Ralph Sinclair's Atonement

The clerk addressed hastened away to an inner office to convey the message to his principal, returning shortly with a request, "Will you please to walk this way."

The office into which he was conducted was a portion of a large and very handsome showroom in the West End of London, screened from general observation by a wood-and-glass erection, which formed a separate room, in which was seated the manager of the firm of H. & E. Quinion, so well known for their famous Metal Works in the Midlands, but whose chief transactions were carried on by means of their London and Sydney houses.

Mr. Houghton, who rose on the entry of his visitor, was a tall portly specimen of the English gentleman. The kindly expression of his countenance, and general affable manners, were in marked contrast to the little man who proceeded to introduce himself by presenting the letter already referred to. Apparently about thirty-five years of age; dark complexion; with deep-set ferret-like eyes, partially concealed by a pair of pince-nez; dark-brown short-cropped hair, thin on the top; clean shaven cheeks, but a heavy cavalry moustache; and a stooping gait,—he had all the appearance of one who had lived "fast," and missed his mark in life's struggle for existence.

After a second perusal of the letter presented,—which, to judge by the expression of his countenance, had come upon him as a surprise, and did not seem to please him,—he turned to his interviewer and remarked, somewhat absently, as if he scarcely knew what to say, "I think the best thing I can do is to introduce you to the clerks and staff generally, for which purpose, if you will excuse me for a few moments, I will go and prepare them."

"Very well," was all the reply the other made, as Mr. Houghton, without another word, left the office.

Calling a clerk named Kenway, who happened to be passing, and who was distantly related to him, he hastily directed him to summon the other clerks to meet him at once in his office. Full of curiosity, and a-tiptoe with expectation as to what was impending, there was soon assembled an anxious and eager group of men, quietly canvassing the possibilities and probabilities of the situation.

On the entrance of Mr. Houghton it was at once seen that something unusual had occurred, as he appeared to be very much agitated, and to have lost command of that calmness and ease which it was his general habit to assume. With manifest anxiety to get through an unpleasant task with the least possible delay he advanced, and, leaning heavily upon his desk, said—

"Gentlemen, I have had you called together thus hurriedly, because I thought it only right that you should hear the fact from my own lips that I am intending shortly to resign my position here as manager."

A half-suppressed murmur of regret went round the assembled clerks, which was, however, allowed to pass unnoticed, as, scarcely able to restrain the tears which filled his eyes, and in an all but inaudible voice, he continued—

"Yes; after serving the firm for upwards of fifty years, it is with their approval that I shall in six months retire, and endeavour to take life a little easier. I have to thank you all for the assistance you have always rendered me; and, in bidding you farewell, I propose to introduce you to my successor, who is now here with a letter of introduction from Broadstone."

Only half realising what they had just heard, one or two managed to give expression to their sincere regret at the intelligence so abruptly conveyed, together with the earnest hope that he would long live to enjoy the rest and ease he was looking forward to, and had so well earned, when they were again left alone to separate, and speculate upon what had been so suddenly communicated.

On returning to the office in which he had left his visitor, all traces of the emotion so recently evinced had disappeared from Mr. Houghton's face, and he proceeded to discuss the situation, and to unfold the working of the business with his usual calmness and clearness.

But the contemplated interview with the employés of the establishment was for the present declined by his visitor, under the pretence that, being so new to everything and everybody, he was not quite prepared for such an ordeal as that would seem to involve. On taking his leave, soon after, it was with the promise that he would pay a further visit very shortly.

The news, which spread throughout the "house," created no little consternation; whilst everywhere and by everyone it was received with the most unqualified expressions of regret, Mr. Houghton being a man held in universal esteem by all who knew him.

As opportunity offered, throughout the remainder of the day, little groups were to be observed in the various departments, discussing the pros and cons of an event which might mean so much to all in the employ of the firm.

Roberts, who had been a servant for a long series of years, and occupied a position second only to that held by Mr. Houghton, was very decided in the expression of his views in a conversation subsequently held with Arnold, who regarded himself as an expert in his own particular department.

"I don't believe," said Roberts, "that this so-called retirement is the voluntary act of Mr. Houghton."

"How then," said Arnold, "do you consider it has come about?"

"It appears to me to have been forced upon him."

"Don't you think he knew that Mr. Johnson was coming?"

"No, I do not; that, I think, was as much a surprise to himself as it was to us."

"Well," added Arnold, "if the emotion he manifested may be taken as evidence, he seemed to be quite unmanned, and very ill-prepared for what he wished to say."

"Yes; and to my thinking," said Roberts, "no clearer proof is needed than the fact of his resignation being only made known to us when his successor was in the house. Had he been aware of what was impending, I have no hesitation in saying he would have prepared himself for the issue, and informed us of it in a more leisurely and self-possessed manner."

"Rather rough treatment of a man who has been a trusted and respected servant for over fifty years!"

"No doubt of it," continued Roberts. "Of course, I do not say but what it is quite possible that the heads of the firm at Broadstone may have suggested to him the desirability of thinking of retiring, after such a lengthy innings, in order that some younger man should be introduced, who might be expected to impart a little fresh life and infuse more energy into the business; but, as he did not readily take the hint, I presume they have 'taken the bull by the horns,' which causes their act to have the appearance of somewhat unceremonious treatment."

In the warehouse, where the matter was very keenly discussed, similar views prevailed; and it was generally considered that Mr. Houghton was not retiring willingly, that the so-called retirement was too patent a sham to deceive anyone; and the verdict was that it was a very shabby way of treating an old and faithful servant; and that if the firm could behave in such an inconsiderate way to one who had devoted his life to the best interests of his employers' business, the prospect was not a very encouraging one for those who remained.

"The end justified the means" is much too frequently, and too generally, the rule of conduct with many large and wealthy firms, as it is with public companies, who have not a soul to be cursed (another word is more often used) or a body to be kicked.

CHAPTER II.

BROADSTONE.

"Preferment goes by letter and affection,
Not by the old gradation, when each second
Stood heir to the first."—Othello, Act I. sc. i.

Politically, as well as commercially, the town of Broadstone is "no mean city," and for light and leading has long been running our metropolitan capital very close. Its members loom large on the political horizon; whilst its industries are not only marketable commodities in the remotest regions of the world, but by their quality give the name of the place to the trade it does, although not often is it in most complimentary terms.

Its leading thoroughfares are broad and spacious, while its streets appear to have been laid out on no well-defined or pre-arranged plan, but to have developed as circumstances seemed to render desirable.

The buildings have a twofold character; those which are modern are handsome, and in many cases have an imposing appearance. This is especially the case with its public buildings. The more ancient, as well as the poorer quarters of the city, are, for the most part, plain brick-and-tile compounds, without ornament or anything to recommend them save their utility, and not even this always.

In the centre of one of its leading thoroughfares stands the factory of H. & E. Quinion, a lofty and rectangular pile of buildings of comparatively modern construction, with little to attract the eye from an architectural point of view; but, within, the fittings and appointments are handsome, and, in some instances, of a costly nature, yet strictly in keeping with the character of the work to be seen.

