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Mr. Charles Stephen Roland Slimmer, Head and only surviving member of the publishing firm of Slimmer, Slapp & Co., was in a pessimistic mood, judging by signs and tokens. Sitting at his office desk, he fidgetted with pencils, letter opener and blotter, while he enlarged on the rotten state of business, and his certainty that they were racing headlong to the Bankruptcy Court, if not already on its doorstep.

His remarks were addressed to Miss Hesper Pew, the General Manager, who was handling stock papers at an adjoining table.

Messrs. Slimmer, Slapp & Co. styled themselves “Geographic, Physiographic and Explorative Experts,” and specialised on books dealing with travel, exploration and kindred themes—not so much educational or scientific, as popular in style; though they didn’t despise the former, if people were willing to buy them.

The original George Slimmer, uncle of the present proprietor, had developed an extremely profitable line, in the days when facilities for extended travel were expensive and comparatively meagre, and the major portion of the inhabitants of the British Isles preferred sitting in an easy chair by the home fireside, reading about cannibals in comfort, to being eaten on the spot.

And no experienced explorer of that age thought of starting on any venture abroad without a signed contract from Mr. Slimmer in his carpet-bag, and a small—very small—advance cheque in his pocket. Mr. Slimmer, being thrifty, saw no reason to risk the loss of much good money on a man who might not turn up again. One never knew!

He also organised a Touring Agency with a special section made up of parties, each to be chaperoned by an explorer who would take tourists over his former route, and permit them to gaze upon the “heathen,” while showing them the short cuts up volcanoes or through tropical forests.

These parties were for men only, and were therefore only mentioned by the ladies of the family in subdued tones, and in the privacy of home environment, such experiences being regarded as unsuitable for women at that unenlightened period of the world’s dark history, and before the era when a brief bathing costume was considered adequate clothing for the female form in public.

Another department was engaged in handling the serial publication of articles dealing with every phase of travel. Here feminine readers were especially cultivated, and for a time no ladies’ periodical seemed complete without a glowing article on some woman’s nerve-racking adventures abroad, in pursuit of no-one-knows-what. And the more hair-curling her experiences, the more the readers revelled in her discomforts.

Such titles as “Pushing a Pram Across Sahara,” or “Astride a Yak in the Yangtse River,” do not sound exciting to the present generation. But in the bad old days, before every woman had been all over the earth (and been sampled by every variety of insect thereupon), the amount of thrills the author got into these articles were so many little gold mines to Messrs. Slimmer, Slapp & Co.

Also there was, in those same old days, an additional revenue resulting from lectures on those adventures. At that period all properly constructed people liked to belong to literary societies—or at any rate they felt they ought to like it even if they didn’t; so they tried to look as though they did. And they paid their subscriptions bravely for a series of evening entertainments, mostly of appalling dullness.

But occasionally there was a hectic break-away from drowsy discourses on Dr. Johnson or Shakespeare’s Heroines, when Messrs. Slimmer supplied as a lecturer some distinguished traveller, such as the identical lady who, alone and unaided, had pushed her two-months-old baby in a pram from Zanzibar to the Gold Coast.

After all, with most of us, it is the personal touch that counts. And the above lady—especially if she exhibited the pram or the baby—drew a far larger audience than did the deceased Samuel or William, no matter how much worthier were their utterances. And if—when asked by someone in the audience—the lady couldn’t remember, on the spur of the moment, the baby’s age, now it was safely past the perils of the desert, no one thought any the worse of her for that, or doubted her bona fides. It only showed how nearly her brain had been wrecked by her journey; and how it harrowed her to recall the details. And every one of her hearers sympathised with her. Shakespeare wouldn’t have been let off nearly so easily!

However, these are merely bald indications of some of the various ways in which Slimmer Senior had managed to do himself very prosperously in the past. His own personal hobby was excavations—burrowing where long forgotten races had once lived, and loved; and died, one hopes, in the ordinary course of nature. But at any rate they died. George Slimmer was keen to know all about it. But he was shrewd enough to realise that such work would take more out of the business than it brought in. And he kept his own predilections in the background, excepting when they had a marked cash value.

He knew a good deal, however. And he was recognised as the authority about Everywhere. It mattered not whether it was a fresh war, or a new earthquake—newspaper men hurried to Mr. Slimmer for information concerning the district. And he could usually supply their wants.

But that was once upon a time! Before aircraft had spied out the length and breadth of every land. Before wireless orators had snuffed out most of the literary societies—not because they supplied better material, but because, if one had to have dullness thrust upon one, it was more endurable in one’s own armchair at home, than amidst the many discomforts of a lecture hall where it wasn’t so easy to drop asleep. Neither could one switch it off.

Having been hard-working all his life, as well as enterprising and brain-wavey, Slimmer Senior was able to leave a very substantial business to his nephew and heir, when he himself set out on man’s last journey.

As soon as Charles entered into possession (Mr. Slapp having disappeared long before) he started to spend as industriously as his late uncle had striven to save. And but for the circumspect management of Miss Pew, he might have lost, in a few years, all that his uncle had been a lifetime accumulating.

Not that he had any violent and expensive vices. He simply regarded the business as a money-chest, into which he dipped as often as he needed cash. His tastes were extravagant, and he himself was lazy. Moreover he hadn’t any original or new ideas in his head. And it never seemed to occur to him that, without a succession of new ideas, any business in these days must ultimately peter out.

His uncle’s schemes and plans had coined money in the past; hence he concluded they would go on coining money indefinitely. And he left it at that.

And so did the public!

But Miss Pew knew otherwise. For several years she had provided the needful brain-waves and new ideas, while her employer reaped both the cash and the credit.

Theoretically, she was his confidential secretary, having risen, by sheer ability, from a subordinate clerkship to be his uncle’s right hand, till at last he placed the general management in her capable hands. Though, barring a substantial rise in salary, no steps were taken to give a legal status to the verbal appointment. But this did not worry Miss Pew. She loved her work, and even had rosy dreams of some day being taken into partnership—perhaps!

When Charles Slimmer had said all he could think of, at the moment, about the imminence of bankruptcy, the iniquity of the dole, the villainy of the Budget, the incompetence of every government, and similarly bright enheartening topics—he paused for breath, and to think up more gloomy forecasts.

Miss Pew looked up from the papers she was studying, and took the opportunity to say:

“Oh, things are not as bad as all that. We’re keeping our heads well above water, in spite of the universal trade depression. And we must try to break out in a new place.”

“Where? I should like to know. What spot on earth is unexplored, since these mad machines started to churn up earth and sky and water.”

“What about the Takla Makan Desert?”

“Why not suggest Peckham Rye!” retorted Mr. Slimmer sarcastically, to hide the fact that he had no notion where the Takla Makan Desert was. “The place will be as thick as every other desert with aeroplanes, and motors, and people lapping up data for articles, and society women petting the natives in order to get notoriety. No, this outbreak of cheap machines means death to a firm like ours. Now that every Tom, Dick and Harriet can rattle around earth and sky on a petrol can, no one wants to read travel books, unless they themselves have written them. And we may as well put up the shutters—unless—” he fidgetted nervously with the oddments on his desk—“unless——”

“Haven’t you something on your mind, or up your sleeve?” Miss Pew asked, with a smile. “You know quite well that this business isn’t anywhere near its last gasp yet. What is the matter?”

“We need more capital—that’s what’s the matter. The public doesn’t care a rap for anything in the exploration line now, excepting excavations, and they cost a mint of money.”

“That’s true. But how can we get more capital?”

“I’m proposing to take a partner.”

“Oh!” Miss Pew’s interest in the stock papers ceased. She gazed at him in surprise. “A partner. I can only say, like the Victorian ladies: ‘This is so sudden!’ Do I know him?”

“It’s a lady. In fact—er—I wanted to tell you that I’m about to be married.”

“Really! This is still more exciting news. I’m sure I wish you every happiness.” Miss Pew was so completely taken by surprise, that she scarcely knew what she was saying. Though it was on the point of her tongue to ask if he were marrying merely to gain capital for the business. Yet it would have been a useless query, even if it had been possible to make it; for she knew perfectly well that he did not care a hang about the business per se; all he wanted was capital for himself.

Once he had made the initial announcement, he found it easy to supply further details. The bride-to-be was the only child of Sir John King, a wealthy manufacturer.

There could be no question but what he would be able to provide his daughter with a sizeable dowry. And she needed it, too! She had already passed forty summers in maiden meditation, and one could only conclude, on looking at her, that the weather of each had been worse than the previous one.

As a junior clerk remarked to her friend in the office, when the notice of the engagement and the lady’s portrait appeared in the papers: “Well, it can’t be said that our dear lad has been led astray by youth or beauty. He’d have done better if he had chosen Delicate Fuss” (the office sobriquet for Miss Pew). “At least she has looks!”

“Beauty is a drug on the market at present, darling. Look at you and me, for instance!” replied a snub-nosed, many-freckled young person, cheerfully. “What he is after is cash.”

As soon as Miss Pew heard the name of the bride-elect, she wondered how much capital Sir John King was contributing to the business, in order to secure so presentable a husband for his daughter. And there was no denying that Charles Slimmer was a worth-while bachelor, so far as appearance went.

However, it wasn’t Miss Pew’s business to inquire into the marriage settlements. She did experience just a slight feeling of pique—or was it injured pride?—that he should have passed her over in favour of another woman. Not that she was in love with him, or would have married him if he had asked her. A weak spendthrift was not a type she admired. But no woman is flattered by the fact that a man with whom she is in frequent contact proposes to someone else, when there is no reason why he should not propose to her. That was all—and this was only a fleeting phase. She was glad to hear that more money would be available for developments. She had long been keen to see the firm embark on excavations in Central Asia, where it was possible that treasure and historical data might be unearthed that would outrival Egypt.

“There’s another thing,” continued Charles Slimmer, after having broken the news of his engagement. “We need bigger names—badly. If only we could get Roger Rosscombe’s next book on his Karakoma expedition it would be the making of us.”

“Why not offer him something really tempting? I see he is in Paris still, laid up with a sprain. He won’t be starting for another week. Why not make a plunge, by way of celebrating your engagement?”

“No go! He won’t look at us at any price. I talked to him some little while ago. Nothing short of a tornado would bring him in our direction.”

They were interrupted by a clerk with a man’s visiting card.

Mr. Slimmer glanced at the name; handed it to Miss Pew, asking: “Do we know him?”

“I don’t think so,” studying the card. “But I had better see him, as he belongs to the Himalayan Mission. He might have something useful to offer.”

At first the Missionary didn’t reveal anything more exciting than a very dull and dilapidated manuscript, which he hoped Messrs. Slimmer, Slapp & Co. would be willing to publish.

Miss Pew glanced at the first chapter, though the first page gave evidence enough of the writer’s inability to write a saleable book. However, she asked him to leave it, promising to go over it carefully. Had he any illustrations?

He produced a number of amateur snapshots, which were about on a par with the manuscript. He specially singled out one little blurred photographic mess that might have been a “close-up” of an Irish stew! but which he said was a remarkable glacier in one of the mighty gorges of the Himalaya.

“And it was just here”—indicating an indecipherable spot on the “blur”—“that the path on the mountain-side gave way, and a pack-horse and driver fell over the edge, into the bed of a stream below. I clambered down after them, thinking the coolie was killed, though marvellous to relate, neither he nor the pony was seriously hurt, in spite of the fact that the pack animal had brought down part of the river bank with it, and dislodged some bricks, which rattled down on top of it.”

“Bricks?” queried Miss Pew. “But I thought you said this was twelve thousand feet up, and two hundred miles from a village? How did bricks come there?”

“That’s the curious part of it. And the bricks themselves are unlike anything we see up there now. I brought a couple away with me. I have one with me now,” opening his attaché case.

Miss Pew studied the brick. It was certainly unlike anything she had ever seen before, and she had had considerable experience and had made a study of “honourable remains” of past ages. It had evidently been tooled by hand, with incised marking on both sides.

“Were there any ruins nearby, or any signs of previous human habitation?” she asked.

