Call it sport if you like, but tell me who is the girl this Fellows is
after?"

"Her name is Jess Russell.  She is the daughter of one of Ranger’s men;
and they do say as fine a looking specimen of the sex as is to be found
in the North-West."

"That’s not the one I was thinking about.  I don’t know her; but beauty
though she maybe, I’ll back my girl to go one better."

"Poor old Puffey!  Hit at last!  I shouldn’t have thought it of you."

"Well, it’s not a case yet; so mind what I’ve said, that ’mum’s’ the
word."

"Right you are!  Nor is it a clear case yet with that Fellows, as it is
said a chap named Barton has been noticed sneaking round after the same
girl."

"Oh," was Puffey’s comment; "then there’s likely to be ructions there
before long, if that’s the case."

"Just as likely as not," was the reply.  "Well, good-night, Puffey.  I
must be going."

"So long, old chap," was his parting salute, as Puffey mounted his horse
and rode away, feeling that he had learned one thing from what he had
heard, and that was the cause which had led up to Barton’s letter.

The next day Puffey, pursuing his quest, ventured to ride boldly up to
Ranger’s homestead and inquire for Fellows by name.  He was told he was
at work in the fields, but on receiving directions where he was to be
found, and how he might know him, he resolved to go in search of
Fellows, first stating, in order to allay any fears as to his motives,
that he was commissioned by his officer personally to thank him for the
part he had taken in the recent raid.

After a rather extended search, he at length came across his man, out on
a distant part of the prairie cutting corn.

Some astonishment was naturally manifested at the sight of a member of
the mounted police inquiring for one of the workers on the farm.

There are certain people who are seldom regarded as welcome visitors.  A
man never hears that a policeman is inquiring for him without a feeling
of uneasiness beginning to steal over him, he could not perhaps tell
why, although all the time perfectly conscious that there was no need to
be at all apprehensive as to his object.

With Fellows it was different, since, although he had no reason to think
that his secret had been discovered, there was his own consciousness of
guilt, ever present, and ready to start into activity at the first
symptoms of coming danger.

Puffey—like the keen observer he was reputed to be—did not fail to note
the start which Fellows gave when he heard his name inquired for.

His sunburnt countenance did not, however, betray his momentary
agitation.  Recovering his self-control, he advanced at once to the
constable, and looking steadily in his face, in a clear voice, unmarked
by the least tremor, exclaimed—

"My name is Fellows.  What do you want with me?"

"You see who I am, Mr. Fellows; not always the most welcome of
visitors?"

"That’s true, sir, no doubt; but I have no reason to regard you as
unwelcome."

"Nor will you," added Puffey, "when you learn the object of my visit."

The men who were working with Fellows had ceased their labours, and were
crowding round to hear what the detective had to say.

"I am commissioned by the Major," said Puffey, "who commanded the force
which recently made that successful raid, ending in the capture of Red
Dick, to return you his thanks for the very valuable aid rendered him on
that occasion, in the promptness with which his orders were carried out,
and for the precision with which the duties you undertook were
discharged.  He fully recognises that the success of that enterprise was
in no small measure due to the alertness and cohesion of your force, as
well as to the able way in which that force was handled by you."

"Many of these men," replied Fellows, "standing round me, were present
on the occasion referred to, and in their name, as well as my own, you
may tell the Major that, whilst warmly thanking him for the flattering
words addressed to us, we were all only too pleased to serve with so
brave a force as the men he brought to lead us."

"That ends my mission with you," said Puffey. "Not a very terrifying
one, you must admit."

Presently he added, as if a new idea had suddenly struck him, "Are you
satisfied with your present occupation?"

"Yes; don’t I look as if I was?" he asked.

"It was only a passing thought, which that moment occurred to me; you
are just the sort of chap we could very well do with in our force. Would
you care to join us?"

"No such idea has ever entered my head, and I don’t feel as if I should
much care for the life."

"Well, I’ve no authority to ask you, but you might think it over."

"No harm in my doing that," he replied.

"How old are you, if it is not a rude question to ask?" said the
constable.

"Just turned twenty-nine."

"English, I judge?"

"Yes."

"Been long in the Colony?"

"Only about seven months."

"Any trade or profession?"

"Was a commercial in the Old Country."

"Married or single?"

"Single."

"Hope to remain so?"

"That depends on circumstances."

"You’ll excuse my being so inquisitive, but I wished to make sure you
were qualified for the post I just now suggested to you; and from all
you tell me, I have no reason to doubt but our people would only be too
pleased to accept you if you choose to apply."

"Thanks; I’ll think about it."

"A question sure to be asked, and therefore one I may as well put: Any
special reason for changing a commercial life for an agricultural one?"

"N—o; except that I was not getting on as well as I should have liked,
and so determined to make an entire change."

Puffey noticed that this last answer was not given quite so promptly as
the replies to his other questions had been, from which fact he was not
slow to draw his own conclusions.

It suited his purpose to induce the belief in Fellows’ mind, that the
mounted police presented a good opening for the employment of his
abilities; but that it was an opinion likely to find support in official
quarters, should application be made for an appointment, was a matter of
no moment to him whatever.

Quitting the track, by which the small towns along the line of the
railway were usually reached, he started to return by a cross-cut over
the open prairie with which he was familiar, in the hope that by so
doing he might possibly come across farm-hands from whom something
further could be learned.

He had not proceeded far, before he saw three men seated beneath the
shade of a sheltering clump of trees bordering a small stream not above
three to four feet deep, and therefore easily fordable.  The spot
selected was a small hollow, thickly covered with that short crisp
variety of grass known as "buffalo grass," on which they were now
resting after partaking of the usual midday meal.

Riding up to where they were seated, he saluted them with—

"Good-day, comrades!  Do you remember me?"

"No fear, Puffey, after once seen."

"You were with us at the capture of Red Dick, I think?"

"Two of us were."

"Ah, I have just been over and seen Fellows, to thank him, and all who
were with him, for the excellent help rendered to the police on that
occasion."

"What will be done with the prisoner?"

"That will be decided at Quebec."

"Have they sent him there?"

"Yes."

"Then he has not much chance left."

"Well, we shall see."

"You say you saw Fellows?" the men inquired.

"Yes; he’s a smart chap, and I have been trying to persuade him to join
our force."

"What next?  Is he inclined to do it?"

"I can’t say yet.  He has promised to think the matter over, which is
all I could expect at first."

"And I hope it will end there; he’s too good a pal to lose."

"Do you know much about him then?  Has he been here long?"

"Not many months, but he is good company, plenty to talk about, and
inclined to be sociable."

"Does he bear a good character?"

"We know nothing about him before he came here, but we have never heard
a word against him since he has been amongst us."

Evidently there was nothing to be gained by pursuing this conversation,
so shortly after he wished them "Good day," and rode off.

On the whole, he felt satisfied with the result of his inquiries.  He
had not added much that was new, but what he had heard tended to confirm
that which was already known.

He would like to have scraped together a little more knowledge of
Barton, but he had been afraid to inquire, there being no good opening
given him to do so.

                             *CHAPTER XXI.*

                           *JESSIE RUSSELL.*

"It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!"
       _Romeo and Juliet_, Act II. sc. ii.

"Now, Jess, buck up, my girl!  I’ve brought a companion home with me
to-night to have a bit of supper and a smoke, so look alive."

"All right, dad!  Don’t make a fuss about such a trifle," was the
response.

"Come along, Fellows; don’t stand outside like that, man alive!  Come
in, and make yourself at home."

The frugal board was soon spread with the customary evening meal, which
Russell and his daughter were in the habit of partaking alone, but which
on the evening in question he had invited Fellows to join them in.

When this was finished, the table cleared, and the pipes lighted, the
woman’s fingers found full employment upon garments which needed
repairing, whilst the men occupied their time in discussing the events
of the day, only occasionally allowing those of the larger outer world
to engage their attention, since those were matters about which they
heard at very irregular intervals.