On the day succeeding the events narrated in the previous chapter, soon after the dinner-bell had been rung,—which was the signal for all work to cease, as well as for those who lived near enough to hasten home to the midday meal, whilst others who elected to do so could assemble in a common room set apart for their special use,—a note was handed to the senior partner, Mr. H. Quinion, as he was seated in a small office in the centre of the works, informing him that Arnold from the London office was below, and would like to see him.

Surprised, and just a little annoyed at so unexpected a visit, he gave orders for him to be shown upstairs.

Arnold was a man of a quiet and reserved disposition, not regarded with much favour by his fellow-clerks, nor made a confidant of by any one in particular. It was generally felt—perhaps without sufficient reason—that he had long had his eyes upon the manager's position in London as a post he might one day be called upon to occupy. But whenever the subject was canvassed by the rest of the staff, it was invariably with a considerable amount of scoffing and ridicule at the idea of so unsuitable a man, in everyone's estimation but that of himself, aspiring to so responsible an appointment; and it was agreed the firm would never be so blind to their own interest as to cherish such an idea. He had, however, schemed for years to keep himself a prominent figure before the heads of the firm. He had "toadied" to little weaknesses, and, in some few smaller and minor matters, had succeeded in placing himself in front of others who had been his seniors. It may be imagined, therefore, with what keen and bitter feelings of chagrin and disappointment he regarded the events of the previous day. To find, from the appointment which had been made, that all his plans and designs had miscarried, was a collapse to his castle-building which he little expected, and was scarcely prepared to sit down quietly under; yet how to change the apparent current of events was not so clear. In this perplexity, as a last resort, he resolved to interview the members of the firm at Broadstone; and a brief note to Mr. Houghton in London, informing him of his visit to the works on a matter of importance, was the only intimation given to account for his absence from business.

"Good-morning, Arnold,—an unexpected visit. Anything wrong in London?" asked Mr. Quinion, a little nervously, readjusting his spectacles, which really needed no attention.

"No, sir; nothing," replied Arnold, who was slightly flushed, probably on account of the nature of his errand as much as the walk from the railway-station.

Taking a chair indicated to him, he at once plunged into the subject of his visit by saying, "No doubt, sir, you are surprised to see me down here, and I feel it would have been more becoming had I written first to inform you of my intention; but the circumstances of yesterday came upon all of us so sudden and unexpectedly, that it was not until late last evening I formed the decision to make this hasty and impromptu visit."

"Well, now that you have come, let me hear what it is you have to say."

"I must confess, sir," said Arnold, "that the fact of Mr. Houghton being allowed to retire is not to me so much a matter of surprise as the person who has been appointed to succeed him. If I am rightly informed, he is a man of no experience in your business, and with no record to distinguish him as one entitled to such a position. Several of us in London have been so many years in your employ, that hopes were freely entertained that, whenever the course of events should render a change necessary, an opportunity would be afforded to one of us to supply the vacancy. I, for one, cherished the hope that the experience and knowledge gained during my period of service with you might have induced you to offer me the position conferred upon Mr. Johnson."

"I am rather sorry to hear what you tell me," said Mr. Quinion; "as I may candidly inform you that the firm never had any intention of putting a member of the present staff into the position you refer to; and in asking you to regard this matter as now closed, we shall be glad if you will take any opportunity which may present itself to disabuse the minds of your colleagues, as well as that of your own, that a slight was intended to anyone by this appointment. On the other hand, it was feared that to promote any member of the London staff would probably give rise to more dissatisfaction, and create a greater amount of friction, than the installation of a perfect stranger is likely to do. It is not intended as a reflection upon anyone, but simply a matter of expediency, and which, in the interest of all concerned, we thought it wisest to adopt."

"I much regret to learn that that is your decision, sir, as I did hope it might not yet be too late to induce you to make some other arrangement."

"That is quite out of the question," replied Mr. Quinion; "and I hope you will not only give Mr. Johnson a hearty welcome, but at the same time render him all the assistance which he will, of course, very much need."

"So far as I am concerned you may certainly reckon upon that, although I should like to have seen a different state of things prevailing."

"I regret," added Mr. Quinion, "you should have felt it needful to come down here on such an errand, as it was scarcely likely we should have taken so important a step without first giving it very careful consideration."

"I trust you will forgive me if you think I have acted indiscreetly," rejoined Arnold.

"Oh, say no more about it," was Mr. Quinion's reply. "When do you return to town?"

"By the next train, sir; at three-ten p.m."

"In that case you have no time to lose, so I will not detain you any longer. Good day."

And in less than half an hour Arnold was speeding back to London, with no very comfortable feelings. He had failed to produce the impression expected, or to change the situation of affairs; and his future course did not yet clearly shape itself to his mind.

Of course, the fact of his visit to Broadstone was known in London, but every attempt to extract from him the object of his journey failed. To all and sundry of his inquirers the uniform answer was—"Only a little private business."

CHAPTER III.

THE QUAY AT ANTWERP.

"Blow, wind; swell, billow; and swim bark!
The storm is up, and all is on the hazard."
Julius Cæsar, Act V. sc. i.

A midsummer sun was already shining upon the lazily flowing waters of the Scheldt, as the Cathedral clock rang out the hour of six; and the sweet-toned carillons, for which its tower is almost world renowned, had not yet ceased their chimes as the good ship Kestrel, which lay moored at the quay-side, began to sound her most unmusical whistle, preparatory to moving into midstream, outward bound for the English coast.

The quaint old market-place,—close to the river, and lying beneath the shadow of the Cathedral walls,—surrounded with lofty houses of a style peculiar to Flemish architecture, was at this hour a scene of busy life. From early dawn the peasants and small farmers from the neighbouring villages continued to flow in, bringing such marketable commodities as were likely to find a ready sale. Butter and cheese, with pails of cream and masses of cheap vegetables, rapidly changed hands, and were carried home in baskets, or in small carts to which dogs were harnessed, and which latter seemed in no way to dislike the task they were put to, judging from the apparent cheerful and eager way in which they went at the work.

On the quay-side nearly as much life and activity prevailed as in the market-place. Porters were hurrying to and fro across the gangways; final additions were being hastily made to the cargo; the passengers were crowding in; and, as the Kestrel's warning bell rang, those who had come to see the last of departing friends or relatives were hurried ashore.

It is not a little peculiar that no matter what may be the hour fixed for the departure of a train or vessel, someone is sure to arrive at the last moment, when the time is up for starting; and, on the occasion we are describing, the proverbial late-comer was not wanting, in the person of a man about thirty, who just succeeded in reaching the last of the gangways, which crew and landsmen had already commenced to cast off, and made his way on board.

Freed from her moorings, with steam up, the Kestrel gradually proceeded into midstream, where, with tide and current in her favour, she soon began to run rapidly down the broad brown Scheldt, giving opportunity for but a passing glimpse of the magnificent lines of quays which once engrossed most of the commerce of the earth.