“None whatever. Simply bricks buried in the bank of a stream which very few people know about, as it is off the main track, and you only come upon it if journeying to our Mission Station. Yes, there appeared to be heaps more. I couldn’t stay to examine the bank, as I was on my way down to Kashmir, and I couldn’t risk missing my steamer at Bombay. But I know there is no record of any building ever having been in that region. I made a special note of the exact position.”

“I wish you would leave this with me for a few days. I should like to have another opinion on it. Have you shown the bricks to anyone else?”

“No. I only arrived home yesterday, and came straight here, as I’m so anxious to place my book.”

“Well, don’t do anything till you hear from me. I can’t say if this is of especial interest, or only ordinary local work. But it looks unusual to me, and I would like to consult some expert.”

Mr. Slimmer was not particularly excited when Miss Pew showed him the brick, and explained that it would be worth taking a risk, and sending it to Dr. Rosscombe for his inspection, as his forthcoming tour might take him in the direction of the said river bank. “It’s just a chance, of course,” she said; “but if it should prove a genuine find—who knows, we might get the next Rosscombe book.”

“Do as you please,” said her chief casually, “though I don’t think much of the chunk myself. But we’ll risk it. You must send someone over to Paris with it, of course, to keep their hand on it, in case it is any good. I shan’t be back to-day,” reaching for his hat, and adjourning, presumably, to the haunts of capital.

While she was debating whom to send with the brick to Paris, where Dr. Rosscombe was assembling his forces for a hazardous journey over, through, or round about the Karakoram Range—one of the many Tibetan barricades—her office door opened and Patty Foxcroft walked in, unannounced, as usual, which always annoyed Hesper Pew, though she could hardly say so. Miss Foxcroft had been a clerk in Miss Pew’s office, until a year or so ago. She was shrewd but superficial; shoddily smart; always on the look-out for anything which she could annex and use to her own advantage. But not clever enough to be a success, like the designing vamp, or unscrupulous minx, so prevalent in conventional films.

On the strength of a short story accepted by a back-alley publication (but never paid for), she had left Miss Pew’s office to take up journalism. And she had floated around in that vague occupation ever since, living no one knew how, excepting when she borrowed from Hesper.

One day, however, she announced to the uninterested staff at Mr. Slimmers that she was the author of a highly successful volume of poems, published under a pseudonym. And she told her former colleagues that she was going to send them copies.

Being polite, though bored, they thanked her, and went on with their typing.

The small volumes arrived next day, autographed splashily inside.

A fortnight later, Miss Foxcroft sent to each recipient a bill for five shillings per copy.

Which, naturally, endeared her to them all!

For once in their office lives there was not a single difference of opinion among them. Every copy was promptly returned to the donor, with merely a “Decline Form” enclosed.

Some weeks later one of the clerks discovered that the poems were not by Miss Foxcroft at all! They were the output of some unknown seeker after poetic fame, whose little book had died as soon as born. Miss Foxcroft had bought up some of these, when they were being sold off as “remainders” at sixpence a copy!

That was typical of her methods.

Sinking into the easy chair in Miss Pew’s office, without waiting for it to be offered her, an outsider would have concluded that she was an ever-welcome confidential friend—until they noticed that Miss Pew’s expression wasn’t exactly one of extreme cordiality. But Patty Foxcroft always assumed that she was welcome, when she wanted anything; and never allowed anyone’s countenance to deter her from asking for what she wanted.

As a rule, her need was for a small loan—which would be paid back immediately, of course! There was always a cheque due to her in the background, which, for some unknown reason, hadn’t appeared. But on its arrival (and it certainly would turn up to-morrow, if not this evening) the loan would be repaid.

Only it never was!

Hesper was generous, and sympathetic where real hardship and misfortune crossed her path; but, like most of us, she had little patience with the habitual scrounger. And she had made up her mind to say “No” to Miss Foxcroft’s next appeal. She was surprised, therefore, when her caller omitted the customary announcement that she was stony-broke, and opened conversation with the information that she was going to Paris for her paper at the end of the week, and could she do anything for Miss Pew while she was there?

Miss Foxcroft’s “paper” was always a somewhat elusive affair, with a different name every month or so. She was never on the same one for long. At present, she considered herself connected in some undefined way with the Woman’s Page of the Daily Lyre. And her mission to Paris seemed equally indefinite; though she talked glibly about next season’s fashions, and would almost have convinced anyone who didn’t know her that London was waiting on tip-toe for her to reveal to them the secrets of the French dressmakers.

Hesper considered. Should she entrust her with the parcel? She wasn’t reliable where money was concerned; but this wasn’t a gold-brick; and she couldn’t do much with it beyond delivering it to Dr. Rosscombe, unless she lost it. And a messenger sent from her office might do that!

She decided to let Patty be her messenger. This would not take up much of her time. She had only to leave the parcel at Dr. Rosscombe’s hotel and get a signature for it from his secretary. Not much possibility of anything going wrong.

Patty was delighted to undertake the commission. Of course she knew of Dr. Rosscombe (who didn’t?) and would see that everything was O.K.

So that was settled; and she left Miss Pew’s office richer than when she came in—as usual!

Meanwhile, a letter was sent to the famous explorer, giving him particulars of the parcel which was being sent for his inspection; and inquiring if the matter interested him, in view of his projected journey in the direction of this discovery.

His reply to Miss Pew’s letter was guarded and non-committal. He could give no opinion at present; but would like to be put into communication with the Missionary. If anything of value resulted, he would certainly reserve the information exclusively for Messrs. Slimmer, Slapp & Co.

There the matter had to be left. In any case, it takes time to get to the Karakoram mountains, and occasionally it takes even more time to get away from them.

Nothing much could be hoped for till after the explorer’s return.

“It isn’t more capital that you need, so much as more enterprise. Splash and Dash—that’s the business slogan to-day. The whole concern needs gingering up.”

Charles Slimmer, back from his honeymoon, was listening to his father-in-law’s criticism of his business with respectful patience, as became one who hoped for financial assistance from a wealthy relative.

But Sir John showed no sign of reaching for his cheque book. His wedding present to his son-in-law had been disappointingly economical—a dozen or so of grotesque walking sticks which he had collected on his travels (not one fit to use); also a set of carved ivory chessmen. Agatha, the bride, affected chess, of sorts! While Charles would as soon have thought of hemming a duster as devoting his time to that hectic pastime.

Agatha’s dowry was of liberal dimensions, but it was securely tied to Agatha. Sir John had no intention of allowing his self-earned money to be fooled away by any son-in-law, more especially as he hadn’t an over-high opinion of Charles’ business sagacity. Still, he was glad to get Agatha off his hands, since he had other designs for the feminine adornment of his own fireside, and he knew that, short of a husband, no one on earth would have been able to oust Agatha from the place she had occupied for the past twenty years. Agatha was so solid; no budge in her! And—yes, it was actually twenty years since her mother had died! Well, she was none too young to marry. And now there would be no chance of friction with a stepmother. Meanwhile there was another matter he wanted settled before he remarried, and it had occurred to him that Charles might prove useful.

“By the way”—he interrupted his comments on Charles’ business methods—“I wish you could make room somewhere for Miss Bowman. I’ve promised to get her a good berth, and she’s worth it—er—I never had a smarter secretary. Of course, I’ll be responsible for her salary. Agatha knows nothing about the matter, and it can easily be settled on a cash basis. Only it would have to be a fairly good post. Couldn’t she understudy Miss Pew?”

“We aren’t needing anyone extra at present, but at the same time I daresay”—Charles was anxious to oblige his father-in-law everyhow, remembering his overdraft at the bank.

“You arrange it for me, and I’ll see what can be done to put a little pep into the business. Miss Pew can surely find something for her to do. What day shall I tell her to call and see you?”

Hesper was decidedly surprised when her chief suggested, next day, that she should find room for a newcomer in her office.

“But I thought you were anxious to reduce expenses,” she said. “Why add an unnecessary item to the salary list? I’m not wanting an extra clerk just now.”

“Sir John says she is so exceptional that it seems a pity for us not to secure her. He says he never had a smarter secretary.”

“Then why doesn’t he keep her?”

“Well—er—that was some time ago. I believe he has someone else now.”

“What has she been doing in the interval? If so exceptional, why doesn’t Sir John find her a post in his business. It’s bigger than yours.”

“I can’t say—h’m!—I don’t know. But Sir John vouches for her, so I should like her to be in your office. I’ll send her to you when she calls on Monday.” And he turned away to avoid further inquiries.

When Miss Bowman arrived on Monday—dark-eyed, magnolia-complexioned, exquisitely dressed, and looking like a haughty mannequin—it was she who looked over Miss Pew to see if she would do; she was totally indifferent as to Miss Pew’s opinion of her, and showed it. Yet there seemed nothing for it but to accept her. Charles Slimmer made that quite clear. He was positively emphatic on that point. So she was installed. And directly under Miss Pew, too. The outer offices talked a good deal in the lunch hour.

Oh! but she was worse than a trial once she moved in. She treated the other women clerks as so many pieces of furniture; and took no more notice of them than she did of the office chairs.

Her attitude towards Miss Pew was one of covert insolence. She did exactly as she pleased, and not an inch more. When she continued to arrive half an hour, or more, late in the morning, and Miss Pew at last pointed out the time, she replied: “Yes, I see it is past ten.” And even then made no move to get on with her work, but continued her toilet at her desk, even combing her short hair, which was particularly repulsive to Miss Pew. She was one of those highly prepared women, whose original features the beauty specialists had done their best to eliminate. Exceedingly leisurely in her movements, at times, when she chose, she seemed hardly awake, and she emphasised this impression by making no reply—if she didn’t wish to—when spoken to, or asked a question.

In reality, her half-closed eyes were those of a cat who pretends she is not watching the mousehole. Nothing escaped them.

She made no attempt to conceal her resentment at being under the jurisdiction of another woman. She worked better under men, she said; understood them better than she did women. But as Charles Slimmer showed no desire to be better understood, she continued as Miss Pew’s assistant.

Communicative she never was—which was one advantage. Miss Foxcroft had talked too much. It was a relief when she had left. Miss Bowman was the very opposite. Indeed, Hesper could only recall one other concrete remark that she had made, and it seemed apropos of nothing in particular:

“If anyone does me an injury, sooner or later I strike back, and when I strike, I strike hard!”

“What an alarming person to quarrel with,” Miss Pew had replied laughingly; “I must be careful.”

Nevertheless, the situation was perplexing and most unsatisfactory. Sensing that this was not an ordinary appointment, and that, for better or for worse, the newcomer would be retained out of deference to Sir John, whether she earned her salary or not, Miss Pew realised that there could be no appeal to the head of the firm. Besides, since she was appointed Manager, she had controlled the staff, and meant to do so now. But she felt it was too bad to have saddled her with this incubus.

Temperamentally, Hesper Pew was optimistic and invariably cheerful. Life had not been easy for her, by any means; but its perplexities and disappointments had not warped her outlook.

As a child, her father had once demonstrated to her, when out on a country walk, that the longest lane always has a turning; and that the farther you walk, the nearer you are to getting there. She had never forgotten this; and no matter how dreary or unpromising the going might be, she always struggled on, keeping a hopeful look-out for the turning.

Her father had been a dealer in antiques—very artistic and very unbusinesslike. He stocked his premises with what appealed to him personally, irrespective of its commercial value, and quite oblivious as to the question of anyone ever wanting to buy it. Indeed he often felt aggrieved when someone insisted on purchasing and carrying off some article which he particularly admired. Method he had none. He would devote as much time to showing and explaining his treasures to someone who was spending a shilling, as he would to a wealthy customer.

Even as a little girl, Hesper had realised the need for system in their business. She hated the perpetual muddle which permeated the shop—old lace mixed up with sporting prints; a spode dish reposing on a chippendale chair; a cameo lost in a wedgwood teapot; books on the floor. As for the lovely things jumbled up amid dustiness and mustiness, she felt their humiliation personally, and the artistic ingredient in her cried out against this desecration of beauty; while the business element in her protested against the waste of time involved in talking and talking to people, who often bought nothing in the end—and all the while the dinner might be waiting and spoiling.