Fellows had not yet found that convenient opportunity he had given
Ranger to understand he was waiting for, that he might make Jessie the
confidante of his most cherished desires.

And now, with the father present, he did not feel that this was an
opportune moment.

"Puffey was telling me yesterday about the proposal he had made to you
of joining their force.  Do you intend giving that proposal any serious
consideration?"

"Well, I scarcely know," laughingly replied Fellows.

"But you don’t mean to say the prospect it holds out is better than the
one before you here?"

"No, I don’t think it is.  The only charm about it is the excitement it
offers."

"There may be some attraction in that to a single man, with youth and
health in front of him; but the advance is slow and uncertain, and the
life somewhat precarious."

"Surely you are not thinking of leaving us so soon?" chimed in Jessie,
with just a shade of eagerness in her tone.

"I can hardly say that," said Fellows thoughtfully. "But the life here
is so dull and monotonous, I must have a change of some sort.  I want
excitement.  I feel at times as if I should go mad!"

"Isn’t there any of the men you can make companions of, to spend an
occasional evening with?"

"Well, I am afraid not; they don’t seem quite my style."

"What about the Bartons?  I should have thought that one or both of
those would have just been about your mark."

"I don’t dislike the elder of the two men," said Fellows, "but I can’t
say I like the younger one."

"Now you mention him," replied Russell, "he certainly does not impress
one very favourably.  He never has much to say for himself, and seldom
joins in our conversation."

"Women are stupid creatures, you’ll say, and jump to all manner of
ridiculous conclusions," said Jessie; "but for all that I must say I
don’t like him.  There’s something about the man’s look and manner which
makes me feel queer whenever I see him."

Fellows looked up with a smile, as he said, "I don’t think women such
stupid creatures; they have a sort of power, which we men do not appear
to possess, called intuition, which enables them to form conclusions a
great deal more rapidly than the members of the opposite sex; and, what
is more to the point, their rapidly formed conclusions are less
frequently wrong than are the more laboured ones which we indulge
ourselves in delivering, often with a great assumption of authority,
more impressive than the argument or its conclusion."

"Wisely spoken, Sir Oracle!" exclaimed Russell, as he clapped his hands
together by way of indicating his approval; whilst Jessie’s eyes
sparkled as she listened to his defence of her sex.

"But we are getting off the track," remarked Fellows.  "We were talking
about what I was likely to be doing; and on that point, I will frankly
confess, I have not yet made up my mind."

"Then don’t be in any hurry to do that which may involve a life-long
repentance," said Russell.

"Changing the subject," remarked Fellows, "what’s your opinion of
Barton’s project?"

"What? as to going to the Yukon?"

"Yes."

"Why, I think if they are wise they’ll stay where they are."

"But it appears to be a wonderful country; and has the greatest seal and
salmon fisheries, with cod-banks that beat those of Newfoundland."

"That may be all very true," responded Russell, "if fishing be the
object in view; but a man has got to stand the climate."

"No doubt that’s a difficulty."

"I should rather think so, if what I read is true, that the ground in
certain parts is frozen to a depth of two hundred feet."

"The search for gold must be hard work under such conditions."

"The rapid changes, too, must be awfully trying," added Russell.  "Some
days it is so warm that one may fairly roast, whilst the next day you
would be looking for your overcoat."

"All which goes to show that only the sound and healthy should risk the
dangers which undoubtedly will have to be faced."

"Men born in southern latitudes are said to have become insane through
the long darkness which prevails."

"Well," said Fellows, "although it is true that hundreds have been
driven back, unable to endure the hardships of the place, whilst as many
more have been starved or frozen to death, yet I should not at all mind
risking my chance if I saw any way of getting there."

"Of course, how to get out is the difficulty; the expenses are so great
that a little fortune is needed to begin with."

"Provided the necessary capital can be found, next to good health, what
is most needed is a good equipment.  The mounted police who have been
sent there are all right, because they have been well provided by the
Government with food and clothing.  Women and children stand the
climate; and all reliable testimony is to the effect that the climatic
drawbacks are trivial to those who are well equipped."

"It appears to me," said Russell, "that for the inexperienced, and those
who know little or nothing of roughing it, to venture into such a region
as the Yukon is known to be at its best is the extreme of folly.  Under
the most favourable conditions it offers so many hardships, that those
who have not what the Yanks call ’grit,’ and endurance, should keep out
of it."

"I quite agree with all you say," replied Fellows. "Yet I think," he
added, "that much of the mischief and hardships we hear about have been
due to the mode of travelling and the routes taken."

"Which, then, do you regard as the better way to go?"

"Certainly not through the passes over the mountains, in which so many
hundreds are said to have met their deaths."

"How then would you propose getting there?"

"By what is now known as the ’All-Water-Route,’ up the Yukon River to
Dawson City."

"But isn’t that a long and tedious way, which, if commenced when
navigation opens, is completed so near the end of the season that you
have practically no time left for operations that year?"

"I think that was so," said Fellows, "when the rush first began, but the
conditions have now been rendered far more favourable."

"Is that so?" asked Russell.

"The agents say that through the passes it takes from forty to seventy
days to get from San Francisco to Dawson City; but by the
’All-Water-Route,’ although you have to start later from the same port,
the time taken need never exceed about four weeks; so that with more
comfort and convenience, at the cost of less time, you really reach
Dawson City sooner than by means of what may be termed the overland
route."

"Well, when I’ve got a couple of hundred pounds to spare I may think
more seriously about the desirability of running the risk, but at
present I have not the means, and therefore, however great the
facilities, it’s no use my thinking much about it."

"That would be my difficulty likewise," said Fellows; "and it is one,
too, which it will take the Bartons some time to overcome, I’m
thinking."

"My opinion," said Jessie, "is, that if the majority of men who are
never satisfied with what they have, but who are ever ready to run after
the latest craze, would develop the same amount of energy in trying to
improve their position amid existing circumstances as they do when they
find themselves in the midst of fresh scenes, with new surroundings,
there would be less dissatisfaction and more success in life at home
than is usually considered possible."

"Quite true, Miss Russell," replied Fellows; "and I suppose it must be
put down as a man’s weakness."

"Still, if a weakness, not one that is, or should be regarded as, wholly
incurable."

"Yet ’What will Mrs. Grundy say?’ is an influence quite as strong in
operating upon men as upon women."

"What a misfortune!  It seems a sad admission to have to make."

"It is, however, unfortunately too true, since the opinions which others
form of us enter very largely into the rule of conduct regulating our
daily life.  It is seldom until old age begins to overtake us, that men
assume that independence of the world’s frowns and sneers which alone
enables them to act and speak upon sound principles, regardless of
consequences."

The time had passed so pleasantly and rapidly that they were not a
little surprised to find it was long past the usual hour for retiring.

After a hasty "Good-night," Fellows went home, well pleased with what he
had seen and heard, and more than ever determined to make an
opportunity, at no distant date, for a confidential talk with Jessie
Russell.

                            *CHAPTER XXII.*

                     *"DEAD, BUT IS ALIVE AGAIN."*

"Alive again? then show me where he is."
                   _Henry VI._, Part II. Act III. sc. iii.

Mrs. Sinclair had been slowly, yet gradually, recovering from the long
illness which had followed upon the news of her son’s death, and the
terrible revelations with respect to his conduct preceding.

The habits of her small household had of late been considerably
disarranged, so that since her illness she had become accustomed to
having her morning meal served in her bedroom.  As the season advanced,
her indisposition to struggle against the growing love for this
indulgence became more marked, until it had almost become a recognised
habit which it would have been difficult to overcome.

Autumn tints had already begun to tinge with their brilliant hues the
lovely summer foliage, which the rough winds were rapidly stripping from
twigs and branches, exposing them to all the effects of dews and damps,
the chills and frosts of northern skies.

It was a chill October morning, and the sun had not yet attained
sufficient power to dispel the mist which hung over the face of nature,
as the result of the heavy dew which had fallen.