On leaving the city itself, the river scenery for miles is dull and uninteresting to a degree. Most of the land on either shore, lying below high-water mark, presents few features to attract the attention of the observer. Beyond an occasional house-top or a church-steeple, there is nothing to relieve the miles of flat lowlands which stretch away to the horizon line, if we except the never-ending windmills perched on the highest point of the banks to catch the breeze. When the broad lagoon-like piece of water was reached, which marks the entry to the river, and is carefully buoyed to indicate the course of vessels entering or leaving port, the welcome sound was heard of the steward's bell, announcing that breakfast was ready; and in a few minutes no one was to be seen upon deck save such of the crew as were required for the working and safety of the vessel.

A more than usual orderly company was seated at the tables, which were soon being well served for the apparently eagerly-anticipated morning meal; and whilst conversation flowed freely, there was less of that tendency to boisterous mirth which is often so marked and objectionable a feature during short sea-trips.

"A pleasant journey so far," remarked a lady to the male companion at her side.

"Yes," was his reply; "and let us hope it will continue."

"Have you any reason to doubt it?" was the inquiry which followed.

"No; but the captain will perhaps be able to tell us presently."

At the upper end of the same table, he who had been the last to arrive on board was holding an animated conversation with a fellow-passenger on certain historical reminiscences of the city of Antwerp.

"I must confess that it is with feelings of considerable satisfaction and pride that I learned from Motley, and others, the brave stand which the doughty burghers made, three centuries ago, against the violent persecutions of the Holy Inquisition which had been set up by Charles V."

"Is it a fact that the Prince of Orange led what was, for distinction, called an insurrection?"

"Yes; and I suppose rightly so-called, since, without troubling to inquire into the mode by which its subjugation had been brought about, the Netherlands, which then included both Holland and Belgium, was under the tender rule of Philip II. of Spain."

"The husband of our own Queen Mary, was he not?"

"The same," responded the previous speaker. "And by him the government had been placed in the hands of the Duchess of Parma. The Prince, who had been sent to represent Philip, unable any longer to sustain that role, threw off his allegiance to Spain; and, with what has been described as 'the true spirit of a Christian hero,' declared for the people who had been confided to his care. It would be too long a story to recount all the events which led up to it, but it is well worth your study when you have leisure, as you will find how, by his wisdom and courage, he succeeded in obtaining for them freedom from foreign invasion, and the right of worship according to the dictates of their own conscience, without the loss of a single life."

"I say, skipper," called out a rosy-faced little man, seated close beside the two who had been thus conversing, "what sort of weather do you anticipate we shall have in crossing the German Ocean?"

"I am afraid we shall have what you will, most of you, consider a rough journey. The glass has fallen considerably within the last few hours; there is a stiffish breeze from the north, which is blowing against the tide, so that our course is not likely to be one of the smoothest."

A few exchanged ominous glances; whilst others, as soon as the meal was over, betook themselves to the cabins or bunks, and made preparations for bestowing themselves in such manner as seemed most likely to minimise the sufferings in prospect. Breakfast had not long been finished, when the bar was crossed, and the pitch and roll of the vessel began to make their influence felt.

It was high noon, and eight bells had just struck. Black clouds hid the sun from view. The wind was blowing in gusts from the north, whilst the white-crested waves were dashing and breaking over the vessel as she laboured through the trough of the billows, or mounted the crests of the foaming waves. The deck was continually being swept by the rolling seas, so that, with but few exceptions, all the passengers were closely confined below; but the exceptions seemed to be, like those stormy petrels sailors tell us are to be met with in mid-ocean, enjoying what they pleasantly described as "the fun."

The good ship was just succeeding in again making headway through the troubled waters, after clearing herself of a huge wave which had seemed as if it would engulf her, when a cry was heard from the stern of the vessel, "Man overboard!" The engines were at once stopped, the vessel's head brought round to windward, and, notwithstanding the nature of the sea prevailing, everything got ready for lowering a boat when the order should be given.

"Lower away, men!" came from the captain. And the next moment the ship's lifeboat was tossing on the crest of the waves, but pulled by strong arms, with a skilled hand at the helm. The crew, and those on deck who witnessed this scene, were full of eagerness and anxiety as to the result. It was, however, felt from the first to be an almost hopeless quest; and so in the end it proved, for after half an hour's vain search, during which time it was with difficulty the rowers kept their boat from being swamped, it was hoisted in with its living freight, and the vessel again headed for the English coast.

The intelligence of the disaster had rapidly spread through the ship, and now the question on the lips of everyone capable of attending to anything but their own condition was, "Who is it?" But this no one seemed able at present to give a reliable answer to.

After a careful inquiry had been instituted amongst the passengers, attention became concentrated upon the last arrival on board. The captain remembered to have seen him in conversation with one of the passengers during breakfast, and to have caught occasional snatches of the topics under discussion; but since then neither captain nor any of the passengers remembered to have seen him, nor could a careful examination of all on board succeed in bringing him to light. No one appeared to have noticed him on deck, and yet his absence seemed undoubtedly to point to the fact that he must be the missing man; but who he was, and whether his death was to be attributed to accident or design, none were able to say.

Later in the day an overcoat was discovered stowed away in one of the bunks, which none of the passengers could identify as belonging to them. On a careful scrutiny of the pockets, papers were found which seemed to point more definitely to the identity of the lost man. When, therefore, the Kestrel at length reached her moorings in the Thames, and made her report to the proper authorities, it was taken charge of by the local police, and the matter was left with them to investigate.

CHAPTER IV.

RAILTON HALL.

"Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides:
Who cover faults, at last shame them derides."
King Lear, Act I. sc. i.

"Come, Jennie, it's time you began to think about retiring."

"Yes, mother; in a minute," responded the young girl thus addressed.

"But do you know, child, that it is ten o'clock? an hour that is quite too late for more minutes to be allowed."

"I know, mother, but I do so want to finish what I am reading."

"You have been intent on that book for the last two hours," replied the mother,—"so intent, that you have scarcely spoken a word since you commenced; and if you sit at it much longer you will be ill to-morrow, and unable to get up when the time comes. So put it away, and go at once."

Thus fairly admonished, the girl addressed closed her book, not without evident reluctance, and prepared to obey her mother's injunction.

Mrs. Sinclair had been a widow about five years, her husband having died, after a painful and lingering illness, just as he had reached what is generally looked upon as the prime of life. Being well provided for, as soon as affairs could be settled, and her house and belongings disposed of, she left the neighbourhood in which they had for years resided,—and, with her two children, a girl and boy, now her sole charge,—to take up her abode amidst her native hills, a few miles outside the city of Aberdeen.

Her son Ralph had been given a position of some promise in the firm of H. & E. Quinion, Broadstone,—where his father had long held a high and honourable post,—with the prospect of a junior partnership in the course of a few years, in the event of all things going on satisfactorily.

Jennie, who had not yet reached her sixteenth year, was tall for her age, well proportioned, and, although not what would generally be called handsome, was an attractive girl. And the bright, clear grey eyes, beneath a more than usually broad and expansive brow, indicated a degree of intelligence which was not slow in displaying itself.

The house in which they dwelt was one of those old-fashioned ones so often to be met with outside our large towns and cities, possessing no apparent design in its construction, through the numerous additions and alterations from time to time made, to suit the convenience or taste of successive tenants, without any regard for harmony or unity.