She longed to overhaul the whole concern, tidy it up, and keep a sharper look out for a turning in their finances than her father did. But he died when she was fifteen.

Fortunately the shop had belonged to him, which was a small stand-by for his widow; but there was very little else. As Hesper’s mother was unable to carry on the business, owing to poor health, she let the shop, turned the floor above into a flat—and being in Westminster there was no difficulty in letting it—while she and Hesper moved to the top floor.

There and then Hesper had to shoulder the responsibilities of the head of the household, for her mother’s heart trouble grew worse in consequence of the nervous strain of it all, and before long she was a confirmed invalid.

Mr. George Slimmer, founder of the firm of Slimmer, Slapp & Co., having known her father, offered the girl a small post in his office. She was delighted, and felt that now her foot was on the first rung of the business ladder, the world was open to her, and all she had to do was to forge ahead. Which she proceeded to do.

Her love of order was second only to her desire for efficiency. She studied indefatigably, aiming to equip herself for any post in the firm that might fall vacant.

And she succeeded.

George Slimmer was experienced enough to know that whole-hearted zeal of this type, coupled with real ability, doesn’t land on a firm’s doorstep every day; and he was wise enough to give such an exceptional combination full scope for its development.

He had noted the curious fact that while she inherited her father’s artistic taste and persistent optimism, she also possessed, in an unusual degree, the qualities which had been so disastrously lacking in him—method and business instinct. And because efficiency had been so wanting in her father’s affairs, she made almost a fetish of it in her own case.

As her position improved, so money matters became easier. But she spent all her spare time at home, owing to her mother’s condition; and this so cut her off from outside sociabilities, that when her mother died, and she herself was twenty-eight, she had no real friends, and there were no relations that she knew of. She suddenly felt a trifle lonely.

It is easy for the sophisticated to ask: Why didn’t she go out sometimes to dinner and dance afterwards; get to know people; join a good club; and move about more in the swim?

But to the woman holding a very arduous position, who has been working in the City all day, “Home” is often the lodestar that attracts most of all. It was so with Hesper.

In any case, while some women are “club-minded”—some are not. Hesper was not. A club didn’t appeal to her in any way. Then again, it isn’t powerfully exciting to go out to dinner and dance—alone. And no one had invited her to go with him; and she wasn’t the type to invite a man to go with her. Neither was she the easy-going sort who could chum up with any casual acquaintance. She had a personal shyness and inborn reticence, which strangely enough is frequently found with keen business acumen and exceptional brain power. Her work was everything; her own private affairs she kept studiously in the background.

Present-day employers, as a whole, approve this concentrated devotion to their interests. If the woman in time develops into a sexless machine—a highly sensitised and entirely reliable machine, but a machine nevertheless—that is all to the good, so far as the employer is concerned.

Sometimes, however, she develops nerves instead!

Then again, Hesper Pew’s work wasn’t the kind that led to colourful evening gaieties; and the office had no men who specialised on such.

The few unmarried youths had all they could do, after settling the weekly accounts with their respective landladies, to find enough cash for their own dinners, fares, clothes, laundry, and similar personal dissipations. The older men were too much occupied with the problem of the next instalment of their income-tax, and the demand for rates, always hovering in the offing—to have anything to spare for the entertainment of ladies other than their wives.

One sees—on the films—delightful offices, where sweet feminine influence prevails above all such sordid considerations as money-making. Where the atmosphere seems to be thick with floral offerings, boxes of chocolate, expensive little dinners for two, theatre tickets, and presents ranging from jewellery to silk nighties. Where plutocratic directors simply tumble over each other with offers of marriage and a motor-car thrown in; while the silent junior clerk grinds his newest set of teeth in speechless misery, because his income is only a paltry £950 per annum, and obviously unworthy of the fair typist’s notice.

It all sounds very hopeful and alluring. The only trouble is that no one seems to know where such offices are to be found in real life. At any rate, the publishing house of Slimmer wasn’t a bit like that. Not in the very least.

There was one occasion certainly, on which Miss Pew had been asked out to lunch, and by no less important a person than Mr. Charles Slimmer himself, not long after his uncle’s death and his own accession to the headship of the firm. Being a pleasant bachelor—and very good looking—such an invitation could be accepted with perfect propriety—of course.

It happened to be a lovely June morning—that is, so far as any morning in London can ever be truthfully described as lovely. Miss Pew was wearing a frock that was almost summery, and had bought a bunch of pink roses on her way to the City, putting some on her own desk, and some on the mantelpiece in the chief’s room. Mr. Slimmer liked flowers, and Miss Pew had always made it part of her duty to study her chief’s likes, and banish his dislikes, with attentive care.

Charles was very cheerful that morning; even expressed admiration for her frock, and then surprised her by asking if she would lunch with him that day.

It was only natural that she should accept with smiling pleasure. His uncle had never asked her to set foot outside the office with him, much less share his customary sandwich and cup of coffee, which was his midday meal. In fact, no one in the office had ever asked her out to lunch before. The men who did invite her, and to whom she always said a courteous “No,” were from outside firms interested in paper and printing contracts, and naturally anxious to secure Miss Pew’s goodwill. Most other men treated her with respect, often with deference; her thorough knowledge of her work ensured this. But they also treated her much as they would a fellow man. This may have been a tribute to her brain; but it left her heart singularly cold.

The unexpectedness of her chief’s invitation seemed to give it special significance. Yet next moment, she felt less interest in the outing, as she heard him add, “And I’m asking Mr. Phelps to join us.”

Mr. Phelps was the middle-aged Trade Manager; a good business man, an estimable husband, the exemplary father of several sons and daughters, and two grand-children; also the owner of a straggly beard which badly needed bobbing or shingling.

That luncheon party proved to be about as exhilarating as a funeral repast. Mr. Phelps ate steadily and stolidly, the conversation being merely an overhauling of the pros and cons of their rivals’ methods.

Miss Pew listened, or talked, with her usual intelligent interest; the Trade Manager only committing himself to inarticulate, mouthful-murmurs, at intervals, behind his spoon or fork.

When coffee was served, Charles enlightened them as to the reason of this festive foregathering. He had a proposition to make, which he thought would be most beneficial to all concerned. Why not close the house yet an hour earlier during the summer, and have the staff stay an hour later during the winter? He himself found it so inconvenient to be staying so late as five o’clock with his Golf Club so far away. And though he could leave when he pleased, the others couldn’t.

Why not close down at four o’clock?

Mr. Phelps did manage to say something distinctly then. He said that when Mr. Charles had been as long in the house as he, the Trade Manager had, he might know a little about the business and would have learnt by then that they needed every hour’s work they could get, during the summer months, in order to get the forthcoming autumn publications ready for shipment in time to catch the Colonial Christmas trade. And he sniffed, almost contemptuously, at his chief’s ignorance, in spite of the good cigar he was smoking.

Thus another bright thought went West!

Yet Hesper didn’t crave outside gaieties, even though she did think wistfully at times that life seemed incomplete. Her work didn’t leave her much time for such meditations, however; and that her finances had enabled her to take over the whole house above the shop, she had found plenty to do in planning and re-arranging her home.

Modernity prevailed, plus every sort of labour-saving gadget she could lay hands on. This was her one obsession. She couldn’t resist purchasing even the newest type of tomato-slicer, though she never touched tomatoes.

Her domestic assistant, who came when she pleased each morning, and fluttered about the rooms for a few hours, agreed that the vacuum cleaner was wonderfully convenient—and went on raising dust with a broom in the dear old-fashioned way. When Miss Pew demonstrated the charms of the dish-washing machine, her assistant gurgled with delight at its labour-saving qualities—and continued to use three-quarters of a pint of water and a passé dish-cloth for all the washing up.

The electric iron was the only thing that didn’t please her. “I can’t a-bear flat irons!” she said; “never could, since my pore sister went off ’er ’ead.”

“But what had a flat iron to do with it?” Miss Pew asked.

“You see, the lady where she worked—like as it might be you, so to speak—asked her if she could wash the cretonne covers of her easy chairs. Being always willing to oblige, me sister brought ’em home. Washed ’em all right. Put a little salt in the water to keep the colour from running, which it didn’t. But when it come to ironing ’em, she just seemed to go on and on and on, turning ’em round and round, this way and that, and never could get to the end of the blessed things, nor find the beginning either. Tried to fold ’em up; couldn’t find any spot to begin the folding, no back and no front, it was all either upside down or round the corner. Have you ever tried to iron one of them chair covers? . . . No? . . . Then if you’ll take my advice, you never will. My pore sister ain’t been the same since. Give me a chair that can be cleaned in a sensible manner, like this one—!” and she proceeded to pummel a velour covered settee with a hard brush, thereby raising further clouds of unsuspected dust, of the quality peculiar to town flats.

And the vacuum cleaner still rested comfortably elsewhere!

Undoubtedly Miss Pew’s home was a solace when she was tired—that is, when her domestic assistant was not there.

Of late, she had seemed to be unusually tired. Not a bit like herself. Things were difficult at the office, to say the least of it.

If Charles’ father-in-law had provided any additional capital, it hadn’t appeared in the office exchequer. Neither had she seen any cheque signed by Sir John.

Nothing more had been heard so far from Dr. Rosscombe, but that was not surprising. His journey would take time.

Charles Slimmer himself was embarking on the maddest of wild-cat schemes, with a view to reviving trade; schemes certain to lose money, also to injure their reputation.

Meanwhile, Miss Bowman was getting to be more and more of a problem. Her attitude towards Hesper was becoming that of a director rather than a subordinate. She herself from time to time interviewed callers, gave information, issued instructions to juniors, altered decisions, without even consulting Miss Pew.

At first Hesper had told herself it was all her imagination. Miss Bowman had merely seen the callers because she thought Miss Pew was out. But as the weeks went on, it began to dawn on the rest of the staff that Miss Bowman was deliberately and intentionally usurping Miss Pew’s authority. Yet no one seemed able to do anything to prevent it. Hesper’s own expression of surprise, when she found that she had been purposely ignored in some transaction, was treated with silence. But Miss Bowman’s look, through her half-closed eyes, seemed to say, “Very well; if you don’t like it, just see if you can get me dismissed!”

Then again, Mrs. Slimmer was proving anything but an added joy to Hesper, whatever she might be to Charles. She treated both Hesper and Miss Bowman equally as though they didn’t exist, passing through the office with scarcely a notice of them.

Miss Bowman took no more notice of Mrs. Charles Slimmer than if she didn’t exist—which Agatha interpreted as the proper self-obliteration which should be the correct attitude of all young women in offices when the wife of the head chose to appear.

But Hesper’s “Good morning, Mrs. Slimmer. Mr. Slimmer is in,” was treated by Agatha with slightly raised eyebrows, which asked: “And who is this person who takes it upon herself to inform ME of my husband’s whereabouts?”

Yes; Agatha was also beginning to be a problem.

Perhaps the crisis would not have occurred had the weather been different. The English climate covers a multitude of misfortunes. Anyway, it was the very worst week of the very worst winter that the oldest inhabitant could remember. In other words, it was the usual week of the usual London fog, that smothers the City periodically.

This particular visitation was made the more cheerful, however, by the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who chose that week to introduce a Supplementary Budget with new taxes, to enhearten the British public, and add to the gaiety of nations.

The house of Slimmer responded to the atmospheric conditions. Iceland itself could scarcely have produced a depression worse than the state of Charles Slimmer’s frame of mind. For in addition to the troubles that he couldn’t help, he was burdened with some that he might—and ought to—have helped.

A foolhardy attempt at excavating in North Africa, which he had been unwise enough to subsidise, had proved a failure.

Hesper Pew refrained from saying “I told you so!” but that didn’t replace the money he had squandered over the affair, with possibly further liabilities pending.

People talk about bolts dropping from the blue, but bad news has a nasty way of arriving when there isn’t an inch of blue sky anywhere. Which makes it all the more dismal.