Jennie, after visiting her mother as usual, had descended to see that
her breakfast was sent upstairs at the accustomed hour.  A letter
addressed to her mother was lying on the table in the hall, which she
was surprised to find bore the Canadian postmark. The handwriting did
not suggest the writer, so, curbing her curiosity, and carrying it with
her, she placed it upon the tray which the maid was already waiting to
take up to Mrs. Sinclair’s room.

Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed when her mother’s bell was rung so
violently that Jennie determined to answer it herself.

On entering her bedroom she saw that her mother had fainted.

The breakfast had not been touched, but tightly grasped in her clenched
hands was an open letter—the one which had that morning been received.

By the application of a few simple restoratives, with which her daughter
seemed perfectly familiar, consciousness soon began to return.

As she opened her eyes, what was Jennie’s astonishment to hear her
exclaim, "My boy! my boy!  Where is Ralph?"

The letter which had been held so tenaciously now lay upon the bed, as
it had fallen from her nerveless hand.  Picking it hastily up, the
daughter looked to see who it was from, and with a surprise which was
almost overwhelming, saw the well-known signature of her brother Ralph
at the end.

A flood of tears relieved the elder woman, in the midst of which she
exclaimed, "Read it, Jennie!—The letter!"

In a state of excitement almost beyond description she proceeded to do
so.  It was a long letter, and took her some time to get through.  It
was indeed from her brother—the brother they had long mourned as dead,
but who, it appeared, was alive and well in a distant land.

Acting upon the advice which Ranger had given him, he had written a full
confession of his conduct, omitting nothing, and not attempting to
excuse himself in the least degree, nor to say anything which would tend
to palliate the acts of which he had been guilty.  He did not fail to
express how keen and bitter was the regret he felt at the sorrow he had
caused the fond mother whose love for her boy he was deeply sensible of,
and could never by any possibility hope to repay.  He was unwilling to
return home and take the consequence of his acts, not so much because he
dreaded the punishment, as that he was fearful of the additional
suffering it would entail upon those he still so much loved.  He
therefore concluded by requesting his mother to see his late employers,
let them see all he had written, but to conceal from them the place
where he was living.

By the time Jennie had finished reading the contents of the letter, both
women had obtained sufficient control over their emotions as to be able
to hold converse together.

"My poor deluded boy!" was one of the many exclamations of a similar
character with which the mother continually sought to relieve her
overburdened mind.

"Poor boy! what he must have suffered!  Now mind, Jennie! not a word of
this to anyone, but ascertain at once the time of the trains to
Broadstone, that I may arrange the most convenient one to travel by; and
I must get you to go with me."

"But I think, mother, it would be better to wait a day or two until you
have got over the shock the letter has given you, or you will not be in
a fit condition to see the people at Broadstone."

"Well, see how the trains serve first, and after I am up I shall be
better able to talk about when we may start."

Having rung for the maid, and instructed her to send for a time-table,
she proceeded to assist her mother to dress.

The next morning, soon after seven o’clock, Mrs. Sinclair and her
daughter started by an early train, due at Broadstone—a station on the
main line—shortly before eight o’clock in the evening, which was duly
reached, after a fatiguing journey, only some half-hour late.

A telegram, despatched at starting, had secured them apartments at the
railway hotel; to these, on their arrival, they at once retired, and,
after partaking of an early supper, sought that rest they each so much
stood in need of.

The wind, which had been blowing in fitful gusts throughout the journey,
grew in intensity as the day wore to its close, and as the night
advanced it increased to the force of a hurricane.  The poorer class of
inhabitants trembled for the security of their little dwellings, not
usually constructed in the most substantial manner.  And as it swept
round corners, or drove through old chimney-stacks, dislodging insecure
pots on its way, the whistle became a roar as it rushed down the
chimneys, or beat with fury against window-panes, which every now and
then seemed on the point of yielding to the vehemence of the gale; many
were the would-be sleepers whose nerves were kept on the rack, unable to
rest amid the strife of elements which prevailed.

As the morning dawned the wind dropped, and rain fell in torrents.

The two ladies, in their strange apartments, with such a raging storm
outside, passed a very restless and almost sleepless night, so that they
felt but little refreshed when the time for rising arrived.

Breakfast over, and as the rain continued to descend in torrents without
any apparent indications of its early cessation, although the distance
to be traversed was trivial, they ordered a cab to be at the door by
eleven o’clock, in which they duly made their appearance at the offices
of the factory in Broadstone.

Finding the partners were to be seen, they sent up their cards, and,
instructing the cabman to wait, were ushered into the private office of
the firm, where the two gentlemen were seated.

After greeting them with that warmth and friendliness which is a marked
feature in the character of the natives of the Midlands, and which also,
from the long-standing friendship existing, might naturally have been
anticipated, they sought to know the nature of the special business to
which they felt so unexpected a visit was due.

Speaking with much emotion, and not without a strong effort to control
her feelings, Mrs. Sinclair, whose pallid features bore vivid traces of
unmistakable suffering, said—

"I yesterday received a letter which, when I show you, will, I expect,
be as much a surprise to you as it was to myself and daughter."

Pausing for a few moments, as she searched in her pocket for the letter
referred to, she added, as soon as the important document was brought to
light, "If you will kindly read this, it will fully explain the object
of my visit much better than I should be able to do."

Taking the letter which was offered them, they sought and obtained
permission to retire into an inner room, where it might be perused
without fear of interruption.

On their return, after the lapse of some ten minutes, the younger of the
two men remarked;—

"No doubt, Mrs. Sinclair, you were greatly surprised at the news which
this letter brought?"

"So much so, sir, that I fainted; and it was some time before I was
fully able to recover myself."

"I can well believe it.  But you will, no doubt, be still more
astonished when I tell you that we are already in full possession of all
which that letter reveals, and a little more."

[Illustration: "WE ARE ALREADY IN FULL POSSESSION OF ALL WHICH THAT
LETTER REVEALS."]

"You certainly do surprise me, sir, since I cannot see how you could
have obtained the information, which my son alone was in possession of,
since he begs in that letter that it may be communicated privately and
confidentially to you."

"As a proof, we can tell you his address when he wrote was at Ranger’s
Ranch, M’Lean Station, Assiniboia, North-West Canada."

"You will have noticed the address at the top of his letter has been cut
away; this I did at his request, that you might not at present be
informed as to where he is to be found."

"Yes; and we could not help smiling as we observed what had been done."

"But," said Mrs. Sinclair, much agitated, "may I ask how you obtained
your information?"

"Certainly," replied Mr. Quinion.  "It is now six or seven weeks ago
since we received a letter from a person in Canada, who, although giving
us his name, has requested that it may not be made known, conveying just
such information as the letter you now bring contains."

"Then it would be useless to ask you for the name of your informant?"
said Mrs. Sinclair.

"Well, without the writer’s permission it would scarcely be honourable
on our part to do so."

"Does he state how he came by the knowledge of what he writes you?"
inquired the mother.

"Yes; he states that it was a confession he overheard your son make, but
to whom, or under what circumstances, is not mentioned."

"Does he give any reason for writing to you as he has done?"

"All he says on that point is, that he thought it right to do so, in
case we should like to know."

"It cannot be regarded as a friendly act," Mrs. Sinclair, after some
hesitation, found herself able to say.

"No; that is how we regarded it," said Mr. Quinion quietly.

"May I ask," inquired the mother, with some anxiety, "if you have taken
any action in the matter?"

"Well, this is what we have done: through our solicitors here, we
instructed agents in Canada to inquire fully into the truth of all the
letter contains; to ascertain, beyond a doubt, whether the person
referred to is the one in whom we have any interest; the character of
the person who has written to us, and the motives which would probably
cause him to act as he has done.  We are expecting by every mail to
receive this agent’s report, as by it we propose being guided in the
course we ought to adopt."

"Oh, my dear friends!  I do hope," said Mrs. Sinclair in anguished
tones, "you will not think of having my poor boy prosecuted?"