Spacious and convenient, it was also rambling and not handsome. Surrounded by extensive grounds, and well wooded, it was hidden from view of the ordinary traveller, but well known to the residents around,—who were frequent visitors at Railton Hall,—as well as to cottars and villagers, with whom Mrs. Sinclair kept up a close acquaintance.

"What time do you expect Ralph in the morning, mother?" asked Jennie, as she prepared to retire for the night.

"The train is due at Aberdeen at nine-forty-five, and if it keeps time we may expect him here about ten-fifteen," said her mother. "I have ordered Donald to have the trap ready to drive me to the station to meet him at that hour; so we breakfast at eight-thirty."

"Very well, mother; then I will tell Alice to call me at eight"; and with a good-night kiss the young girl left the room.

Before following her daughter's example, Mrs. Sinclair drew a letter from her pocket bearing a foreign postmark, to read—not for the first time—the intelligence which was already well impressed upon her memory—

"DEAR MOTHER,—I leave Antwerp to-morrow morning at six o'clock, and hope to return by the night mail, due in Aberdeen at nine-forty-five the next morning. Your loving son, RALPH."

With fond anticipations of the morning, the anxious mother retired to rest.

* * * * *

The morning broke in the midst of a proverbial Scotch mist, and everything presented a damp and uncanny appearance, calculated to produce a depressing influence upon minds expectant and anxious.

Mrs. Sinclair had spent a restless and uneasy night, thinking of him she hoped so soon to clasp in a motherly embrace. Her son had been absent now some months, travelling on the Continent, on business for the firm by whom he was employed, and the nearer the time of his return, the greater was the mother's agitation and anxiety; so that it was only by a supreme effort she was enabled to control her feelings and maintain an outwardly calm appearance. Breakfast was all too rapidly despatched for full justice to have been done to it, and mother and daughter mounted the trap, which Donald drove with all needful speed to the station, where they found they had still some time to wait.

The train was late in arriving, but when it drew up at the platform eager and anxious glances were directed on each passenger as he alighted. They failed, however, to discover the one they were in search of; and when at length the platform was deserted, they had reluctantly to admit that Ralph had not travelled by that train, but what could have prevented his doing so they were utterly at a loss to conjecture.

CHAPTER V.

VISIONS OF THE KLONDYKE.

"Much have I travelled in the realms of gold."—KEATS.

When Arnold reached home in the evening, from Broadstone, he felt anything but pleased on learning that visitors had arrived and were awaiting his return. Tired and disappointed, he would have preferred being left to his own thoughts; but this was a privilege which for the present, at least, he found he had to forego. The first greetings over, his little wife informed him that his cousins from Jersey had arrived about an hour before him.

"They are on their way to Liverpool, bound for the Klondyke," she added.

"Where are they staying?" asked Arnold.

"I have not asked them that," she replied, "as I wanted to hear what you thought about our trying to accommodate them here for three nights, so as to save them the expense of going to an hotel."

"But you know how very limited is the space at our disposal, my dear!"

"True," said Mrs. Arnold; "but it is not for long, and no doubt they will be much better pleased."

"Well, if you feel that you can manage it, and they are willing to accept what accommodation we have to offer, I shall be quite prepared to fall in with whatever arrangement you like to make."

"Very well; then I have no doubt we shall be able to settle matters to their satisfaction. And now, dear, you had better go and change your things, and make yourself look spruce, and then join us in the drawing-room, which will leave me at liberty to see to the supper."

Later in the evening, when the proposals of Mrs. Arnold for the disposal and accommodation of the cousins were laid before them, they were only too pleased to avail themselves of the offered hospitality.

John and Charles Barton, whose ages were respectively twenty-three and twenty-seven years, had worked on a small farm which their father rented until the old man died, which event happened three or four years prior to the present period. For the past three years they had continued it on their own account, but, failing to make it pay, they had sold everything off and resolved to emigrate. It was just about this time that the Klondyke successes began to be all the talk, and so taken were they with the marvellous stories related of that region that they determined to try their fortune on its inhospitable shores. Their purses were not too well lined, nor their prospects sufficiently promising, to render them independent of any little help or assistance they might meet with from friends on their way.

"What port are you bound for, Jack?" inquired Arnold.

"We go to Montreal, and thence by Canadian and Pacific line across the American Continent to San Francisco."

"Isn't that the longest way there?" asked Arnold.

"That is so; but then it is by far the easier. All accounts are pretty unanimous in depicting not only the danger but the difficulties of the so-called Chilcoot Pass."

"But what about the White Pass?"

"That appears to be the worst of the three, since it leads through a very rough country, over steep hills, through swift streams, and over a pass which, although said to be one thousand feet lower than the Chilcoot, is declared by surveyors to be two hundred feet higher. And as it is longer and more difficult we have thought it best to take the river route."

"What is the difference in the matter of time over—say the Chilcoot route?"

"The time of starting may be somewhat later, as we shall have to wait until it is known that the navigation of the Yukon River is opened."

"What distance have you to travel on the Yukon?"

"To Dawson City is one thousand seven hundred and fifty miles; and from San Francisco to Dawson City, which is altogether about four thousand five hundred and nine miles, the Steamship Companies estimate the time needed for this journey at thirty days, whilst through or over the passes it varies from fifty to seventy days."

"Probably more often seventy than fifty days?"

"No doubt of it."

"And I suppose the river route has other advantages besides?"

"Oh, decidedly! Our luggage, for example, has not to be carried, or packed, as it would have to be if we went to Skagway, Dyea, or some one of the ports leading to the passes."

"That, of course, is a consideration, as well as a great saving in comfort and convenience."

"Exactly; for you must remember that with several hundred pounds weight of goods on the beach, it would be no very easy matter arranging and carrying out all the details necessary for transferring them over the mountains to the head-waters of the Yukon."

"No; I daresay you are right," added Arnold.

"Well, we have studied the matter, and, after careful thought, have no doubt whatever that although it may mean some delay at San Francisco or St. Michael's, waiting for the opening of navigation, and the possibility of arriving a little later at the 'diggings,' we shall not be worn out and fagged as we should be if we risked our goods and lives over the Chilcoot Pass."

"And you think you can stand the climate?" asked Arnold.

"We intend to try," was Jack's response. "Mr. Ogilvie, who was commissioned by the Canadian Government to make certain explorations on their behalf in that region, and who spent some eleven years off and on there, says, 'I know many Englishmen from all parts of England who have been in it, five, six, and even twelve years, without being injured by the cold. No one that I know of, taking proper care of himself, has ever been hurt by the rigour of the climate.'"

"All I can say is," wound up Arnold, "that I sincerely hope you may find it to be the El Dorado you are anticipating, and return home millionaires."

Three days later the cousins took their departure for Liverpool, and in due course embarked on board the outward-bound steamer for Montreal, full of hopeful anticipations of that future in a new land which imagination seldom fails to surround with a halo of romance.

CHAPTER VI.

THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS.

"Things outward
Do draw the inward quality after them,
To suffer all alike."
Antony and Cleopatra, Act III. sc. xi.