Feeling that he must blame somebody for something, even if he couldn’t fix the North African catastrophe on anyone but himself, Charles Slimmer chose that afternoon to harangue Miss Pew on the need for entirely new methods. The house was becoming hopelessly antiquated—so his father-in-law had said—and Miss Pew must admit that no one knew better than Sir John how to make things pay.

Miss Pew admitted it willingly.

Very well, then, Sir John said they must scrap their old prehistoric notions, and work on entirely new lines. One of his suggestions, for instance, was this:

Some smart journalist should be engaged to write about an island he had discovered—say in the South Atlantic, as the Pacific was overdone. Anyone with the least shred of imagination could concoct a glowing account of its vegetation, birds and animals, the extraordinary traditions of the natives, ancient ruins to be found about the island, and so forth. If such a book were written in a highly picturesque lively style, and with a suggestion of mystery—hinting for instance at the discovery of some long-lost peer, or kidnapped millionaire—it would sell in a way no dry-as-dust record of some microbe ever would.

“And it could easily be written by anyone with a little sense,” he continued. “Miss Bowman is quite enthusiastic over the idea.”

Hesper winced—and wondered why Miss Bowman had been consulted before she was. But all she said was:

“This would be published as fiction, of course?”

“Certainly not. It would be the authentic account of the eye-witness who happened to come upon this unknown island when engaged on a round-the-world cruise alone in his yacht.”

“And what happens when someone else proves that no such island exists?”

“Why, it has disappeared through an earthquake, of course! Quite simple, and we can’t be held responsible for what earthquakes do.”

Hesper thought for a moment and then she said:

“I’m sorry to disagree with you, but I don’t think the scheme is worthy of your firm. You have a big reputation; this house has always stood for fair dealing, and its splendid pioneer work is famous. Won’t you be letting yourself down for ever after, when the public discovers how it has been hoaxed?—and it is certain to come out, sooner or later. No one will believe in anything you publish, once the fraud is known.”

“Fraud is rather a harsh word to use. But of course, if you oppose the idea, then we need not discuss it any longer.”

And Charles Slimmer banged his desk down; locked it viciously.

Hesper recognised that the conference was ended.

Miss Bowman had left the office by the time Hesper got back to her desk. Nothing unusual; she came and went as she pleased. But it did exasperate her superior officer to find her assistant’s table not only in its usual state of chaos, but with several important letters still unanswered. Such an untidy, casual worker jarred on Miss Pew’s nerves far more than if she had been merely stupid—and stupidity is tiring enough to endure in all conscience!

She set to work herself to deal with the neglected arrears. By the time she was able to get away, most of the City was already half-way home—or, at any rate, groping its blind way through bales of choking fog in the hope that it was half-way home! Her own feelings were about at zero—and the weather was no better. The fog was appallingly black and dense, and bitterly cold with the raw penetrating damp of January. She had to feel her way carefully, as she went from the office, down one of the streets abutting on the north side of Queen Victoria Street, in order to reach St. Paul’s Station and the Blackfriars Underground.

At first she tried to steer by the kerb, tapping her umbrella against the stone edge; but after stumbling into the gutter, and nearly spraining her ankle, she decided to rely on the buildings flanking the other side of the pavement. She patted the wall at intervals, going carefully when she came to a vacancy caused by a recessed doorway, in order to make certain that it wasn’t a forgotten turning.

And although her progress was slow, she told herself that she would have no difficulty in getting home, as she was not far from the station. All she had to do was to get safely into Queen Victoria Street, cross the road to the south side, walk a short distance westward, which would bring her to the station. All very simple and straightforward when set down in black and white.

But—as everyone knows who has ever tried to find his way along even the most familiar thoroughfare under similar conditions—once the fog fiend descends, and takes possession of the Metropolis, topography is nowhere. The old landmarks vanish instantly; short roads suddenly become miles long; mysterious turnings gape in unsuspected places, leading no one knows where—and for the life of him, the wanderer cannot remember whether he ought to take them or leave them. Indeed only one certainty seems to be left him—he who hesitates is promptly lost.

But Miss Pew had no misgivings. She was modern, and not prone to hesitations. Having found Queen Victoria Street—and she knew when she got there because she ran into the fire alarm at the corner, so that settled that!—she plunged bravely off the pavement into the abyss no light from street lamps could penetrate, and made a beeline in the direction which she hoped would ultimately land her on the other side of the street.

Most of the vehicular traffic had already given up the struggle for existence, and had either gone home or died by the wayside. At any rate, Miss Pew eventually reached some more pavement on the further shore without being run over. Then she set off briskly westward—as she imagined—expecting every minute to come upon St. Paul’s Station.

But, after a very long spell of walking, it dawned upon her that, wherever she might be, it was nowhere near the station. And she started to retrace her steps (only you never can retrace your steps in a London fog).

From time to time dark muffled ghosts suddenly loomed beside her, and were as suddenly swallowed up again in the fog. She knew enough of the peculiarities of such occasions to be fairly sure most of the people whom she passed were about as much at sea as she was; it would be useless, and also unsafe, to ask a passer-by for directions. She could only clutch her attaché case firmly, lest it should be snatched from her in the dark, and walk on, hoping to find some clue to her whereabouts.

Presently she came to a sub-way crossing. Here, at last, was some light; and she could get out of the choking fog for a moment and take her bearings.

Down below, a tall policeman was standing motionless against the tiled wall, looking like an Egyptian mute. Blessed policeman! Now she could ascertain where she was.

He told her. She had evidently dived down some side street when she had crossed the main road instead of striking the opposite pavement. But if she went up those steps over there, and turned to the left and then to the right, etc.——

It sounded quite plain sailing, as he directed her, and she thought she was following his instructions exactly. At the end of another quarter of an hour’s walking, she came upon another sub-way crossing (instead of St. Paul’s Station); she decided to go down this one also and find out where she had got to now. But when she reached the bottom of the steps—there she saw the same policeman standing in the same spot against the tiled wall, like the same Egyptian mute. Only this time he looked at her suspiciously. Young women who reiterated themselves like this, in the evening, had to be watched carefully.

Hesper Pew saw all this in his eye, and turned and fled up the steps again. What would he think of her? Evidently she had been trotting round in a circle.

On she went again, patting the wall at intervals to make sure that she wasn’t wandering out into the middle of the road. One of her pats landed on a soft, yielding substance, instead of a wall. She started back. Another policeman!

She apologised for having mistaken him for a block of architectural granite, and asked if she was going the right way for St. Paul’s?

Oh, no! Quite the wrong direction. She ought to be the other side of the road. This way, please.

She followed him closely, lest he, too, should vanish wraith-like, and be lost to her for evermore. He piloted her along roads and up streets, and finally pointed to a dark mass which he said was the Cathedral.

Oh! She remembered then that she ought to have asked him for St. Paul’s Station!

The policeman wasn’t at all surprised to hear that she didn’t want St. Paul’s, after inquiring for it. He was quite hardened to the vagaries of female interrogators. He merely conducted her to the railway station in majestic silence, though she assured him she knew where she was now, and could find her way to the station. He evidently thought it well to get her safely off his beat!

Whenever some member of the City Police Force can find time to write a treatise on “Feminine Psychology; or Questions Women ask me,” there should be an interesting and illuminating volume!

By the time Hesper actually reached her flat, what with her long perambulations, coupled with the need of a meal, she was about as depressed and altogether miserable as the most conscientious martyr could desire to be.

At Westminster the fog had resolved itself into one of those dripping, bleary nights, when there seems no special reason why one should remain alive.

Switching on the electric light, as soon as she entered the narrow hall, which had its own front door, at the side of the shop, she revived sufficiently to look eagerly behind the door for letters. There was nothing in the letter-box, however, but a packet of printed matter, which, when she opened it, demonstrated with most convincing “table of averages” that her life wouldn’t be a long one, and, therefore, urged her to take out an Insurance Policy for the sake of her children and dependents, ere it be too late.

The absence of letters gave the finishing touch to her sense of utter desolation; and dropping into a chair in her cold, fireless living room, she leant her head on her arm and cried.

The reason for her tears may appear very trivial in broad daylight. Yet it is anything but trivial—it is almost tragic—to have arrived at one’s thirtieth birthday, and not one solitary individual remembering, or caring, that it is one’s birthday. Can there be anything more bleakly desolate than to return home on such an anniversary—no matter what one’s age—to cold rooms, and not a single card, or handbag, or bunch of flowers, or embroidered handkerchief to mark the date? Not even a dog to wag a welcoming tail!

She didn’t weep for long, however. Miss Pew, the efficient General Manager, came to the rescue of Hesper Pew, the disappointed sentimentalist, and reminded her sternly that crying eyes and a red nose, with a headache included, wouldn’t carry her far next day.

Also commonsense told her that she had far better expend her sympathies on her damp, cold exterior, and her empty and equally cold interior, before she wasted any on the empty letter-box.

She acted on this advice, turned on heat in the living room, changed her dress, and put things in train for her belated meal.

She had made it a fixed rule never to let herself slip into careless living, simply because she lived alone and was tired. Her craving for “the beauty of order,” as she called it, and her innate sense of the fitness of things, would have kept her from dropping into unkempt Bohemianism, which so often is but another name for lazy slovenliness! Unless actually ill, she tried to make a mild festival of her home-coming, even though her only company was usually the unemotional electric fire. Sometimes she invited one of the girls from the office, but most of them had their own interests, and these they kept as far from office affairs as they could remove them. They didn’t yearn to spend an evening with the General Manager, talking their politest talk which had to turn on office matters, since they had so little else in common.

It isn’t very exhilarating to try to make high carnival on one’s birthday all alone, but she determined to cease pitying herself and thinking about the irritations of the day until she had had something to eat. She had just seated herself at the table, when the door bell whizzed. Surely that must be a birthday letter—at last!

She almost flew downstairs. Not that she expected a letter from anybody. But there are moments in life when one feels that something must happen, and happen soon, to break the monotony of existence. And though the “something” seldom turns up at the identical moment when we are looking for it, it frequently happens that it isn’t far off when things have got to that pitch.

Again there was no letter in the box.

But perhaps it was a parcel?

Hesper opened the door expectantly, and almost embraced the waiting figure, in her eagerness to welcome whatever he might have brought her—were it nothing more romantic than a shovel.

But it wasn’t the postman. She couldn’t see the man’s face, as he was in shadow. It was a noticeable voice, however, cultivated and singularly rich in tone, which inquired: “Can I see Miss Patty Foxcroft?”

Hesper paused, imperceptibly, in surprise—then said:

“No one of that name lives here.”

“Have I made a mistake? Isn’t this 999 High Road?”

“Yes. But no Miss Foxcroft lives here, or has ever stayed here. I was born in this house—thirty years ago to-day—and I’ve lived here all my life. So I ought to know!”

She hardly knew why she gave him this gratuitous information about her age, unless it was a subconscious desire that at least one person in the world should know it was her birthday.

Puzzled, the stranger produced a letter from his pocket, and turned an electric torch on it, to verify the address.

“Number 999 High Road, Westminster,” he read. And at the same time Hesper gasped in amazement. The bright light lit up the embossed lettering. It was a sheet of her own private, headed note-paper, with her own severe P in the top left-hand corner. And below she could just discern a scrawling handwriting which she knew only too well, though he had switched off the flash before she could see a word of the contents.

“There seems to be a mistake somewhere,” he said.

“A very serious mistake!” Hesper began. But before she got any further, the postman actually did appear, and handed her a letter, saying mechanically as he did so: “Miss Hester Pew?”

The stranger turned away with apologies, though evidently still imbued with the belief that Patty Foxcroft was secreted somewhere within, for he took a final look in the direction of the upper windows, though all he saw was darkness and drizzle.

“Well, of all things!” Hesper ejaculated to herself, as she slowly mounted the stairs. “What is she up to now? And how did she get hold of that note-paper?”

At the same moment the stranger was also soliloquizing:

“What’s the idea, I’d like to know?” Then he added: “Hesper Pew. So that’s Hesper Pew! And she’s thirty to-day. I’ll make a note of the date.”

Then the fog received him into its fathomless depths.