"That is a matter, Mrs. Sinclair, on which we have arrived at no
decision at present," was Mr. Quinion’s reply.

"Oh, but is it not possible to let matters remain as they are, without
reference to the report you speak of?"

"We do not say that we shall take any action upon it; at the same time,
as men of business, as well as in consideration of what is due to
society, we shall wait at least this report we are expecting."

"But can’t you, gentlemen, for the sake of the long and honourable
career of his father, as well as for my sake, and that of my daughter,
give up all idea of having him arrested?  It would be the death of me, I
know; and I feel sure you have no wish to see that take place."

"In that you only do us justice, Mrs. Sinclair; and if it be at all
possible, you may rely upon our sparing your feelings, as we have no
vindictive aims to gratify."

"If it is the amount my misguided boy has robbed you of which is the
difficulty, and its payment will prevent the prospect of harm coming to
him, I will willingly realise everything I possess, even if it beggars
me, in order that my son may be saved!"

"Don’t for a moment think of it, my dear madam; for under no
circumstances should we accept the payment you speak of, as that would
be to compound a felony.  We either prosecute or pardon."

"Oh, let me, let me prevail upon you to decide now, at once!" reiterated
Mrs. Sinclair.

"Pray do not say anything more, Mrs. Sinclair, but leave the matter
where it is; and trust us, that in whatever we decide we shall endeavour
to do that which is right and best for all parties."

It being clear that nothing further was to be gained at present, the
ladies rose and took their leave, after receiving an assurance that on
the arrival of the report for which they were waiting, they would,
without loss of time, let them know their decision.

Returning to their hotel, they ordered luncheon, and announced their
intention of departing by the afternoon train, which would enable them
to arrive home by breakfast-time the next morning.

On reaching home, the mother’s first concern was to ascertain the date
of the next Canadian mail out, which she learned was two days hence.

Her next act was to write a very long and loving letter to her boy,
giving a full account of her visit to Broadstone and its result.  And
whilst it was full of sorrow and regret for the past, there was not a
word of upbraiding, but expressions of gratitude and joy for the welcome
news which had practically given back to her a son previously mourned as
dead.

In addition to stating the surprise she experienced on learning that his
late employers were in full possession of the information she had come
to impart, she could not refrain from adding, that as there was still
doubt as to what their intentions might be, on receiving the report for
which they were waiting, she must urge him to think very seriously of
the desirability of getting clear away from his present station before
it might be too late to do so.

                            *CHAPTER XXIII.*

                         *THE STORY EVER NEW.*

"Let her speak of me before her father."—_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.

"Good afternoon, Miss Russell," was the greeting which Jessie received
one Sunday afternoon, as, on rounding a bend of the hill, on the other
side of which was Ranger’s homestead, she was suddenly brought face to
face with Fellows, who was rapidly advancing along the track which led
to her father’s log dwelling.

The air was laden with the refreshing, invigorating scent of the pines
from the wood towards which she was wending, but the rapidly falling
leaves, and the changing hues of autumn, were everywhere giving
indications that summer was nearly over, and that Mother Nature would
soon be arrayed in more sober attire, befitting the wintry season of
chill and gloom.

Jessie was accustomed to ramble on a Sunday afternoon, when the midday
meal had been despatched, whilst her father indulged himself with his
pipe, or sat and dozed in a chair at the door of his little shanty,
which overlooked the small patch of garden in front.

"I was on my way to call upon you," added Fellows, "so that I am very
glad to have met you."

"Father is all alone at home," said Jessie, as the colour mounted to her
cheeks.

"If my company is not likely to prove irksome," he added, "I should much
prefer a walk with you."

"Rather an unusual request," added Jess, "but I suppose I ought not to
object."

After proceeding in silence for some moments, Fellows said, "I have been
wanting to have a quiet talk with you, Miss Russell, for some time, and
now the opportunity presents itself I scarcely know how to begin."

Jessie, whose face had suddenly become the colour of scarlet, could find
no words with which to help him; therefore, after a brief pause, he
proceeded to tell her of the feelings he entertained towards her, and
the hope he cherished that she might be disposed to give his suit a
little favourable consideration.

Whatever writers of romance may say to the contrary, out of an extreme
desire to invest their heroines with qualities and attributes which, as
a rule, ordinary mortals do not possess, it is seldom that a declaration
such as Jessie heard this afternoon can be truthfully said to be
altogether unexpected.  Words may never pass to convey the intelligence,
nevertheless there is a subtle magnetism in the language of the eye
which telegraphs to the loved one, more vividly and more surely than
words could express, the feelings with which each regards the other.  So
that generally, long before the declaration is made which is supposed to
reveal the feelings with which the man regards the woman, she has
discovered it all, and been waiting, expecting the inevitable to happen.

Except during his long illness, when Jessie had carefully and faithfully
nursed him back to convalescence,—an illness, be it remembered, which
had been brought about by his self-denying efforts on her behalf, in
rescuing her from a position of considerable danger,—she had had but few
opportunities of seeing him, or being thrown into his society.  Few and
brief, however, as many of those interviews had proved, they had not
been without leaving their effects behind.  The eyes as they had looked
into each other’s faces, or caught stolen glances which were thought to
be unobserved, had given rise to thoughts and feelings too subtle for
words to express, and too sacred even for themselves to admit, during
that process of introspection which from time to time went on.

Jessie, therefore, whilst perfectly conscious in her own heart that the
young fellow now by her side was entertaining feelings for her which
might eventually find expression in words, was quite unprepared for the
meeting this afternoon, and for what was in truth the sudden declaration
of his affection for her.

Jessie, it may be added, was a woman possessing a fair amount of
common-sense, yet of an ardent and enthusiastic temperament,—capable of
loving intensely an object worthy of her affections.

The period which had elapsed since attaining womanhood had been so
brief, that she was not yet quit of many of the high ideals and romantic
notions with which lovers are wont to invest the heroes or heroines they
are in search of; but her rough prairie-training, added to the
common-sense shrewdness of her character, had enabled her to see that
marriage ought not to be regarded as such a thing of chance as to be
left dependent upon the fancied love, growing out of the attractions of
a pretty form or a lovely face, calculated as they are to bewitch and
bewilder the first enamoured noodle that casts his glances upon them.

It was, therefore, in tones of some hesitation that she expressed the
opinion that they had scarcely known each other long enough, or seen
sufficient of one another, to be able to judge as to their suitability
for such an important arrangement.

"I was fully prepared for something like that, Jessie—if I may call you
that?" said Fellows.

"Well then, don’t you think it would be better for me to defer any
answer at present?" she naïvely asked.

"I don’t think so, my dear—and yet——"  After some hesitation he added,
"How can I venture to tell you all that is on my mind? and yet I feel it
would not be fair on my part to win, perhaps, your consent to my suit,
without first placing you in full possession of the facts in my past
life, which may seriously affect your decision."

"But if the opinion I have been led to form of you be a correct one, it
cannot be anything of which you need be ashamed or afraid to tell me."

"Ah, Jessie!" he exclaimed in mournful tones, "I am afraid you have
estimated me too highly."

"Tell me, then," she added somewhat eagerly, her moistening eyes
betraying only too plainly the anxiety she felt, yet was loath to
reveal.

Thus encouraged, Fellows at once confided to her the story of his past
life, which was much to the same effect as had been narrated to Ranger,
and overheard by Barton, from the place where he lay concealed.

In addition to what he had revealed to Ranger, he was now able to add,
that, acting upon the advice then given, he had since written home to
inform his mother that he was still alive, and how he had instructed her
to act.

It would be difficult to describe the feeling paramount in Jessie’s
breast, on hearing the singular and startling confession which Fellows
had made.

She felt quite unequal to the task of analysing the causes which gave
rise to the emotions agitating her. They were of too conflicting a
character to warrant a prompt decision on the important question which
had been urged upon her.