To the outward observer the London business of H. & E. Quinion was unchanged. The carriages of its wealthy patrons stood outside, as for years had been the custom, whilst their titled occupants paraded round the palatial show-rooms, frequently with a desire to gratify the eye by a sight of the many objects of artistic beauty to be seen, rather than for the purpose of purchasing the wares exhibited. City men called on their way to business, gave their orders, and, without unnecessary delay, departed. Ladies entered later in the day, with little to do and plenty of time at their disposal, taking up the time of the patient salesmen, wearying them with needless questions, and compelling them to pander to their little whims and fads. But the undercurrent of dissatisfaction and annoyance which prevailed, together with the feeling of uncertainty and unrest which had been created, were not matters of concern for the general public, and therefore remained

"Unrevealed to mortal sense."

Yet they were influences which were working, and working prejudicially, for all concerned.

Scarcely a month had elapsed since the announcement of Mr. Houghton's retirement, when Roberts was called into the manager's office, and informed that the firm had resolved to dispense with his services, and that the notice was to take effect in a month from that day. It was not without much hesitancy, and a display of no little emotion, that the venerable manager communicated this very unwelcome piece of intelligence. Its effect on Roberts may be better imagined than described. It was a crisis which he had never for one moment anticipated; and it filled him with astonishment and dismay. As soon as he had somewhat recovered from the shock which it naturally gave him, his first inquiry was for the reason of this; when he was informed that the firm desired to make certain changes, in order to reduce the expenses of the London establishment, and that Gregory had also received a similar notice.

"But, sir," said Roberts, "what does the firm expect I am going to do?"

"They don't say," was the reply of Mr. Houghton, in a tone of helplessness.

"Well," added Roberts, "I should never have expected such treatment from a firm standing so high as this does in the opinion of all who have any knowledge of it."

"And a few months ago I should have expressed a similar opinion," said the manager; "but circumstances have changed."

"Changed! I should think they have!" exclaimed Roberts. "When a wealthy firm such as this is can say to a man who has been in their employ upwards of a quarter of a century—with whom they find no fault, but simply to enable them to reduce expenses—you are to leave us in a month! it is anything but a fair or honourable way of treating a man at my time of life."

"I deeply regret to be the bearer of such a message to you," said Mr. Houghton, "and can only advise you to write the firm, and fully express your views and feelings on the subject."

Acting upon this advice, Roberts at once wrote a long but respectful letter to the firm at Broadstone, setting forth the hardship of the position in which he was thus suddenly placed; the difficulty which a man of his years would experience in obtaining another situation; and suggesting that he be allowed an interview with the firm at Broadstone before such a drastic measure was put into force.

In course of post a reply was received declining the suggested interview, on the ground that it would be useless, since before arriving at their decision to act as they had done every circumstance had been fully considered; and whilst they recognised the value of the services which had been rendered, and had no fault to find with him, they must decline to reconsider an act the consequences of which had been well thought over before being made known.

This was cold comfort for a man in Roberts' position.

The day his notice expired a cheque arrived, which the manager handed him, with expressions of regret that such a course had been found necessary. The cheque was equivalent to two months' salary.

Thus at the age of fifty, after spending the best years of his life in the service of the firm, Roberts found himself thrown upon the world, with no stain upon his reputation, compelled to commence again the battle of life, and to join the ranks of the large army of the unemployed.

Such treatment is an evil of long standing, and is a tyranny which the poor and defenceless have to suffer from the wealthy.

"In the interest of the firm" was the only plea which could be urged for the course pursued. But the happiness, the future, the health, nay the very life, of the man concerned, were all nothing, and might well be sacrificed to the grasping capitalist "in the interest of the firm."

CHAPTER VII.

FAR WEST.

"To the West, to the West, to the land of the free."—HENRY RUSSELL.

Some thirty miles or more from the banks of the Qu'Appelle River, the scenery is wild and romantic. Winding creeks abound, into which are projected rocky promontories; deep ravines, formed by enormous boulders of red and grey granite, the beds bestrewn with the bones and relics of the former inhabitants of this vast country; stunted poplars, or weedy willows, with a varied undergrowth of wild fruit-bushes, contribute to form an impenetrable undergrowth and an almost pathless bush.

Still farther inland, the "rolling prairie" meets the traveller's view—a waving grassy expanse, which, when set in motion by the wind, is like nothing so much as the boundless ocean, of which nearly all writers agree it most vividly reminds them.

Towards the close of a Canadian summer's day, a solitary horseman might have been seen pursuing his weary way along the banks of a winding creek some few miles from the Qu'Appelle. An Englishman, not more than thirty years of age, well mounted; his cord breeches and hunting-boots, and a rifle slung across the shoulder, gave him an appearance of having some acquaintance with a settler's wild life.

Human habitations were only to be met with at long intervals, when occasionally a hunter's shanty made itself visible amongst the trees. Out on the prairie were to be seen log-houses and shanties here and there; and some twenty or thirty miles distant, eastward, the indications of a little town, only just faintly visible on the far horizon.

The jaded condition of both man and steed were unmistakable signs of the many weary miles which had been passed in the saddle, and it was with a feeling of relief that he espied a substantial-looking range of log buildings, marking out their owner as a man of some means, who must have made his way, and succeeded in overcoming the initial difficulties of a settler's life.

The deserted look of the place was not, at first sight, encouraging. As, however, he drew in rein at the door of the house, its owner—a man apparently in the prime of life—advanced to meet him. Dressed in a suit of homespun garments, remarkable for their ease and convenience rather than their elegance, his good-humoured and good-tempered looking face gave every indication of a hearty welcome awaiting those who happened to be in need of it.

"Good evening, friend," said the settler, as the rider jumped from his horse, retaining hold of the reins with a loose hand. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a stalwart-looking youth who had made his appearance from a row of wooden shanties which formed the stabling of the settlement, "take and put up this gentleman's horse. See that he has a good rub down before feeding, for he looks pretty well done up."

"And so I should think he was," said his owner, "since it is about seven hours since our last halt for rest or refreshment of any kind."

"Come in, come in, my friend; and we will soon see what the larder has to put before you."

"Well, if I may so far trespass upon Canadian hospitality, I shall only be too glad to accept anything you may be able to offer me."

"Rely upon it that Canadian hospitality will never be backward in giving a right good hearty welcome to travellers from the Old Country, whom fortune or misfortune may bring to our shores."

"Your words," said the tired horseman, as he followed his guide into the house, "have a true British ring in them, which makes one feel at home at once."

"Well, I don't want it ever to be said that James Ranger was the man to turn away the stranger needing help from his door."

Rough and unfinished in appearance as most of the appointments about the place seemed, there was yet that air of comfort and cleanliness which is the marked characteristic of nearly all Canadian houses. A living-room with a kitchen attached—the walls of which had been rendered smooth with endless coats of whitewash—formed the downstairs apartments. In the centre of the room was a rough deal table, on which a tidy white cloth was being spread by a comely-looking, matronly woman well past forty. A couple of cushioned rocking-chairs stood one on each side of a capacious fireplace, and two or three ordinary chairs, neatly cushioned, against the wall. In one corner was a serviceable chest of drawers, with a few books on the top; whilst in front of the window was a small but substantial-looking table, having all the appearance of being home-made, on which a pot with a flower in it was standing. The floor was painted yellow, and partly covered with rag carpets and rugs.