When at last Hesper gave up speculating as to who the man was; why he wanted Patty; why she had given him this address; how she had come by the note-paper, and had she any more of it; if so what was she doing with it; and would any other unknowns be knocking at her door; and why she herself hadn’t asked the stranger various things she might have asked him—she then remembered the letter.

She knew as soon as she saw the Canadian stamp that the letter was from Mabel Thorpe. Strange, that the only one to keep the date of her birthday in remembrance, was a girl who, before her marriage had been one of the most forgetful members of the office staff!

A pleasant, good natured girl, neither plain nor remarkably pretty; just a happy-go-lucky being, whose head was so perfect a colander that it retained nothing (apparently), no matter how much one tried to put into it. And Hesper had tried! She really had done her best to instil a little ordinary business sense into her. But she seemed hopeless. That girl could make as many mistakes in a day, as any other of the typists would have made in a week. Always ever so sorry, of course. Hadn’t noticed them. Quite willing to type it again.

And never the least bit put out. Always cheerfully forgetting something, and as cheerfully calling herself names for so doing.

Then, just as Hesper had decided that she must be transferred to some other department, as she was useless for secretarial work, she smilingly announced that she was going to be married next month and would be sailing directly afterwards for Canada. . . . A distant cousin . . . such a nice boy. He had a small hotel or a ranch or something near the Rockies, or else it was Quebec . . . she wasn’t quite sure where it was. He had told her about so many places, she couldn’t remember half of them. But, at any rate, it was Canada—she was certain of that much.

Hesper heaved a sigh of relief. Gave her a guinea to buy herself a wedding present; subscribed another guinea towards the present got up by the staff; wondered what on earth the hotel would be like under her casual treatment; and then forgot all about her.

Yet—the colander-head had remembered each year to send a birthday greeting, though it was now six years since she said good-bye to the office. She had not forgotten one chance discovery of the past—the date of Miss Pew’s birthday.

The greeting card said much the same thing each time, about hands across the sea, and true friendship being unbreakable, and such like appropriate remarks. The accompanying letter, which was always very lengthy and diffuse, dealt mainly with the perfections of her husband, and had just a sufficient number of mistakes to recall her office exploits.

But a kind thought lay behind the letters. Possibly she felt that Hesper was a link with her girlhood days; and these, as we all know, gain in glamour as they recede from us, and Hesper may have been included in the glamour as time went on. But it was certainly a loyal feeling that prompted the annual epistle.

Hesper opened the envelope without any special curiosity; she knew what the contents would be—details of the new items Mabel’s husband had added to the ranch, and so on. And Hesper didn’t feel as much interest in a modern Canadian henhouse as in a brick of unknown origin.

But she blessed Mabel, nevertheless, as she unfolded the sheets of note-paper. At least one person in the wide world had remembered that she had a birthday.

This was the letter:

How like Mabel it all was.

Hesper smiled to herself as she laid down the letter. Not the slightest idea of the claims of business, though she had been eight years in it. “Pack your suit-case, and come by return post”—as though anyone in Hesper’s position could possibly do so! It was a good thing that she married a man who was apparently steady and reliable, as Mabel herself would be utterly unable to take the slightest responsibility. A dear girl, but she never did understand that someone had to get on with the world’s work; and if she herself didn’t take it seriously (and she never did) someone else must. . . .

Still, it was sweet of her to remember the date and write. Hesper would answer it to-morrow. Not to-night; she felt a rag to-night. That reference of Charles Slimmer’s to Miss Bowman was—— No, she would not think of the office problems to-night. Things would look better by daylight.

And what did Mabel expect her to do with herself if she were able to walk out of her office, and leave everything undone on her desk as Miss Bowman did? What would there be to interest her or for her to do at an uncivilised place like a ranch? Thorpe’s Ledge was a curious name and it sounded terribly out of the way and inconvenient. Would one need a ladder to climb up to it. How her head ached! She would go to bed at once and re-read one of Enoch Old’s books. Mabel’s letter had done one good thing, it had reminded her of him. She had all his books, and how she loved everything he wrote. Just the very reading matter she needed now, quiet and peaceful. (How her head ached.) If Mabel walked in now, she would tell her that she didn’t feel a bit of interest in the Siamese or the Mongolese! All she seemed to want was fresh air and a new head. But to think of Mabel even suggesting that she could spare the time from her work to go to Canada——

Poor, well-meaning, lovable, but ridiculously irresponsible Mabel!

When Hesper woke next morning, she seemed to have secured a new head; at any rate, the only one she had at the moment didn’t appear to be the one she usually wore. It felt twice as big and ten times as heavy as her old head; and a fairly comfortable one that was, and it had fitted her better than this new one did.

When she tried to get up, it was also evident that the rest of her didn’t belong to her. Nothing behaved as it should, or seemed to understand its proper duties. Her legs gave out at the very outset, while the walls and ceiling wandered about the room in a most peculiar manner. There was nothing for it but to flop back on the bed, and think it over carefully, so as to discover where she was, and what she was supposed to be doing.

When her domestic assistant arrived and looked her over, she quickly ’phoned for the doctor.

He said the usual sensible things about a chill and a temperature, and insisted most emphatically that she must remain in bed. “I’ll look in again this evening,” he added.

Of course she protested (rather incoherently) that she must get to the office, couldn’t possibly remain in bed. It only needed will-power, etc.

The doctor knew there was no need to argue the point, however. Neither will-power nor anything else was going to put her on her feet that day, nor the following one.

When he came again at nine o’clock, she was talking excitedly about Tibet and the need for finding Enoch Old, who was buried there not later than 4500 b.c. The doctor promptly installed a nurse—the same nurse who had been with her during the last months of her mother’s life. A splendid woman whom Hesper liked.

The doctor had known Hesper most of her life, and had attended both her father and mother to the end. He was one of the old-fashioned and ever to be revered “family” doctors, who made it their professional business to know their patients from all angles.

True, such men didn’t talk about psychological complexes; but they knew when over-work, strained nerves, or stifled personality was at the bottom of a breakdown, and they didn’t call it pyorrhœa, or say “Have your tonsils out.”

The severe chill Hesper had caught on that foggy night worked havoc with a constitution that was already below par through too much work and too much worry.

It was several weeks before she seemed to be on the road to recovery. And even then she took no personal interest in anything. Her energy had just oozed away. Merely to think of her office gave her a sick feeling. She supposed that some day she would be up and dressed again, and then, as a matter of course she would go back to the City. She had done so for the past fifteen years, and naturally she would go on doing it for the next fifteen. She had her living to earn, and her private means were small. But she didn’t want to think about it yet. She didn’t even want to get up. The very thought of the daily scramble in the Tube filled her with an inexplicable terror.

And yet—she marvelled—there was a time when she had actually liked her work. Had revelled in the rush of City life. Well, she wasn’t like that now, she told herself, and went to sleep again.

A little later, the day arrived when the doctor decided that some effort must be made to arouse her interest.

“We must get you away soon,” he said briskly. “You need a change of air.” Then to the nurse: “She ought to sit up a little this afternoon. And then to-morrow, or the next day, she must begin to see about a trousseau. I know girls can’t go to the sea, even for a week-end now, without several new Paris creations. So you’d better begin to get busy.”

But she was quite apathetic. They could not rouse her interest in anything. Though one day she did ask: “Has anyone called from the office to inquire after me?”

“No one has called,” the nurse told her. “But there have been a good many inquiries over the ’phone, and you’ve seen the flowers the lady clerks sent. Lovely, aren’t they. And such heaps!”

Hesper was silent. It was strange that no one had called by now. She had quite expected that Mrs. Slimmer would at least have inquired how she was, and have left the customary bunch of flowers or parcel of grapes; such a very little thing it would have been for her to do! And so odd why none of the girls had called. They were generally so unselfish in the trouble they would take, if anyone were ill. Even Mr. Slimmer’s inquiry had been of the briefest and most perfunctory kind.

“Are there any letters?” she asked.

“Only one,” and the nurse brought it to her. “It came some days ago. But the doctor says you may read letters now.”

Hesper glanced at the scrawling address. It was from Patty Foxcroft. “Will you kindly read it to me?” she asked the nurse. She really didn’t feel equal to Patty at present.

The nurse read it.

Hesper made no comment on the letter—but she did feel just enough interest in it to think to herself: “But she hasn’t told me how she came by my note-paper! I expect she helped herself to it from my desk, when I’ve left her alone in my room at some time.” But it wasn’t worth bothering her head about.

“Time for your beef-tea,” said nurse, “and then you must sleep for an hour. . . .

“. . . You wish I would read to you? . . . of course I will, if it’s the right sort of book. But you mustn’t fatigue your brain with any of your learned hobbies. . . . You want something from one of Enoch Old’s books? . . . the very thing. How I adore that man’s writings. I read him over and over again to convalescents, and as a rule I carry a copy about with me, for he’s a real tonic. Do you know him? I always feel he is the type I would love to have as my mother’s cousin once removed. Elderly enough for one to go to him for wise advice; yet not too nearly related, in case he felt it his duty to do the heavy father!”

“I’ve never come across him,” said Hesper, sipping her beef-tea; “but a friend in Canada lives near him—his Cabin, she calls his place. I believe he was born there, and has lived there all his life, excepting those few years he tells about, you remember, when he thought he ought to ‘see life’ and lived in a city.”

The nurse nodded. “Nearly died in a city, you mean! Well, we aren’t all alike. For myself I love the country at times, but I doubt if I could live there always. Not enough to do—though I have a friend who is a district nurse in a Gloucestershire village, and I must say I never met a harder-worked woman in my life. And the knowledge she needs!—why she has to be a complete hospital staff, medical and surgical, rolled into one. Now you mustn’t talk any more—though I’ll say this for Enoch Old, if anyone could convert me to country life it would be he; and I should go there I believe to listen to his sane and hopeful philosophy about life, quite as much as to enjoy the scenery. Now I’ll read the chapter ‘Taming the Wild Clematis.’ Shut your eyes; imagine yourself in the garden while he plants it, and trains it on the porch and watches it clamber up over the roof of his cabin——”

Before long, Hesper was sleeping restfully, and wandering in her dreams round a wonderful garden, the other side of the world, with Enoch Old—no longer buried in Tibet 4500 b.c.—walking with her.

“What about that island you are going to discover?” Sir John asked his son-in-law briskly, one evening. “Have you put anyone on the job yet? The book ought to be getting under way, if it’s to be in your Autumn List. And you should get out some telling press paragraph fairly soon—to whet the appetite.”

“I’ve not done anything more about it,” Charles Slimmer said. “Miss Pew turned it down. Didn’t think it quite straight. And——”

“What!” Sir John suddenly looked furious. “Do you mean to tell me that you allow yourself to be dictated to by a member of your staff? Who is the head of the firm may I ask, you, or Miss Pew?”

Sir John invariably longed to shake his incompetent son-in-law, but at the moment he wanted to shake Miss Pew too, and shake her “real good!” He was violently angry that the shady side of his proposal had been noted. (Most people do become a trifle touchy in such circumstances!)

“But she is very capable and experienced, and has practically run the show, you know, for years.”

“Exactly. It’s just what Agatha says—Miss Pew tries to boss everything, while you are merely the poor tool who pays. As for her capability—bah! She was probably all very well as your uncle’s secretary. But times have changed. As Miss Bowman was saying only yesterday, she would doubtless be ideal as a Sunday School teacher; but——”

“I’m interested to know that Miss Bowman has ever even heard of a Sunday School,” the goaded Charles interrupted sarcastically. “What an idyll her week-ends must be!”

Sir John looked like apoplexy; but he let that pass. “How long has Miss Pew been away?” he asked with apparent calmness.

“Six weeks. And the doctor forbids her to return to work under another month at the very least. She has to be got out of London as soon as she is strong enough.”

“I see. And who has been doing her work—‘running the show,’ as you call it—since she broke down?”

“Miss Bowman has helped, of course.”