Like the true woman that she was, there was a thrill of ecstatic
pleasure running through every nerve when she fully realised that she
was the possessor of a man’s true love, and that man one upon whom she
had been only too disposed to allow her affections to gather strength
and to centre.

Her first impulse inclined her to utter a responsive "Yes" to the
impassioned appeal which was addressed to her.  The revulsion, however,
which followed the second revelation, was one more of sorrow and regret,
which left her in a state of mind she was not able to explain to her own
satisfaction, nor one which qualified her to give an answer to Fellows.

"Well, Jessie," said Fellows, after waiting some time, "what
interpretation am I to put upon your silence?"

"Oh, Mr. Fellows, I wish you would not press me now for a reply!"

"If that is your wish, it shall be my law, and I will wait," he replied.

"You may suppose, from my hesitation, that the avowal you have made is
not one of which I entirely disapprove.  It is a manly confession, to
which any free woman is always proud to listen, even when it may not
meet with acceptance.  But what you have added is of such a nature, and
of so much importance, that I feel it would be only right, before coming
to any decision, to hear what father has to say about it, and what he
would advise me to do."

"Perhaps you are right, my lass; in fact, I know you are.  Therefore by
all means consult your father and be guided by him.  But don’t forget me
at the same time, and that on your answer will depend my future as well
as my stay here."

With a very warm and sympathetic hand-clasp, which the lovers (if they
may be so termed) felt it would at present be unwise to exceed, they
separated, after arranging to meet on the next Sunday, under similar
circumstances, should nothing transpire to put a stop to such an
arrangement.

It was with mixed feelings of elation and anxiety that Fellows returned
to the Ranch.

There was much satisfaction at the thought that he was, without doubt,
the possessor of the love of a true woman, for notwithstanding the
cautious nature of her reply, it was sufficiently obvious the regard she
entertained for him.  At the same time there was cause for anxiety to a
man in his position as to the advice her father might offer, and which
he felt, whatever it might be, she would be strongly disposed to act
upon.

But a week must elapse before he could be put in possession of her
decision.  No doubt an embarrassing, but not a novel one, and therefore
one which he must be prepared to endure.

                            *CHAPTER XXIV.*

                           *"TWICE BLESSED."*

         "A maiden never bold;
Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion
Blush’d at herself."—_Othello_, Act I. sc. iii.

Four days after his interview and confession to Jessie, Fellows received
the letter his mother had written on her return from Broadstone,
acquainting him with all the circumstances attending that interview, and
of her surprise at learning that they were already in possession of all
the facts connected with his escape, as well as the knowledge of where
he was at present to be found.

Who could have been the writer of the letter sent to the firm he was
entirely at a loss to conjecture. The facts of his life had been
revealed to no one but Ranger until Sunday last, when he had taken
Jessie into his confidence.

He could not bring himself to believe in the possibility of Ranger
having betrayed the trust he had been led to repose in him.  He would
see Ranger at once and hear what light he could throw upon what seemed
so mysterious.

On acquainting him with the intelligence received from home, he
expressed astonishment in no measured language, for he did not fail to
perceive the suspicion which would naturally arise in Fellows’ mind,
that, in some way or other, it was due to him the information had leaked
out, so as to enable it to be conveyed to Broadstone.

It was hardly necessary for him to assure Fellows that no word had been
breathed to a soul of what had been told him.  The man honestly believed
him. There was, however, still the fact to be explained—how had it
become known?

The only possible solution seemed to be that someone must have overheard
their conversation, but who that someone could be they were unable to
form any conception.

Another circumstance stated in Mrs. Sinclair’s letter, calculated to
give rise to uneasiness, was that an agent in Quebec had been instructed
to make inquiry concerning the facts which the writer of the letter had
professed to reveal.  Through what channels was that inquiry likely to
be made?  Someone would probably be deputed to do this on the spot.

It at once occurred to Fellows that "Puffey’s" recent visit was
associated with that quest.

It explained, too, the man’s apparent anxiety that he should become a
candidate for admission to the ranks of the police, as without some such
plausible excuse he could not have questioned him in the way he did.

On that assumption, his past career was already known to the police.
And whatever the decision of the firm might ultimately be, he would in
all probability be shadowed by them until it was made known.

They would not yet be able to prevent him leaving the country, if he was
so disposed; but his progress from place to place would no doubt be
noted, so that, in the event of being eventually wanted, they would know
where they could place their hands upon him.  How to act, or what to do
under the circumstances, he felt at some loss to decide.

Sunday was again close at hand, when he had arranged to meet Jessie, in
order to learn her decision, which was to determine his future.

He would await that interview, and at the same time acquaint her with
this new factor, so suddenly and unexpectedly imported into his life.

Meanwhile, how had it fared with Charles Barton since the day he had
written and posted the letter which had set in motion the causes that
had given rise to all this uneasy feeling?

He could not account for having received no reply to the letter he had
sent.  That it would have been acknowledged was the least he expected.
That this had not been done was at once a surprise, and a cause of
anxiety as to what it might ultimately lead to, which laid a
considerable tax upon his nervous powers, never remarkable for their
strength.

In his associations with the men on the farm, his disposition and
manners had always presented a marked contrast to those which his elder
brother displayed.  Whilst James was genial, candid, open, and free,
ready at conversation, and willing to join the rest of the men in any
little arrangement for the general good, or an evening’s amusement,
Charles was gloomy, taciturn, and close.  He held himself aloof from the
rest, as though he thought himself a superior, and was never known to
take part in any amusement such as was occasionally indulged in. And it
had not failed to be noted, and commented upon, that of late these
habits had become even more marked than they were at the first.

His brother would frequently rally him, when they were alone together,
as to the cause of his misanthropical behaviour, without effect; nor,
however lively he might be himself, nor whatever humour he was able to
impart to the topics of conversation introduced, it was rare that he
succeeded in creating anything beyond the ghost of a smile, or drawing
out more than some monosyllabic reply.

James, with that easy, good-natured disposition which was characteristic
of the man, attributed much of this to his habits as a boy, which
manhood had only served to develop; to the death of their father, the
break-up of the home, and the disappointment which, up to the present,
had attended all the glowing visions they had formed of the fortune to
be won in the Land of Gold.

Charles had kept as observant an eye as it was possible to do, without
exciting unnecessary attention, on the movements of Jessie Russell, but
had been unable to discover anything to cause him further uneasiness
with regard to the apparent progress of Fellows’ suit.

He had been hoping, too, that the result of his letter to England might
be to cause the removal of his rival altogether from the present scene
of his influence; and this had induced him to refrain from seeking that
interview with Jessie which he was so anxious to bring about, until, as
he regarded it, the coast was clear for the unimpeded prosecution of his
designs.

In the event of that reply being much longer delayed, and no action
apparent, he felt that it would not be wise to delay his intended
interview indefinitely.

Happening one evening to be in the neighbourhood of her dwelling, he
decided to extend his ramble, on the chance that he might meet with her.
She was seated on a bench at the door, busily plying her needle, mending
a jacket belonging to her father. "Good evening, Miss Russell," he
exclaimed a little nervously, as he advanced with some trepidation to
where she was seated.  "Is your father at home?"

"He has not returned from the field yet," she replied.  "Do you want to
see him?"

"No—that is—not particularly," he replied, with a confused look.  Then
suddenly, as if recollecting himself, he added, "I have been thinking,
my dear Miss Russell, how much happier I should be with a good wife to
look after me, and care for all my wants; and I have seen no woman I
should so much like to make my wife as—you!  And what I want to ask is,
whether you are willing to accept me for a husband? I am a plain man,
with very little polish on me, and know very little of the arts by which
a girl’s love is usually won; but if you will consent to be my wife, I
think I can promise to make you a good husband, and I don’t think you
will ever have any cause to regret it."