Seating himself, without waiting for any further invitation, our traveller at once proceeded to divest himself of his boots, preliminary to that rest and ease so necessary after a hard day's ride.

Full justice having been done to the ample provisions spread out before her tired guest, the two men lighted their pipes, and, seating themselves in the rear of the house, on a wooden bench running along the full length of the wall, and commanding an extensive view of the magnificent open country beyond, after a few general observations, the old settler, whose curiosity had been aroused by a few casual remarks which had fallen from his guest, inquired—

"Well, my friend, I do not want to pry into your secrets, but may I ask where you are bound for, and what are your intentions in wandering so far away out of the beaten track of ordinary civilised life?"

"Well, the fact is, I am a wanderer, with little more to call my own than Jacob had when, with a stone for his pillow, he slept peacefully in the open, dreaming of the future and a land beyond. Who I am is of little consequence, since I have disgraced my lineage, sullied a good name, and am now seeking to hide my head somewhere—anywhere—so that I may escape recognition, and if possible live out a life which, opening with promise, is destined to close, as that of all wastrels do, in sorrow and disgust!"

"Come, come, young man,—for you are yet young,—it is neither good nor right that you should talk in such a hopeless or despairing tone; whatever may have been your past—and I do not seek to know it beyond what you may be disposed willingly to reveal—there is time yet before you in which wrong-doing may perhaps be atoned for, and some effort made to redeem the past."

"Ah, if you knew all, I am afraid you would be less disposed to say so."

"Well, let's see now," said Ranger. "What are your plans?—if you have formed any."

"Plans I can scarcely be said to have made, unless to wander aimlessly on until chance puts me on the track of doing something for somebody, which will bring me bread-and-cheese, can be called such. Since landing at Montreal, where I bought my horse and the few things you see I possess, and started off into the interior, I have subsisted occasionally by a few purchases, but mainly on the hospitality which has been freely dispensed at the various farmhouses or settlements I have passed through. I shall continue to pursue this course until chance throws me into the way of some employment which I shall be able to enter into."

"Not a very startling or encouraging prospect," was Ranger's comment; "but since time is not an important object with you under such circumstances, you may as well make a short stay here and have a look round."

"With all my heart," replied the traveller, "if you do not think I shall be in the way."

"No fear of that. There is plenty of room out here. We are not overburdened with inhabitants, and can very well spare the trifle you will cost for living; so we will consider that point settled, and we can return to the subject after you have had a good night's rest."

As the evening closed in, the weary traveller was glad to be shown to a comfortable bed, which the kind-hearted hostess had been busily preparing for him, and in less than ten minutes the sounds which issued from his sleeping apartment proclaimed most unmistakably that he was soundly sleeping.

CHAPTER VIII.

MONTREAL.

"I hold the world but as the world...;
A stage, where every man must play a part."
Merchant of Venice, Act I. sc. i.

The Bartons in due course reached Montreal. The passage across was uneventful, and has been so often described that it needs no record here. On landing, they proceeded at once to the ship's agent to whom they had been recommended, and sought from him instructions and information as to their future course. This was readily given. And as they felt they could spare two or three days to gaze upon the sights of this wonderful city, after securing a lodging they took advantage of the opportunity for doing so.

A traveller who visited the city fifty years ago described it as being "one of the oldest settlements on the North American Continent." It stands upon the site of an ancient Indian settlement, all traces of which were soon obliterated by the progressive action of the pale-faces. At first named Mount Royal, in honour of the King of France, after sixty or seventy years' usage it appears to have been corrupted, or changed, to Montreal, but by whom and under what circumstances is not apparent. The town extends along the border of the St. Lawrence for some miles, nearly midway between Quebec and Ottawa, and the principal streets run almost parallel with the river. The older parts of the town forcibly remind one of some of the oldest cities in France, and are as ill-conceived and badly arranged as many of the worst streets of old London. The more modern parts are designed and built in the best of style, justifying its being described as "a noble city of stone edifices, rising from a crowded harbour to its mountain park." This mountain park is an adjunct such as no other city on the Continent can boast of, "whilst its shipping and business quarters give evidence of wealth and commercial activity, which invest it with more than a passing interest."

The two Bartons spent a good deal of time inspecting the chief attractions of the city, until, tired with their wanderings, as they passed through Notre Dame Street they came to a narrow turning, down which they were induced to venture on seeing a small crowd about the centre. On making their way through, they found it to be one of those brawls common enough in their own land, and which they soon learned was not regarded as a strange thing in these parts. It was a fight between two men, with an excited crowd of partisans egging them on. Presently the police arrived on the scene, when an end was quickly put to the combative feelings of the crowd, which was dispersed in very much the fashion that similar crowds are dispersed in the Old Country.

Retracing their steps, their attention was arrested by an ordinary but respectable-looking refreshment bar, which they entered.

A seafaring man was seated at one of the tables, drinking whisky, and loudly declaiming against some injustice—real or imaginary—he wanted his hearers to believe he had suffered at the hands of the Customs' authorities. A group of interested listeners was gathered about him, which our friends joined; but after a while, not feeling interested in the subject he was dilating upon, they separated themselves from the group, and, selecting a table which was unoccupied, ordered a modest meal, such as they believed their means would admit of.

When the time to settle up arrived, what was their dismay and horror to find that their pockets had been emptied of all the money they possessed.

Calling the proprietor, they made known to him their dilemma; but he refused to admit that they had been robbed in his house, and as they could not declare with any certainty that this was the case, they were required to pay; but how to do this was not so easy to determine.

A grinning crowd soon surrounded them, expressing considerable doubts about the bonâ fides of their representations. They, however, succeeded in convincing the landlord that they were what they represented themselves to be by producing the railway tickets, which they had fortunately taken for their forward journey; and he, relying upon their promise to forward the sum due out of the first money they made, allowed them to depart after some little haggling.

Their difficulties, however, were not yet over. It had been their intention to stay a few days longer in Montreal, and they had accordingly engaged their lodgings with that object in view. This was now rendered impossible. They had left a deposit with the lodging-house keeper, so that the only plan they could think of was to interview her, make a clean breast of their position, and, in the event of finding her incredulous, forfeit the money in hand and start at once to the West.

The day being well advanced, they returned to the lodging-house where they had intended staying, which was situate in one of the streets contiguous to the harbour.

The landlady, a sharp-looking little woman, incredulous at first as to the truth of their story, explained that she had so frequently been done by similar representations that they must not feel surprised at her hesitating to accept their statement as true. Convinced at length, she agreed to allow them to remain the night in return for the deposit, so that they might be able to depart by the morning train, outward bound at nine-five a.m. This difficulty overcome, it was not so clear to our two friends how they were to subsist during the long journey which lay before them.

From the police they obtained very little that could be considered satisfactory. The street they described had an indifferent reputation, and the restaurant at which they had stopped was frequently being brought under their notice. But the fact of their having mingled in the row in the street rendered it so extremely probable that the robbery took place there, that they held out no hopes of their loss being recovered. Acting upon police advice, they resolved to call upon the British Consul and acquaint him with the destitute position in which this event had placed them, in the hope that he might be willing to render them a little assistance.