“Exactly. And if you paid a little closer attention to your business, you’d know how much she has helped. She’s a remarkably smart, up-to-the-minute woman, only she isn’t always posing as so confoundedly efficient. She has a real snappy instinct for what will take with the public. She’s perfectly fascinated with the idea of the island book—has it all schemed out. Only, as she says, no one’s creative faculties have a ghost of a chance to see daylight when one lives beneath a drab Victorian blanket, and in an atmosphere of perpetual suppression.

“Now look here, Charles,” he went on, “take my advice for once. Perhaps you’ll be allowed to, now you have no one at your elbow to jog you in the opposite direction directly I open my mouth. Get quit of Miss Pew. Now’s your chance. Send her whatever salary her agreement requires, pitch in a few regrets, and leave it at that. Put Phelps as General Manager—you need a man there, not a pretty-pretty girl. And Miss Bowman can take on your confidential correspondence. I don’t mind telling you that Agatha’s getting fed up with Miss Pew. So is Miss Bowman. And I’m sure I’ve heard more than enough about her, though I’ve been anxious to be fair and impartial, as I always am. But even a worm will turn. And when an underling takes it upon herself to dictate to the proprietor of the business, and to question the morality of my suggestions, why——!”

And no worm could have looked more moral than Sir John at that moment.

Charles invariably chose the line of least resistance. It was easier to agree with Sir John—to say nothing of Agatha, who by now was pettily jealous of the General Manager to whom everyone seemed to defer. It would have been bad enough if Miss Pew had merely owned brains with a plain exterior. Of course a woman whose father hadn’t had wit enough to make a fortune out of an over-trustful public, needed some brains, if she had to earn her living; but it was only fair that she should be plain. Brains and beauty were too much, far too much, of a good thing in an office; and especially in an office with her—Agatha’s—husband.

Not that Hesper was remarkably beautiful. She wasn’t. But her lovely eyes, and her happy expression gave her a charm which eluded Agatha completely, no matter how much she paid to her beauty specialist.

At any rate, Agatha had decided that Miss Pew must go.

Miss Bowman had also decided upon the same thing, only Agatha didn’t know this. She scarcely knew Miss Bowman at all. She never took any interest in mere secretaries. They were comparatively negligible—like waitresses and parlourmaids. A General Manager was different.

What chance had Miss Pew against such a coalition?

The view from Hesper’s living room window was considered specially interesting—by some people. It commanded an extensive vista of houses, all precisely alike, excepting that some were dingier than others. Only the shops varied in their contents: there was a row of them. They were not large.

In the roadway a perpetual stream of traffic kept up an endless turmoil. On the pavement people were always walking, and children were playing where they could find a spot to play.

Movement everywhere. Noise everywhere. Yet none of it suggested buoyant life. Faces were dull, footsteps seemed weary. It was more like the monotonous motion of a treadmill than the free life of intelligent human beings.

Possibly each was intelligent individually, and every vehicle had some praiseworthy purpose in life. But the total impression was one of hopeless nothing-but-noise, and then still-more-movement, which never would end.

At least, this was how it seemed to Hesper, propped up in an easy chair, and encouraged by the nurse to see how nice it was to be in the thick of things, and so conveniently near the buses and station and everything else that she didn’t happen to want! And the Houses of Parliament almost within speaking distance, with the gas works and the chimneys of the electric power station, and other of life’s amenities, all within smelling distance.

“It will brighten you up to look at the traffic and the people, after seeing nothing but the four walls of your bedroom all these weeks.”

Hesper smiled feebly. The nurse was the kindest and the most unselfish. She never spared herself. Her patient hadn’t the heart (or the energy) to point out to her that torrents of rain, a leaden sky, and all the other adjuncts belonging to February in London, were not calculated to brighten one up, no matter how lavishly they were handed out to one.

Besides—the nurse didn’t make the climate. Probably she didn’t like it either. What use to discuss it? So Hesper only smiled wanly; and tried to see as little of the “view” as possible.

As she got a little better one thought constantly recurred: It was so strange that no one from the office called. Even the nurse had remarked on it by now. It was so noticeable. In her present weak state, it depressed Hesper to think how unpopular she evidently was, when everyone ignored her and forgot about her the moment she was ill. And it was the first time she had ever been away through any serious illness, too. She did think that some one of the girls might have come along. Oh, yes, they had ’phoned the kindest of messages. That was one consoling thought. They hadn’t entirely forgotten her. And lots of flowers had come from florists. But never one of her colleagues called to see her personally, though the nurse had told them (more plainly than Hesper knew) that she was well enough now to see her friends, and a few visitors would do her good.

The postman was slopping his way along the street. He stopped at her door.

“We’ll hope this is something nice and cheerful,” said nurse, bringing the letter. “And if someone has left you a fortune, I’ll say you deserve it; for you’ve been an ideal patient. Never once given me a back answer.”

The letter was from Charles Slimmer, and a cheque was enclosed. At first glance, Hesper thought it was an extra little gift as a help towards the expenses of her illness.

After a brief preamble, he got to his main point.

“It has been evident to me for many months past,” he wrote, “that you were too inexperienced for our work, and that you had taken on far more than you were capable of managing. Your present illness proves how correct was my conjecture, though I hesitated to take any specific step while you were—I am quite willing to believe—trying to do your duty.

“As things have turned out, however, I feel the time has come to conclude your engagement with my firm. I therefore enclose cheque in lieu of notice. I have been looking around to see if there was any small post I could give you that would be more suited to your powers than the General Managership; but there is no vacancy at present. If, later on, you should be unable to find work, and apply to me, I will see if it is possible to help you—but at the moment, I cannot commit myself to any definite promise to do so.” And he remained, hers faithfully.

Hesper wasn’t quite sure what happened next. The letter seemed to slip away from her, that was all.

When she opened her eyes to look for something she dimly thought she ought to look for, she found the doctor beside her bed, as well as nurse.

“That’s better,” he said. “Now go to sleep. Don’t talk, everything is all right.”

The nurse had handed him the letter and the cheque which she had picked up when her patient suddenly lost consciousness. The “family” doctor is so often called upon to act as next-of-kin when no relative is forthcoming. And he had been a second father to Hesper.

He glanced at the contents, to find out what was responsible for this unexpected relapse.

“The hound!” he said. For he knew more about Slimmer and his father-in-law than was to their credit. Also he knew what Hesper’s management had done for the firm, despite the spendthrift extravagance of the hopelessly incapable Charles.

He put letter and cheque in an envelope, sealed it, and handed it back to the nurse.

“Don’t let her see this till I say so,” he said. “She must have a complete change of scene as soon as possible. She won’t pull up till she has sea air. Whenever she is inclined to talk, find out where she would prefer to go.”

It was some days before Hesper was at all inclined to talk. For the time being, it seemed as though she would slip away without making any effort to live. She had no desire to get better, that was all.

But Nature was doing her best to mend the feeble body, though the wounded soul was beyond her power to heal. And one day, as Hesper lay silent and still, while the nurse sat working at the window, it suddenly occurred to the girl that this faithful friend who had done, and was still doing, so much for her was looking very tired. “Why, she hasn’t had a day’s holiday for I don’t know how long. I must send her off for a change, and to get some fresh air. How fearfully fed up she must be by now with my ailments.”

Aloud she said: “How long have I been ill?” The nurse was quite surprised at the voice, which seemed so much stronger than anything she had heard for weeks.

“Well, I can’t say without looking up my diary,” she replied, with a whimsical smile; “but you’ve been doing the thing quite nicely; behaving quite properly; taking your medicine like a perfect lady; and if you go on as you’re going now, I shouldn’t wonder but what we shall let you get up soon.”

Now that Hesper had roused herself sufficiently to put her own problems aside for the moment, her old unselfishness returned—a capacity, which was almost a gift, for noting when other people were in real trouble, or in need of sympathetic help. This faculty had helped her a good deal in the management of her big staff. The head paid official in any business is never the same to the other employees as the owner of the business, no matter what power may be placed in the hands of the paid head. This fact means that far greater tact and ability are needed for such posts than is always recognised by those who hold them. The secretary of a company may be the “boss,” but the service he gets from the staff varies very widely according to his own ability. For the staff never forget that though he may be all-powerful, he is only a paid servant of the company, even as they are.

If he possess tact and an understanding of human nature, and has some cognisance of the duty he owes his fellow men, he will find he has a loyal crowd around him, with the minimum of grousers. But if his only idea is to cement his own appointment and increase his own income, he will find his efforts continually baulked by the disaffection, even antagonism of the staff.

Hesper had always found willing co-operation in the staff as a whole. Her own unselfish desire for everyone’s welfare, with little thought for her own pocket, had secured this. And though there were the inevitable few who were never satisfied, never in the least bit appreciative of what she did for the house in the way of securing better wages and shorter hours, on the whole her staff responded to her genuine interest in their welfare, and gave her good measure in return.

She reproached herself now that she had been so thoughtless, so wrapped up in her own troubles, as to forget that the nurse needed consideration and a little relief from her exacting duties.

“I’m going to get up to-day,” she said.

There was no reason why she should not make the attempt, nurse decided, only, wait till the doctor had been.

The next day she found herself propped up again in the easy chair.

But she didn’t want to look out of the window. She had a presentiment that she would see the postman coming up the street again with another letter that would contain an awful crash. Something seemed to have snapped in her head when she read Slimmer’s letter. But the doctor said she must not think anything more about it.

He had been so kind that morning. Had even said it was providential that she was now obliged to take a real holiday. He had reminded her how easy it would be for her to let her flat, and get a big rental for it too in that locality, it was so well furnished and so up-to-date. And then she could take a really long rest—on the South Coast first of all, and then on the Riviera or anywhere else she fancied. She really needed six months’ complete rest, he said, and here was just her chance to take it.

He had been helpful in the same way when her father died; and again when she lost her mother. She was thankful to have so sound an adviser at a time like this; because—well—somehow she felt so ill when she remembered the Slimmer letter; and unfortunately she remembered it all the time, even when she wasn’t thinking about it. She said she would consider the doctor’s suggestion, and decide a little later.

“There’s a visitor come to see you,” said nurse brightly. She was really glad that at last someone was interested in her patient’s welfare. “A Miss Patty Foxcroft.”

Hesper groaned inwardly—while she said “Please bring her in.”

Patty was volubility itself in her expression of the deepest concern about Hesper’s health. Talked loudly and rapidly and wearyingly. Indeed her concern was so deep that Hesper wondered how much she wanted to borrow this time? She didn’t ask for cash, however, she simply talked and talked, like a waterfall. Noise and splashings in abundance, but when one tried to catch hold of anything she was saying, she had rushed on to something else. Largely about herself, of course. Details, most of them fictitious, about the demand for her work among the daily papers.

Hesper kept her eyes attentively on the speaker, but soon her brain seemed to grow numb. She didn’t even try to listen. What need?

Presently Patty branched off in another direction. So far she had not mentioned Slimmers.

“I told you in my letter how sorry I was to hear of the turn things had taken at the office. You could have knocked me down with a feather when Miss Bowman told me. You really could have!”

Hesper’s brain woke up again. What did she mean? Did she know of Charles’ letter? She couldn’t possibly mean that, because her own letter had been written to Hesper long before Slimmer’s letter came.

“Miss Bowman told you? I don’t quite understand.”

“Oh, you mustn’t mind my knowing, poor old Delicate Fuss. I’m not like an outsider, of course. I looked in, hoping to find you in the office—let me see? It must have been about a fortnight or three weeks ago—and naturally I was surprised to see the place all re-arranged and Miss Bowman at your desk. Then she told me that they were entirely overhauling affairs, and you would not be coming back. Your illness was opportune, she said.” Then Patty added: “But you’ll fall on your feet presently. No need to worry yet.” Her tone was almost patronising. “And I must try to help you, as you’ve given me a lift occasionally. I shall recommend you whenever I see the prospect of an opening.”

Hesper felt too weak to speak. She hoped she wasn’t going to faint again. It was so foolish of her to give way like this.

She made a desperate effort to change the subject. Perhaps that would enable her to pull herself together again. She didn’t want Patty to see how the whole affair had wrecked her.

“Why do you call me Delicate Fuss?” she asked. “I noticed you used that term in your letter.”