Rough and ill-considered as such a proposal may seem to have been, when
presented in so plain and unadorned a manner, it was given utterance to
in a speech longer than ever he had been known to indulge in, and there
was an apparent ring of honesty and truthfulness about it which,
notwithstanding all its deficiencies, struck Jessie as being real.
Therefore, although her feeling for the man was one of repulsion, which
somehow she was unable to overcome, she repressed the strong impulse
which at first manifested itself, to laugh at him, and ridicule the
idea, by quietly, but firmly, replying that under no circumstances could
she be induced to entertain the idea for a moment.

"May I ask why?" stammered out Charles.

"Well," she replied, "I have no present desire to get married."

"Don’t you like me well enough?" he asked.

"Not well enough to marry you," was her prompt and candid reply.

"Perhaps you like someone better?" he added.

"And if I did, would there be anything very surprising in that?" she
replied.

"No," he managed to get out after a pause; adding, "especially if it is
the one I imagine it is."

"I don’t see what right you have to imagine anything at all about it,"
was Jessie’s spirited reply.

"The right is that which belongs to every man or woman to warn another
of a danger."

"I don’t understand you, sir."

"If you are thinking of the man I suppose you are——"

"Sir!" she exclaimed with some vehemence, interrupting him, "your
language is insulting, and if my father were here you would not dare
address me in the manner you are doing."

"At the risk of what you may think of it, I will still say," he went on,
"that the man I refer to is a worthless, dishonest scoundrel, not fit to
be the companion of any honest woman."

"I know nothing about the person, nor who it is you are referring to,
nor do I wish to know; but this you may as well know, that I am quite
capable of defending my own honour as to the company I may be disposed
to keep, and any defence I may require beyond that my father is able and
ready to afford me.  Good evening, sir!" saying which, she rose, entered
the house, and, closing the door, left Barton much chagrined at the
reception he had received, and the complete failure of his fondly
cherished scheme.

As soon as dinner was over at the homestead, Sunday saw Fellows eagerly
wending his way to the place at which he had appointed to meet Jessie a
week ago.

It was late in September,—harvesting was over generally through the
entire length of the great North-West,—but the glory of the summer had
not yet departed.  The air was dry and invigorating, and not without its
effect upon Fellows, which, coupled with the object he had in view,
imparted a buoyancy to his spirits he had for days past been a stranger
to, and gave an elasticity to his step which enabled him to accomplish
his short journey in a much briefer space of time than he had reckoned
upon.

He was first at the trysting-place, but he had not been long in waiting
when he saw Jessie coming down the trail, a picture of sunny beauty,
which the eye of the beholder could rest upon without any feeling of
weariness.

Advancing at once to meet her, and noting with satisfaction the
good-tempered and winsome smile pervading her rosy cheeks, he augured a
favourable response to his suit.

Unable to restrain his impatience, he seized both her hands, exclaiming,
"Dearest Jessie! am I right in concluding from your manner towards me,
that you do not bring an unfavourable reply?"

"You are presuming, I think, sir," she answered, half averting her head,
and shaking her shoulders as she did so.

"Don’t say that, dear," he replied.

"What would you have me say then?" she retorted, with an arch twinkle in
her eye.

"Say?" he exclaimed eagerly; "why, say that you will be mine, and make
me the happiest man existing!"

"Heigh-ho! well, if wilful man must have his own way, I suppose I had
better repeat my lesson according to your dictation."

"Oh, you dear, delightful treasure of a woman!" he murmured, as he
folded her unresisting form in his strong arms, and kissed her
passionately.

After a few moments spent in silent contemplation—moments too sacred for
words—Fellows said, "And you do this, Jessie, knowing full well all I am
and have been?"

"Yes, Ralph," she replied, looking him fully in the face, with an
expression of calm trustfulness and confidence beaming in her large grey
eyes.

"Did you tell your father—all?" he asked.

"That you may rest assured I did," was her reply.

"What did he say when he heard of my disgraceful conduct?"

"Naturally he was very sorry to hear it; at the same time he said he
thought that a man’s past ought not to be regarded as a perpetual
barrier to his future upward progress."

"Your father is a kind-hearted man, and I esteem him for his charitable
views."

"That’s what poor dear mother used to say," she replied.

"Then he had no objection to urge against me?"

"None!" she added; "he gave me his full consent to do whatever my own
heart dictated as right."

"God bless you, Jessie!  The aim of my life shall be that you may never
have a moment’s pang of regret for the choice you have this day made."

"Had I feared that, I would never have given you the answer I have," was
her confident reply.

Much of the conversation which followed was of that tender and
confidential nature, so manifestly not intended for the too inquisitive
public ear, that we refrain from repeating it, leaving it to the
imagination of the more experienced to supply many of the missing links.

Before separating, he told her of the letter received from home, which
had given him so great a surprise, and how much he was at a loss to
conceive who could have been the spy and informer.

"Oh!" exclaimed Jessie, as she gave a start.

"What is the matter, dear?" exclaimed Fellows.

"Only a thought that flashed across my mind at what you were saying."

"Tell me, dearest, what it is?"

"It is a matter of such trivial importance, and one which I regarded as
so personal to myself, that I should not have said anything about it but
for the fact you have just mentioned."

"You need not hesitate, Jessie, to tell me anything, as whatever
concerns you will not be regarded as trivial by me."

"Well then," she replied, with downcast eyes, "I had a visit this week
from Mr. Barton; and I suppose you’ll never guess the object of that
visit?"

"Which one?" he inquired.

"Charles," she replied.

"Then I’ll not try guessing, dear, since it is so difficult, but leave
you to tell me."

"Well then, without repeating all he said, as no doubt I should fail to
do him justice, he told me very bluntly that he wanted a wife, and asked
me to consent to have him for a husband.  Of course, as you may well
imagine, I declined that honour.  He did not take my reply kindly, at
which I was not altogether surprised, as I suppose no man, if he is in
earnest (and I have no reason to doubt but that he was), would be likely
to do.  But after questioning and cross-examining me as to who I was
preferring before him, he concluded that he thought he knew who the
person was.  It was then he said——"

Jessie paused, evidently reluctant to proceed.

"What did he say?" inquired Fellows eagerly.

"I don’t feel as if I can tell you," she replied.

"Don’t hesitate, dear," he said encouragingly.

"He never mentioned your name, but I felt all the time he was referring
to you."

"Never mind, darling, you have gone too far now not to tell me all."

"Well, he said the man he referred to was a worthless, dishonest
scoundrel, not fit to be the companion of any honest woman."

"And you had sufficient confidence in me not to be influenced by that
statement?"

"Can you doubt it," she replied, "after what has passed to-day?"

"Not for one moment, dearest," he hastened to reply.

"You will easily see my reason for not intending to tell you this."

"I do, Jessie; and honour you, my love, all the more for your
consideration."

"But the thought that flashed into my mind, when you told me of how your
secret had somehow got known, was, could Barton in any way have become
the possessor of that information, and in a fit of jealousy written the
letter to England?"

"Such a thing may have been possible, but I scarcely like to regard it
as probable," was Fellows’ candid rejoinder.

Presently he added, "But say nothing about this to anyone, Jessie, at
present, as it is a circumstance which will bear thinking about, and I
will turn it over in my mind and see what is to be made out of it."

And with this understanding they parted.

                             *CHAPTER XXV.*

                       *THE BROADSTONE DECISION.*

"Let’s make the best of it."—_Coriolanus_, Act V. sc. v.

Nearly two months had elapsed since the date when the agents in Quebec
were instructed to make certain inquiries on behalf of Messrs. Quinion
of Broadstone, when one morning, according to appointment, their
solicitors called and were shown into the private offices of the firm.

The solicitors were present, in the person of a dapper little
bald-headed man of about fifty, wearing coloured glasses which concealed
a pair of restless grey eyes, that allowed nothing to escape their
observation.

Laying his hat upon a chair, he took from a small valise he was carrying
a bulky-looking document tied with the inevitable piece of red tape,
which he declared was the report of their agent, come to hand the day
preceding.  After carefully untying and spreading the folio sheets in
front of him, he, at the bidding of the two partners, who were seated at
the table facing him, commenced to read their contents.