They had not far to go to reach that useful official, into whose presence they were readily admitted.

He was a tall, handsome-looking man, with a fine military bearing, who had well passed the meridian of life. His face was a study which Lavater would have revelled over; it had all the expression of good-humour and a kindly disposition, so delightful to meet with, yet accompanied with a pair of expressive blue eyes which seemed to pierce the person they were looking at. He was certainly not the man to be imposed upon, yet he was quite prepared to listen and weigh a fairly good tale of trouble.

The story of the Bartons was very simple. After taking their tickets at Liverpool, they had the balance out of one hundred pounds left. They had not spent much since reaching Montreal beyond the price of their railway tickets, which had been taken to San Francisco. They had therefore more than half the money they had begun with intact, when so unfortunately deprived of the balance.

Their papers and railway tickets tended to confirm these statements, whilst their manners and appearance were sufficient to convince His Majesty's representative their story was a true one.

"I believe all you tell me," said his Excellency, "and am afraid the treatment you have received from our countrymen will not lead you to form a too favourable impression of them."

"On the contrary," spoke up the elder of the two men, "we feel that there was a great want of thought on our part in the matter, and the kindness we have already met with convinces us that in this country, as in England, the bad are always to be found mixed up with the good."

"I am glad you take that sensible view of the affair; and at the same time, whilst regretting that I cannot make up your loss, which it would perhaps not be wise for me to do, yet to convince you that, as a people, we are not indisposed to extend a helping hand to those who stand in need of it, I shall be quite willing to make you a present of ten pounds, trusting you will guard it with more care than that which has gone."

"Your Excellency's offer is far more than we had any right to anticipate, and overwhelms us with gratitude. It is a noble and generous act, for which we cannot find words adequately to express our feelings."

"Good day," added the Consul, as they were leaving; "in the land you are going to I hope you will find what you are in search of."

"And be assured, sir, you will have no reason to regret your confidence in us, for the very first moneys we succeed in making will be devoted to the return of what we prefer to regard as a loan."

And it was with a feeling of proud satisfaction that, in less than six months, the elder Barton found himself in a position to remit the amount to his Excellency, in a letter which expressed the gratitude felt for the timely help so kindly and generously afforded.

CHAPTER IX

RANGER'S RANCH.

"Thou, like a kind fellow, gave thyself away; and I thank thee."
Henry IV., Part II. Act IV. sc. iii.

Guide-books tell us that "the Dominion of Canada is the largest of the British possessions," and it is difficult to form a true conception of the vast area comprised within the limits of our North American Provinces.

No country has such grand possibilities before it, and its progress of recent years has been remarkable. All Canadians are proud of their country, and believe in it.

But we are not at present concerned so much about Canada in general, or as a whole, as we are with that section which lies some few hundred miles west of Winnipeg, in the district of Assiniboia.

It was here, in the lovely valley of the Qu'Appelle River, that we left our weary traveller at Ranger's Ranch, with a prospect of provisional entertainment, until something suitable could be decided upon for his future.

Having, as he explained, no definite plan of action before him, he very readily fell in with a proposal Ranger made, in the course of a few days, to stay and assist on the farm, so as to ascertain to what extent he was adapted for agricultural pursuits, and whether it was a life he would be willing to settle down to.

"What sort of climate have you here?" was one of the earliest questions asked by Fellows, the name he had expressed a wish to be known by.

"Much the same as prevails in the neighbouring province of Manitoba," was Ranger's reply. "The summer months usually bright, clear, and very warm, but nights cool."

"How is it later on?"

"The autumn months are the finest of the year."

"No rain?"

"Frequently the atmosphere is dry and free from moisture for several weeks."

"Is your winter exceptionally hard?"

"For the matter of that," replied Ranger, "much depends upon constitution. Without doubt it is cold, but there is usually very little wind, and almost constant sunshine; there is no snowfall to any great depth, and traffic is but slightly impeded. In fact, the general dryness of the air causes it to be exceedingly bracing and healthy."

"I suppose you consider it superior to that of the Old Country?"

"Decidedly I do! Experience would tell me that, but the testimony of our Officer of Health goes to confirm it. Listen to what he says," added Ranger, as he took down a little book from the slender stock on the shelf by his side: "'We are absolutely protected by our climatic conditions from several of the most dangerous and fatal diseases, whilst others, which are common to all peoples on the face of the earth, are comparatively rare.'"

"Your favourable description, added to my own brief experience, so charms me, that I feel very much like staying where I am," said Fellows.

"Well, friend, if you are really so minded I daresay we can manage to fix you," was Ranger's rejoinder.

"I am extremely grateful for your kind reception, and courteous treatment, of a perfect stranger, as well as for your further promise and all that it implies; but unless I can be made of some use by you I shall certainly object to becoming a burden here."

"We shall not let you be that," said Ranger. "To-morrow morning I am going to drive into the railway station, which is some fifteen miles out, on the branch line of the C.P.R. running through the valley. You can go with me, as it will give you a good opportunity of seeing a little more of the surroundings, and perhaps enable you to judge of what there is to be done."

Left to himself, with the afternoon before him, Fellows strolled away to the top of a hill which commanded an extensive view over the prairie-land surrounding him on all sides, and there, seating himself beneath a sheltering tree, his thoughts wandered away to a distant home, where in imagination he saw the features of those he loved, and who were seldom absent from his mind. A stranger might not have been able to tell the current of thought engaging his attention, but it would have been apparent to the most casual observer, by the contracted brow and the gloom on his countenance, that his reflections were none of the pleasantest.

After a considerable lapse of time, his attention was diverted by hearing distant sounds of voices borne upon the still air, apparently proceeding from a rough-looking timber construction, the abode of some one of the many farm-hands engaged upon the Ranch.

Built upon a spur of the hill, in a somewhat deep indentation, it was a little distant from where he was seated, but he soon became an attentive observer of all that was passing.

A labouring-looking man came from the house with a pail, and ran with all haste to a pond at a short distance and commenced filling it, but before he could return loud screams proceeded from the interior, which caused Fellows to hasten down the hill in order to ascertain the cause of the commotion.

Reaching the dwelling at the same time as did the other with his pail of water, he found the living-room in a blaze of fire, whilst screams were proceeding from a room beyond, all communication with which appeared to be cut off by the trend of the flames. Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he hastily dipped it in the pail the man was carrying, wrung it out, tied it round his mouth, and then rushed swiftly through the flames into the room where the sounds of distress were to be heard.

On reaching the room, a task which was only successfully accomplished with much difficulty, and considerable painful cost, he beheld a female form sink fainting to the ground, overcome, apparently, by the heat and smoke, of which latter the apartment was full.

To raise her from the floor was the work of an instant; his next proceeding was to place her upon a bed in the room, roll a blanket round her, and rush through the smoke and flame to the outer room with as much speed as the weight of the burden he bore would permit.

The fiery marks on face and hands, which were subsequently to be seen, bore eloquent testimony to the severity of the ordeal he had passed through in accomplishing the dangerous and difficult task so bravely and fearlessly undertaken.