“Oh, it was the office nickname for you,” with an offhand laugh. “You were always so tidy—‘poison-tidy’ as one girl used to say, and so persnicketty and faddy about everything being ‘just so’——”

Fortunately, the nurse now decided that this visitor had used up as much of her patient’s strength as was desirable at the moment, and she tactfully got Miss Foxcroft out—though that lady would not have refused an invitation to stay for a meal!

Hesper tried to revolve things in her mind. But the trouble was that they revolved too rapidly. They simply went round and round her brain. She couldn’t sort anything out clearly, except the fact that several weeks before she had received her notice of dismissal, her successor had been installed in her office, and was already announcing Hesper’s departure to all and sundry.

She understood also why Patty had not called before. She hadn’t the face to ask for a loan at such a time of crisis. And there was the uncomfortable possibility that Hesper might now ask for some of the previous loans to be repaid.

But it didn’t do to think about any of it. Probably she was going to die soon—she hoped so at any rate, and then, nothing would matter any more.

said nurse, bringing in a tray. “Now you are to eat and not say a word. For it strikes me you feel as tired as Elijah did after Jezebel had been worrying him, or he’d been worrying about her, for forty days. . . . No, I certainly wasn’t meaning anything personal about your caller. . . . Oh, I’ve put my foot in it again!”—as Hesper pointed out that though Miss Foxcroft painted, she didn’t tire her head, since it was always untidy—“but she certainly has a good flow of language. . . . Yes, you have to eat it all. And then go to sleep. Or I shan’t let you see the next visitor who calls.”

“There won’t be any other,” Hesper said dispiritedly.

“You never know,” said nurse encouragingly. “I’ve heard of more remarkable things than unexpected visitors turning up, when a patient has eyes your colour. The horoscope reads that way.”

But Hesper knew better—though she kept her own counsel. If Miss Bowman was engaged on such a campaign as Patty had intimated, the late General Manager had already become almost an outcast.

Yet it was the same afternoon that nurse announced: “Another visitor for you. He is a Mr. Phelps.”

She tried to look archly at her patient. A masculine caller was ten times more interesting than the female of the species—naturally!

“Mr. Phelps? Oh, yes. He’s our Trade Manager. Show him in. How kind of him to come.”

Mr. Phelps sat down squarely, and as a man prepared to do his duty at all times and at any cost.

After the correct introductory inquiries as to health on both sides, he cleared his throat and said: “I’ve been entrusted with a hundred messages to you from the girls, and from all the others; but first of all I would much like to say a little of what I think about Charles Slimmer. Only I can’t put it into words, or my language might scare you. I always knew he was weak; and so did his uncle. But we neither of us anticipated that he’d be the double-dyed fool that he is now proving himself to be—with the aid of that slink-faced mermaid who seems to do little else but comb her hair at her desk. When I heard what Charles had written you, I—well, never mind what I said. . . .

“The girls longed to come and see you, but Miss Bowman said you were not allowed to see any callers, and that you had sent a message asking them not to call personally. They were ever so anxious about you, of course. However, that woman wasn’t going to come any of that sort of stuff over me. She may know several important things about the management of dark eyes, not to mention eyelashes, but that’s all she knows. I told her flat that I was coming to see you, and asked if there was anything waiting to go to you, as I could take it.”

Hesper murmured something appreciative at intervals. But Mr. Phelps had a full cargo to discharge, and, when he once started talking (which wasn’t often) he didn’t leave off till he had said all he had to say.

“And I was to tell you, both from the girls and from the men, that they had started to collect subscriptions for a parting gift to you. But they were all given to understand that it was as much as their posts were worth if they did any such thing, or if they even communicated with you. It isn’t palatable to have to tell you this: but it’s better that you should know their real feelings, instead of imagining that they all are callous and have forgotten you.”

“I’m ever so grateful to you for telling me this,” said Hesper. “It has lifted such a load from my mind. I did wonder why I was so unpopular as to be ignored like this. But what about yourself? I don’t want anyone to run any risk of losing their post through coming here. Though it is a real comfort to me to see you.”

“Don’t you worry about that.” Mr. Phelps smiled. “Charles can’t sack me. He only wishes he could. I’m part of the ‘Co.’ in the firm, though I never let anyone know it. It’s easier to work as an ordinary employee. But I started as a lad with George Slimmer. And we struggled on together. He was one who always remembered those who had been with him before he prospered. He gave me a small share in the business, and a life agreement, which Charles only wishes he could tear up. Now, I mustn’t tire you, but I’ve got a special message to you from Mrs. Phelps. We’ve got a nice little shack at Peacehaven, and Ma says won’t you come down and stay awhile, as soon as you’re well enough? My eldest boy would take you both down in his Austin Seven. And Ma says she’ll look after you and enjoy herself mightily at the job. She’s quite empty-handed since our girls married, with no one to supervise. Don’t worry about making up your mind now. Let us know later what you feel about it. And of course there will be any number of other firms who will want to secure you. Let me do anything I can to help, if you want any mortal thing done in that direction.”

And with a hand grip that almost crippled Hesper’s weak hand—Mr. Phelps was gone.

What did it matter if his beard did need bobbing or shingling? To Hesper at that moment, he seemed like an angel from heaven!

“Have you ever been to Bognor?” nurse asked, by way of inculcating interest in the seaside question. The doctor had said it must be South Coast. “I stayed at a very nice boarding house there, last year, with a patient. I think it would do you good. . . . No? you don’t care for Bognor? Then what about Worthing? There’s a charming place at Worthing: very bright and sociable, kept by two real ladies. . . .” And so on. It was surprising how many nice boarding houses nurse knew, with equally nice proprietresses, on the South Coast.

Hesper felt an inclination to scream. Did nobody understand that the last thing on earth she craved was a bright, sociable boarding house, at some crowded seaside resort? And then, while nurse was describing other desirable places where she could stay, the clouds suddenly parted, and she saw blue sky. In a flash she knew what she wanted; it was—big silent spaces; room to breathe; and clean air.

She wanted to get away from London, and all its associations, which had become positively hateful to her. She would go to Canada; there would be a corner somewhere over there where she would not be reminded hourly of her office, and where she could escape from other people’s noises. She would write to Mabel—or better still, she would cable. She must go at once. She knew now that she was starving for oxygen, for brain-rest, and for peace and quiet.

“I shall go to Mabel Thorpe,” she said aloud, but more to herself than to anyone else.

“Oh! but Mablethorpe is too bleak for you at this time of the year,” nurse interrupted. “After your illness, you need something milder than the East Coast. It is lovely in the summer, but for an invalid——”

“Mabel Thorpe is ‘she,’ not ‘it,’ and she lives in Canada. I’m going out to visit her.”

And for the first time for weeks, Hesper looked really interested in life, and sat up as though ready to start off there and then.

“Canada?” said nurse, in surprise. “Canada! Then you must make haste and get well. We will hear what the doctor says.”

He, too, exclaimed “Canada!” in the same surprised way. Then, after a moment’s thought, added: “The very thing. The voyage over will do you a lot of good. We must build you up first of all, however. No need to cable. You can’t go just yet. But we’ll pack you off as soon as ever you are fit for the journey.”

To himself he thought: “And a good thing, too, if she can get something to take her mind off that skunk Slimmer.”

From that hour she improved steadily. “It’s the thought of seeing her friend,” said nurse to the household assistant. “That’s what has put new life into her.”

It was true, she did feel a certain satisfaction in the thought that she was going to someone who knew her. The very ground had seemed to drop away from her feet of late, all the old ties being so ruthlessly cut off. It was a relief to remember that Mabel was an old friend; that at least one link with the past remained; and there was still someone left in the world who believed in her. Nothing so undermines a person’s belief in himself as a blow such as the one she had received. For a time the earth itself seems to reel, with no reliable foothold anywhere.

But the thought of Mabel was distinctly steadying. She was sure of a welcome when she got there. In any case she would insist on paying, so as to avoid being a burden to them. She had no idea what sort of an income Mabel’s husband made—but it wouldn’t be much. She didn’t want to be under an oppressive obligation to them, or put them to any big inconvenience. In a small place such as theirs would be, it might be a nuisance to have anyone staying for many days in the house. But once there, she could easily find a suitable lodging in Mabel’s vicinity.

She wrote off at once and asked if Mabel could get her a furnished cottage somewhere near her. How she would love to have a small place to herself, where she need do nothing and say nothing if she didn’t feel like it.

But there was also another thought in the back of her mind, apart from Mabel. She wanted to meet Enoch Old; to talk to him, and ask him questions, and if she could stay somewhere near by—she would make the best of any opportunity as it turned up.

Perhaps he objected to talkers, as much as she did at the moment. Possibly he wouldn’t come anywhere within reach of her questions. Still—she hoped it wouldn’t be as bad as that. For Enoch Old seemed to her to be the only person left on earth who could tell her the things she wanted to know.

She had never given much thought to religion. What was the use? No matter what one believed, somebody was sure to come along and say it was all wrong, and one ought to believe something else. Besides—who really knew anything? In her young days she had gone to church with her parents—sometimes. Just a mechanical process. But that was long ago. She had been too busy to give time to anything but her office work on Sundays, in recent years.

Yet, as she lay ill, all sorts of strange thoughts had come to her which had never troubled her before; strange questions had confronted her, and she didn’t know the answers. What was still worse, she didn’t know anyone else who could answer them.

The vicar of the church round the corner wasn’t likely to be very helpful. He didn’t believe in the first chapter of Genesis, nor in the Book of Job. He didn’t believe that the Flood ever occurred, nor that manna fell in the wilderness. He said so!

And if he didn’t believe in the first chapter of Genesis, there seemed no reason why he should believe in the last chapter of Revelations either; nor in the intervening chapters. It was all pretty hopeless. And she herself didn’t dare believe in anything or anybody on earth, since receiving Charles Slimmer’s letter. All the old moorings gone. One could rely on nothing; absolutely nothing!

Yet Enoch Old seemed to have a solid something beneath his writings. It would be a relief if she could speak to him personally.

Some years ago, greatly daring, she had written to him. It was at the time when his first book about his life in a remote country place was making a stir, and was being read by everybody. She had not written in a spirit of criticism, but with a desire to get hold of facts.

Was it right, she asked, to withdraw from our fellow creatures and live a life of enjoyment (for a hermit thoroughly enjoys his isolated existence) with no concern about anyone else?

“Everyone can’t do as you do,” she told him, “and write beautiful books that are an asset to the world. But for a person who is not gifted as you are, but just an ordinary mediocre person, would a life, spent in the midst of delightful surroundings, such as you describe, and devoted to the enjoyment of them, be right?

“I started to read Thoreau’s ‘Walden’ the other day. I didn’t get far with it, I own, because it irritated me, in spite of the wisdom of much that he says. Why should he pour contempt on other men, who are trying to give wife and children the sort of civilised home they want, simply because he doesn’t favour that sort of life himself, and is considering no one’s feelings but his own? Isn’t it crass selfishness?

“I ask all this because I am constantly being pulled two opposite ways. On the one hand, I feel I ought to work to the utmost, and use all the energy I have for the furtherance of business, which is of benefit to a good many people. And on the other hand, I want to get away from it all, leave the clamour and the competition, and just live by myself in the country and fresh air, and—and—well—preserve raspberries, and things like that. Which is the higher road, and which the lower? I don’t know. It seems to me one can argue that both are selfish, or that both are Divine indications of one’s duty. What ought I to do?

“But don’t reply if you feel I have taken a liberty in writing. After all why should you spend time and thought on a perfect stranger?——”

She had addressed this to him care of his publisher. In due time Enoch Old had replied:

It was eight years since he had written that letter to her.

At the time, the next job awaiting her had been some letters which George Slimmer wanted rushed. And the following day there were more letters. She decided that all indications pointed to her remaining in the city; and from the day she received Enoch Old’s letter till the day she received the one from Charles Slimmer, the indications had never once veered in the direction of a quiet life among raspberry bushes.

She had heard nothing of Enoch Old since, excepting what he told in his books. These she pounced on as soon as they were published—as did thousands of other people. But she had no idea, until she read Mabel’s letter, where he lived.