Divested of the legal phraseology in which they were cast, and omitting
the redundancy of expression so dear to the man of law, yet so
bewildering to the average man of common-sense, the purport of what he
read was to the effect—

That the inquiry having been intrusted to the local police, they had
placed the matter in the hands of one of the most trusted and skilful
members of the force, who, from inquiries made on the spot, and
information received through a variety of sources, was now fully able to
confirm the statements made in the letter received from their
correspondent.

The motive prompting that letter, so far as the agent had been able to
learn, was one of jealousy, the two men, Barton, and Fellows otherwise
Sinclair, appearing to be rivals for the possession of a certain young
woman employed on the same farm.  And it was conjectured that Barton
hoped, through the law being set in motion, to accomplish the arrest of
Fellows, so that by his removal from Canada and the scene of his present
influence the other might be left in unimpeded possession of the ground,
to be able to press his suit with the greater probability of success.

"That, gentlemen, is our report; and it shows, I think," said the
lawyer, "that we have done our best to get all the information for you
that was possible."

"Quite so," nervously responded the elder of the two men, who never
spoke without conveying the impression that, whilst desirous of making
his presence felt, he was terribly apprehensive lest he should say
anything which might be construed in a sense other than was intended.

"But," added Mr. E. Quinion in a rough, hard, and curt tone, "beyond
generally confirming what the letter told us, it adds very little to our
knowledge."

"No," replied the elder of the two men.  "Perhaps not, perhaps not.  It
at least gives a motive for that letter."

"Which, after all," said the other, "is not of so much importance to
us."

"Well, that I am not so sure about; the motive is, or seems to be so to
me, a most unworthy one, which, if possible, we should do our utmost to
discourage."

"Suppose we drop this consideration for the present," said the younger
man, "and consider what are perhaps the more important features of the
case. Sinclair, in the first place, betrays the trust we had reposed in
him, through the influence of the company he got into,—spends money
which he had no right to, and so defrauds the firm of a very large sum.
Being unable, and afraid, to face the consequences, he bolts, but
succeeds in covering his escape by a ruse, which enabled him to take
advantage of an accident occurring in the nick of time, of which he was
prompt to avail himself.  He deserves very little consideration from us,
I think."

"All you say is quite true," was the other’s reply, "but I don’t want to
forget the fact that his father for years held a very responsible and
honourable position in this firm, and died respected by all who knew
him."

"You think, then, that his good deeds should be capable of hiding a
multitude of his son’s sins," was the smiling comment of the younger
man.

Taking no apparent notice of the remark, the other continued, "Then
there is his mother,—a lady for whom I have the very highest esteem,—who
has always been regarded as a friend, and is at present in a rather
delicate state of health.  I feel much sympathy for her, and would be
disposed to strain a good many points before venturing to do anything
which would add to her grief."

"Yes, I feel that as much as you do," replied the younger man; "but it
must not be forgotten, with every desire to be merciful, we have a duty
which as citizens we owe to the community, and that obligations are
placed upon us by the laws which govern us which cannot always be safely
set aside."

"True; but there is no law which prevents a man forgiving another a
trespass, rather the contrary."

"Nor should we forget what is, after all, a most important consideration
for us," said the other, "the mistaken interpretation which may be given
to any act of leniency on our part, and the impression likely to be
produced by it on those at present in our employ."

"You are quite right there.  It certainly is a most important point for
our consideration.  But, coming back to the point from which we started,
the motive of the man who has written to us, which is most unworthy, and
one I don’t at all like to encourage; that it is a matter which we have
long ago wiped out of our books; for the sake of his dead father’s
memory, and of the mother whom we have promised to consider as much as
possible, I am decidedly of opinion we can very well let the transaction
remain as at present, and take no steps to have the man arrested."

"Very well," said the younger man, after a little hesitation.  "I’m not
quite sure we are doing our duty, but, on the principle that one ought
always to give the prisoner the benefit of the doubt, as I am in some
little doubt myself, let Sinclair have the benefit of it, and I will
agree with you that nothing further be done."

"That being settled, I think it will be best for you, Mr. Gaze, to have
the briefest possible letter written to Mr. Barton, thanking him for his
communication, the contents of which have been duly noted, but that no
action is contemplated thereon."

The lawyer having taken his leave, a letter was sent to Mrs. Sinclair
acquainting her with the decision at which they had arrived, and
expressing the pleasure they felt at having been able so far to fall in
with her wishes.

When this letter reached Railton Hall, the joy it occasioned none but a
mother in similar circumstances can fully realise.

The transition from fear to hope, and again from hope to despair, had
been terribly trying to a constitution never strong, and already much
enfeebled by the trials it had been called upon to endure.

The tidings which had so unexpectedly reached her, that the son, so long
mourned as dead (under circumstances which seemed to leave no room for
reasonable doubt of its correctness), was still alive, had filled her
with a new-born hope of yet once again looking upon those
well-remembered features,—features which bore the unmistakable image of
her dead husband,—giving rise to ideals and imaginings which the depths
had apparently overwhelmed and shut out from all possibility of
realisation.

But such hopes and such visions had been shattered and dispelled as
quickly as they had arisen by her visit to Broadstone, and the possible
consequences which might result from the intelligence which was there
being awaited from the North-West.  Woman-like, she had anticipated the
worst, and had even allowed her dire apprehensions to manifest their
existence in the letter she had written Ralph.  She advised—almost
entreated—him to escape from Ranger’s whilst there was time, lest the
officers of justice should be set upon his track, before such a course
became impossible.

Once again, however, was hope rekindled in her breast, when the letter
arrived which conveyed the welcome intelligence that the firm had
abandoned all thoughts of having her son arrested.

Again the reaction from the gloom of despair to the joys of hope was
almost more than the poor mother could endure.  Scientists tell us that
joy never kills.  It may be true.  At all events its effects are not
always as salutary as one could desire, and in Mrs. Sinclair’s case it
was some time before she could command sufficient strength of will, or
obtain the control of her nervous system, to render her capable of
dictating a letter to Jennie for her brother, to inform him of the
gratifying news.

Her anxiety now was, lest, acting upon the advice given in her previous
letter, he should have put into practice the course she had thought it
so desirable to urge upon him.  It was possible a telegram might reach
him in time to arrest his departure; she could scarcely hope to
forestall her letter, which had probably already been received and its
advice acted upon.

Jennie was, however, instructed to lose no time in sending a "wire" to
Ranger’s, which ran—"Stay—All right," in the hope that it might produce
the effect desired.

The letter which followed was such as only a mother might be expected
under the circumstances to write, and was filled with anxious inquiries
as to his future intentions.

                            *CHAPTER XXVI.*

                             *MARY TRUMAN.*

"... He beheld a vision, and adored the thing he saw."
                                     WORDSWORTH.

Mary Truman, the young woman so suddenly deprived of her only relations
by the unfortunate accident on the railway near to M’Lean Station, and
whose prospects had been so terribly blighted, had not been an idle
spectator at the Ranch of the events which have been transpiring.

With no fixed or clearly defined duties to perform, since her future was
still undecided, she was yet able to find occupation in the house and
its belongings of a character sufficient to prevent her from having many
idle moments.

Naturally of a cheerful disposition, she was wont to be considered the
embodiment of good humour "in the old house at home."

A pair of laughing blue eyes, a little "tip-tilted" nose, a _petite_
figure, and a mass of rich, wavy auburn hair, added to a saucy
expression of countenance, made up an _ensemble_ that her all too
sensitive, and it may be sensible, cousin had found it impossible to
resist.

Her parents were originally in a small way of business at Exeter, but
having the misfortune to lose her mother some three weeks after her
birth, the father, within a week following the funeral, disappeared, and
nothing had been seen or heard of him since.

His brother, who farmed a few acres of land just outside the city, when
appealed to, at once came forward, and agreed to adopt the little waif
rather than it should be taken charge of by the Union.