When the outbreak was observed from the other stations on the Ranch, a number of willing hands began to congregate with all haste, and with the assistance of such appliances as were most readily available a united effort was made to stem the progress of the flames. These, however, had by this time obtained so firm a hold, that it was evident the building, with its contents, was doomed. In a short while nothing remained of the humble dwelling but a blackened and smouldering ruin.

The inanimate form of his daughter occupied all the attention of Russell, the late occupier of the hut, who, as soon as she could be restored to consciousness, was found not to have suffered much harm, thanks to the brave and timely efforts of Fellows on her behalf.

He, however, had not escaped so freely, having suffered considerably about the hands and face, which had been exposed to the full force of the flames as he twice made his way through them.

A cart was procured, in which he was at once placed and driven back to Ranger's dwelling, to be doctored with such native measures as Mrs. Ranger was able hastily to command.

The cause of the fire, as the girl explained when she was sufficiently recovered to do so, was one of common occurrence. Some light articles of clothing had been hung in front of the fire to air, and whilst Russell sat enjoying his after-dinner nap, she had gone into the other room to attend to certain domestic duties, and during this temporary absence a spark must have set the things on fire, which was only discovered when the outer room was in a blaze.

As the few things which Russell possessed were all destroyed, arrangements had to be temporarily made for the accommodation of himself and his daughter in two of the other huts on the Ranch, until his own could again be rebuilt.

Leaving instructions for all hands to turn to in the morning, and help put up another dwelling for the two who had been thus suddenly left houseless, Ranger, who, as soon as informed of what was happening, had lost no time in proceeding to the scene of the fire, returned home to see how it fared with Fellows, and to make preparations for his journey in the morning, which would now have to be undertaken without his companionship.

Fellows was in a high state of fever; whilst many of the burns he had sustained were seen to be of such a serious character that it was felt more skilled assistance would have to be procured. A messenger was at once despatched into the town—distant some fifteen miles—for the only medical man in the neighbourhood.

It was shortly after four o'clock in the afternoon, that, mounted on a good horse, the messenger set out for M'Lean Station, in hopes of finding the doctor and returning with him. His way for the most part was over rolling prairie, relieved by clumps of trees, which are to be found on the borders of such lakes and streams as are constantly to be met with; or down amid the hollows, where grow the heavy luxuriant grasses from which the farmer obtains his supply of winter hay.

As the slanting rays of the westering sun were sending up their brilliant points into the clear blue vault above, Ranger's messenger drew rein before the door of the doctor's dwelling, a very unpretentious, one-storeyed detached villa—one of some half-dozen—standing upon a hillside leading up to the station.

Dr. Fisherton was not at home; he had left in the early morning for the Pleasant Hills, in response to an imperative request from a Nat Langham, who kept a store, and farmed a small holding at the foot of the hills, and was not expected back till late. There was no help for it but to wait. So, stabling his horse, he accompanied his negro attendant into the servants' quarters, determined to make himself as comfortable as possible for the time being.

After doing full justice to the meal which was presently spread out before him, and which his long ride had well prepared him for, he lighted his pipe and seated himself at the window to wait for the doctor's return.

Slowly the hours seemed to pass, until eleven o'clock struck, without any signs of the doctor's appearance. At length the sound of a horse's feet were heard approaching, and soon all doubt was put at rest with the entry of the man so long expected.

The appearance of the doctor was that of a man in the prime of life; tall, and with a good physique, and a countenance calculated to impart confidence almost at a glance.

On learning that a messenger was in waiting for him, he, without standing on ceremony, immediately made his way to where he was sitting and inquired the nature of his business.

"There's been a fire, sir, this afternoon, at Farmer Ranger's, and one of his men is very seriously injured; in fact, when I left home he was in a high state of fever, so that it was thought advisable to send me, in order, if possible, to take you back at once to him."

"Well, you see I was out and in the saddle early this morning, and have only just returned after a hard day's work. What do you say to staying the night, so that we may start together soon after daylight in the morning?"

"It may sound a little inconsiderate, sir," responded the man, "but if you could manage to come now, we shall be able to reach the Ranch about two o'clock; and my own opinion is, that it is a case where every hour may be a matter of importance."

After reflecting for a few moments, during which time he seemed to be turning the matter well over in his mind, he announced his decision in a manner which admitted of no appeal.

"I think it would be very unwise to start at such an hour. It is late; there is no moon; the track is very uneven; and in the darkness it would not be difficult to miss one's way. Besides, the ground is not free from loafers and tramps—to give them no more desperate title—whom it would be dangerous to meet at such a time. We will bed you up for the night, and start in the morning soon after the dawn; and instead of reaching the farm at the unearthly hour of two, get there between six and seven, a delay of four or five hours, which, on the whole, I think will be a far preferable arrangement."

The wisdom of the course recommended was too evident to admit of dispute; therefore, after giving orders for the morning, the doctor retired, and the man was shown at once to his sleeping apartment, and for a few brief hours sought a welcome rest.

The grey light of dawn was stealing rapidly up from the east when the messenger, Burt, was awakened by the negro attendant and told that it was time to be up. To arise and dress, for a man of his habits, was not a work occupying much time; in less than ten minutes he was seated in the kitchen, doing ample justice to the well-spread table before him. And by the time the doctor was ready to depart, Burt was in the saddle by his side, and together they started on their ride to the Ranch.

The atmosphere being clear, the view up the valley along which they journeyed was uninterrupted. Where the river ran there was a thick and tangled line of vegetation, but the absence of rain had reduced it to the proportions of a very modest stream, flowing sluggishly within narrow limits. As they reached higher ground they found it everywhere thickly covered with the short crisp variety of grass known as "buffalo grass," forming excellent pasture both in winter and summer.

Familiarity may not always breed contempt, because of the beauty of things with which long association has rendered one familiar, nevertheless it induces indifference. And in the case of our two friends—Fisherton and Burt—the scenes through which they were passing had been so frequently viewed by them, that it was with a species of indifference they rapidly pushed on, intent upon accomplishing their journey with as little delay as possible.

Reaching the farm just as Ranger and his household were about to sit down to breakfast, they were fully prepared, after rising so early and their long and rather exhausting ride, to join him at the morning meal.

When seated at the breakfast-table, the doctor inquired about the patient he had come to see, and was informed that he had passed a very restless night, with fitful intervals of sleep, and seemed to be in great pain.

"When your messenger arrived, it happened, unfortunately," said Dr. Fisherton, "that I was out. A mounted messenger from the Pleasant Hills had that morning arrived to say I was wanted at Nat Langham's Store, where a free fight had resulted in one man being shot dead and two others severely wounded, and I was unable to get back until eleven at night, when I found him waiting to bring me here."

"Ah, I see!" added Ranger; "and of course you naturally felt it was too late to start out then to come here."

"That is just it, my friend. Your man wanted me to do so; but I decided that, rather than arrive here in the middle of the night, it would be better to take a few hours' rest, start with the dawn, and get here, as we have done, in broad daylight."

"Quite right, doctor; and when you have finished breakfast, I will take you to the patient, and let you see for yourself if you think the delay has done him any harm."

"I trust not," was the doctor's only comment.