When the business was sold, and the debts paid, there remained nearly
one hundred pounds, which the uncle very considerately, and with no
thought of self, caused to be invested for the child.

At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering illness, and in
process of time, as the years rolled on, little Mary, besides being the
life of the household, became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of
all the domestic life and arrangements of the place.

When, therefore, the lease of John Truman’s holding expired, and it
became a necessity to seek another dwelling, they determined to try
their fortunes in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that
Mary should form one of the party.

She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning. The pure dry
air,—so notable a feature of the Dominion,—the sunshiny days, and the
abundant opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with rare
constitutional endowments, contributed in no ordinary degree to that
recovery which was every day becoming more manifest.

With the restoration to health there was a corresponding improvement in
spirits, as the buoyancy and elasticity of youth asserted their
influence, and she began to throw off much of that gloom and depression,
so unnatural to the young, and quite foreign to Mary’s nature, but which
the tragic events with which the swift current of her life had been so
suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for.

The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although a silent spectator of
the change that was taking place.

He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest, her growing health;
but it was with even more satisfaction that he marked the improvement in
her spirits, as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with some
degree of assurance, he might hope to be able to express to her in words
the feelings which he had allowed himself to cherish towards her.

Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and comparatively lonely.
Visitors were rare, and the settlers, with their own people, were thrown
much together, not only during the hours of labour, but for that
companionship which human nature naturally looks for.

The frequent opportunities which such occasions offered for little
delicate attentions, kind inquiries, and the like, John was not slow in
taking advantage of, nor in noting their effect.

The encouragement which such attentions received was not much; nor could
it be regarded as a very safe foundation on which to build hope for the
future, yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so doing.

So when, one evening after the work of the day was over, as the twilight
was deepening, and Mary was standing at the entrance to the dairy,
watching the stars as they one by one made themselves visible, Barton’s
approach was all unnoticed until he was close upon her.

"What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed.

"Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted.

"Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss what to say.

"It’s a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it," she added, with a
little less asperity in her tones, as if to make amends for the
sharpness of her previous retort.

"Haven’t seen many better," replied Barton.

"You’d scarcely guess how my thought was then running?"

"If you tell me, I shall know without the trouble."

"I was back in my childhood, and thinking of that sweet little couplet
auntie used to repeat so often—

    ’Twinkle, twinkle, little star,
    How I wonder what you are.’"

"I am sorry that I so rudely broke in upon your reflections.  I always
turn to the memory of my childhood’s happy days with pleasure and
satisfaction."

"Bless me, how extremely sentimental we are getting!  But I must be
going——"

"Stay a moment, Mary, I would like to have a word or two with you, if
you can spare a few moments?"

"What impudence, sir!"

"In what way, may I ask?"

"Since when, and by what right, have you taken to address me by my
Christian name?" she inquired, with a good-humoured smile.

"It was a liberty, I must confess, but one which I hope my explanation
will lead you to pardon."

"Well, if it’s going to take long I am afraid I shall not be able to
stop and listen."

"I daresay I can manage it in a few words, although it’s a subject I
have had no previous experience of.  Until I saw you, Mary,—for so I
must call you until forbidden to do so,—I never set eyes upon the woman
I could say I truly loved.  But, from the day you first made your
appearance amongst us, the feeling has been growing, until I now fully
realise you are that other half I need to make my life complete."

"What a very pretty speech.  I suppose I ought to feel flattered.  For a
novice—professing no experience—I think I may say you have accomplished
the task charmingly," was Mary’s laughing reply.

"Be serious, Mary, there’s a dear girl; for it’s a serious matter to
me."

"Oh well, Mr. Longface, then I’ll try.  To speak candidly, I’ve not
thought about the matter, and don’t want to.  So there, you have an
answer."

"But not a final answer, I hope?" he added.

"Yes; why not?" she naïvely asked.

"I’d rather you’d say you’ll think it over, if what I have said has
caused you surprise."

"Surprise?  I should think it has!  Do you suppose for a moment I was
waiting for you to come and tell me what you have?"

"No, Mary," he replied, feeling a little abashed at the thought that he
had committed himself by his answer.

"Well then, sir, you had better be content with the answer I have
given."

"If you give me credit for sincerity, do you think it possible I can be
content with such a reply?" he asked, gazing steadfastly into her
half-averted eyes, at the same time attempting to take her hand.

"You are too forward, sir," she exclaimed, as she snatched her hand
away.

"Well, take time to think about it, Mary; only give me some little
hope.",

"As you please, sir, for I must be going."

"When may I come for my answer—to-morrow?

"Oh, la, no!" she replied; "I shall not be able to make up my mind in
that time—that is, if you want a different reply to the one I’ve given?"

"A week then?" he asked.

"Dear me, how pressing you are!  Say a month," she added.

"Don’t be so cruel, Mary," he pleaded.  "Surely a week is long enough?"

"Well, I’ll try what can be done in a week.  But mind, I make no
promise."

"Good-night, my love!  God bless you, and bring you to a right
decision," was his reply, as she disappeared into the house.

The stars were twinkling overhead as he made his way to his little
shanty, feeling he scarcely knew how, yet strongly tempted to believe
that behind the affected gaiety and levity which had been displayed
throughout his interview, there was flowing an under-current which might
possibly bring him to the haven of his hopes.

                            *CHAPTER XXVII.*

                          *BRIGHTENED HOPES.*

"Enough, if something from our hands hath power
To live, and act, and serve the future hour."
                                 WORDSWORTH.

When the telegram arrived, which Mrs. Sinclair had sent in the hope that
it might be in time to stay her son from hasty action, there was much
rejoicing at the Ranch by all concerned.  A load of care and anxiety
seemed at once to be lifted, and the course which Fellows had announced
his intention of pursuing felt to be fully justified.

All obstacles to future movements being thus removed, it remained to be
determined what those movements should be.

If the telegram from his mother conveyed the meaning which he hoped it
did, then the way was open for his return to England without any fear of
the consequences which might have been expected to attend his so doing.

But what were the prospects which returning held out to him?  He had
lost his reputation.  Under the most favourable conditions he could
never expect to be able again to show his face at Broadstone.  To be a
burden on his doting mother for the remainder of her life was not to be
thought of.

He had not been long enough with Ranger to enable him to add much to the
little he brought with him on his arrival.  Then, added to these
reasons, there was the thought of Jessie,—a new factor which had now
entered into his life since his arrival at the Ranch, and one which he
was not prepared under any circumstances to ignore.

He was willing to be guided by the next letter from home, which the
telegram was intended to prepare him for; but in any event he saw, or
thought he saw, that it was clearly his best course to stay where he
was, and as soon as possible procure a homestead of his own.

Later in the day, when discussing the matter with Ranger, the farmer
could not help admitting that it seemed about the only possible thing
for him to do.

"And I suppose," said the farmer, "you’ll be wanting to make a home of
your own as soon as you can, to take Jessie to—eh?"

"That is my next ambition," he replied.

"And a proper one too," was Ranger’s rejoinder. "We must see what can be
done to get you one."

"Thank you," replied Fellows, "but it need not be hurried over."

"That may be, but if an opportunity offers no time should be lost, as
they are soon snapped up."

"Inquiry can be made of the agent when you are next in town to learn
what he has on hand."

"I saw to-day, when I was at M’Lean, a holding was for sale which would
be likely to fit very well."

"Where was it?" asked Fellows.

"Close to Kinbrae, about eight miles from the Crescent Lake."

"Did you take notice of the particulars concerning it?" said Fellows.

"No, I did not; except that the owner is returning to the Old Country,
and wants to sell."

"Well, it might be worth while to inquire about it."

"Yes, I’ll do so," replied Ranger.

When the work of the day was over, Fellows lost no time in visiting
Jessie at her father’s shanty to acquaint her with the receipt of his
telegram, in order to relieve her of all fears with regard to the
possibility of his being arrested.

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

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

"No, I think not, Jessie."