Thorpe’s Ledge took on a different aspect in consequence.

Mabel’s cordial welcome in reply to Hesper’s letter was cabled, utterly regardless of expense.

So like Mabel! “I expect she thought it would only cost a penny a word, as in England, or she would never have sent such a rigmarole,” was Hesper’s thought, as she read the warmhearted but lengthy message.

A letter followed, full of the minutest details, with renewed expressions of pleasure at the thought of her visit. “And just give Slimmer, Slapp & Co. to understand clearly that they won’t see you again under six or eight months. It’s no use coming all this way and not making a good stay while you’re here. So let them know at the outset that they must get on as best they can without you.”

“That’s exactly what they are doing,” thought Hesper bitterly. If only Mabel knew. But she didn’t. Hesper felt too heart-sick to be able to go into any details at present.

Getting the flat ready for the incoming tenant, together with the packing of her luggage, took her thoughts from herself and her own troubles. Owing to her methodical habits the work was not as difficult as it might have been. Nurse and the domestic assistant saw to it all between them, in order that the patient might save her strength for the journey.

And though there didn’t seem to be much of her when she was finally put on board the liner, by the ever-helpful and indefatigable nurse, she was well on the road to health. Had it not been for the shock of Slimmer’s letter she would have been well long before.

There was only one little perplexity connected with her departure. When she was putting on her final touches of jewellery, she could not find a certain turquoise ring, which the girls had given her—Mabel included—when she was promoted to the post of General Manager. She wanted particularly to wear it, for Mabel’s sake. She remembered putting it inside her bureau hurriedly, the night she came home feeling ill. She was sure she had put it down there, meaning to take it to her bedroom later.

There was not a moment’s doubt as to the absolute honesty of her domestic helper, no less than of the nurse. Both had been left in entire charge of all she possessed too often for her to associate either with its strange disappearance. But gone it undoubtedly was, and they were as perplexed about is as she was. However—she had lost so much lately, including faith in herself, that a lost ring seemed very trifling to worry over. And she left it at that.

The voyage was a good one; sea behaving very reasonably, and wind in their favour.

It did not seem many days before Hesper found herself travelling through a land of illimitable space. A country where one could breathe; a country where one could see—it stretched to the right, to the left, and on ahead, a glorious variety of outline.

“To think of there being so much room to live!” she kept on saying to herself.

She did not stop to see any of the large towns. Probably, had she done so, some kind Canadian would have taken her to see the big up-to-date stores, and the fine buildings. But she wanted none of these. Doubtless they had their advantages; possibly they stood for progress—though she was not sure of this. Man cannot live by bread alone.

She herself found the rivers, the forests, the hills and the immense plains far more wonderful than any town or man-made building could ever be.

As yet the land was not quite rid of winter. But whether the snow remained, or had vanished beneath the grass or the soil, nothing interfered with the majesty of it all.

As the train steamed on through the great wheat lands, a fellow traveller told her of the miles upon miles of tawny gold which would stretch to the horizon later on in the year.

She felt like some other person, and as though wandering in a dream. If anyone had mentioned the word “excavations” to her then, it would have taken her a minute to collect her memory.

In the past, owing to George Slimmer’s predilection for such matters, her mind’s eye saw the world at large much as we usually see the London streets—in a state of being “up.” And in those days—strangely remote now they seemed—when she heard of a portion of the earth’s surface where no one appeared to have unearthed any ancient tombs or villas or pavements, she tried to discover why? And she even read papers before learned societies—or at any rate before the chairs belonging to learned societies—giving her reasons for thinking that rare finds were awaiting the excavators in those hitherto unmolested spots.

That was only yesterday—so to speak.

To-day—she was bewildered at the beauty and the immensity of the marvels that were everywhere in full view—no need to burrow for them! And free for all eyes to see. She found herself thinking: “What do they know of England, who only England know? Precious little,” her thoughts continued, “ridiculously little. My blessed little island, it would do you a world of good to be dumped down in this land for a day or so. It might reduce the size of your swelled head. London thinks itself so big! Why, I never had an idea what ‘size’ was before, either in a landscape or anything else.”

And then, as the train sped on her thoughts went to the thousands of weary faces, painted faces, anxious faces, unnaturally old faces, that she had seen all her life, turning out of buses and trains in the morning, and fighting their way into them at night. If only she could give them some of this! If only she could release them (kindly, not as she had been released), from the stifling claims of the city, what good it would do them all. . . .

But would they thank her for it? She wondered, after thinking it over, if they would all welcome the exchange. She remembered on one occasion being on a bus which was crossing rather a wide open heath near London. She was thinking how peaceful and lovely it was after the noisy roads they had left behind, when a woman sitting next to her said: “It fair gives you the hump, don’t it, to look at such a lonely place—I’d die if I had to live anywhere hereabout.”

We’re not all alike!

Nevertheless, however enjoyable it may be, with extensive travelling there comes a time to many a person, especially if travelling alone, when he, and more especially she, longs for the sight of a familiar face—the people next door; the milkman round the corner; the ticket collector at her own station—anybody, in fact, who knows her as a definite human being, with a name and address and social standing; instead of being nothing more than an atom in a sea of strange faces; an atom to be perpetually propelled to somewhere else, got rid of in due course (after being mulcted of as much cash as possible, legitimately or otherwise, as the case may be).

There can be something peculiarly depressing, after a while—despite the beauty of the scenery—in seeing a constant change of faces, an endless procession of people, all of whom pass one by without the smallest interest in one’s welfare. Each intent on his own business, and scarcely cognisant of one’s existence.

To Hesper, who was fairly well-known in her own corner of London, who could not walk along Queen Victoria Street, or down Ludgate Hill or Fleet Street without meeting some business acquaintance, the days of travel across the Continent, with never a single face she knew, presently made her almost melancholy. The first excitement of her journey had worn thin, and her recent illness had made her susceptible to a reaction. She was still far from strong. She still was worried with insomnia.

Also, some forms of trouble exact a certain expenditure of spirit, which no jury can assess, and no material “damages” can ever make good.

By the time she alighted at the station labelled “Thorpe’s Ledge” she was positively hungry for the sight of someone whom she knew, and who would know her. She almost tumbled into Mabel’s arms, saying, “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” and tears actually started to her eyes, owing to her illness and the fatigue of the long journey.

To Mabel, who had only known Miss Pew as the super-capable, super-efficient manager of a business which was kept running at top-speed, it was surprising to see such an indication of real weakness. Her first remark to herself was: “Nerves, evidently! The poor dear’s a perfect wreck. It’s always nerves with them nowadays. What are women coming to?”

Hesper was too tired to say much to herself, but she did manage to register subconsciously—as the car slid quickly over the five miles that intervened between railway and ranch—“Mabel has put on weight. Who would have imagined that that pale wisp of a girl could so soon develop into this almost robust lovely-complexioned woman. Comely—yes, that’s the word for her. Fancy my using a quaint word like that. Must be the change of scene. I’ve been looking at skeletons and prehistorics for so long, it’s quite a change to see a girl with some honest flesh on her and neither powder, nor lipstick, nor reeking scent.”

But they didn’t voice many personalities aloud that day, for Hesper was so exhausted by the time she reached the ranch, that she went to bed at once and slept for sixteen hours straight off.

That sixteen hours was exactly what she needed. When she looked out on the world the next morning, it was with a sense of starting a new life. The past, with its worry, and strain and harrowing injustice, she would fling into the background and forget all about it—if she could—at any rate for six months.

The doctor’s parting words to her were: “Determine to forget that you’ve ever seen an office, or a manuscript, or a business letter. Forget that such a place as London exists—and believe me, it isn’t worth remembering this weather”—as he looked out of the window of her flat at the steady drizzle, and a day that matched the slate roofs of Westminster for greyness.

It wasn’t difficult to follow his advice now. And as she stepped out of the bedroom, on to the open veranda, she seemed to be breathing something new and marvellous in the way of air, such as she had never sampled in her life before. It almost went to her head. It certainly went to her feet. She felt she wanted to run, fly, mount up and up, and float about in space—and said so to Mabel who appeared at that minute.

“You’d better come in and have your breakfast,” said Mabel. “We don’t encourage our visitors to go lilting lightheartedly around like that on an empty tummy. You’ll feel more rational when you have had a meal.”

But she didn’t, though she made a very fair meal and enjoyed it.

She went for a walk after breakfast, to get her bearings. Each step she took seemed to be on air, and she herself some fresh person, not the one she had known in the past. She certainly felt better, much better, and younger; and it was easier to smile than it had been for weeks. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she had started to sing.

Already the air of Canada was doing its invigorating work.

But she soon ceased to think of herself and her own concerns—either past, present or future—so overwhelming was the scenery. Snow-capped mountains with mighty forests creeping up to the snowline; rushing tumultuous water; distant glaciers, blue, green, rose or yellow, according to the light; tall trees with a girth and height such as she had never before imagined. Everything on a mammoth scale. It made her feel so puny, or it would have done so but for the exalting quality of the air.

The ranch was built in what might be called a fold of the hills, which is not quite the same as a valley. It was on the hillside, where the land was gentler in its contour than in most of the nearby landscape. The forest trees had been cleared from around it, and meadows rolled up on either side, as it nestled in the shelter of the mountainous heights behind it.

In front, there stretched miles of forests, lakes, rivers, and always there were more mountains, untameable, and for the most part unscaleable, except by expert mountaineers in special cases. Whichever way Hesper looked, there were “views,” and each seemed grander than the previous.

The thaw had come; most of the snow had gone; though some of it still lay wherever there was a northern aspect. Although not an agricultural district, some land was under cultivation where the gradient was not too steep, or the landscape too wild to be subdued for man’s convenience.

All sorts of activities were waking up in barns and out-buildings, which for months past had been winter-locked with snow.

Jack Thorpe was up to his eyes in work, for labour was scarce, and he had not yet hired his men for the summer season. Yet no man who lives in the open can resist the voice of spring. When the sap begins to rise, he, too, must be up and doing—whether he needs it for his daily bread or not; that is a secondary consideration. Nature only has to call, when she starts work after the winter sleep, and he is keen to work with her.

Jack Thorpe would have ploughed and planted in the spring if he had been a millionaire, i.e. if he could have dodged his wealth; a millionaire is so woefully handicapped.

In his estimation, there was only one occupation worth an able-bodied man’s attention, viz. providing food for the human race. He maintained that every man ought to be able to raise sufficient crops for himself and his household—else he was a poor sort of stick. But since it was self-evident that a very large number of men were unable to produce the food needed for themselves, let alone that needed by their families, it was up to someone to produce a surplus, above and beyond the requirements of his own household, in order to keep starvation at bay.

Jack Thorpe prided himself on being one of the men who provided a surplus and helped to feed others. Even though this was not his only work in life.

When you come to think of it, most of us would be in a bad way but for those men who do provide the surplus.

When Hesper started on her walk she was so enthralled with the scenery that she did not look back at the ranch, or examine the house itself.

But on her return, as she slowly mounted the winding road leading up to the house, she was surprised to see how large it was. She had no very clear idea as to what she had expected; but at best she had anticipated nothing more than a farmstead of modest size, with three or four rooms downstairs, something similar upstairs, and the necessary barns and sheds scattered around.

Whereas, she saw spread out before her, a low-roofed house that had a dozen windows of different sizes and patterns on its main frontage, and far more than a dozen in each of the “wings” that rambled off in all directions wherever the level of the land had allowed a few more rooms to be added. Had it been piled high, instead of being allowed to wander about, it would have been called a mansion, it was so extensive. Yet it was well-balanced, and had been added to by someone who knew what he was about, and didn’t intend to place any blot on the landscape.

It was easy to see which was the original house put up by the first Thorpe when he settled in what was then unexplored territory. It was the central portion. The land dropped away from it sharply, though not dangerously, in front, giving it the appearance, from a distance, of being on a huge shelf or ledge of the rock. “Thorpe’s Ledge,” someone had dubbed it at the outset, and the name had stuck to it, and finally been given to the railway station, which secured it a permanent place in the sun.

But what could Mabel and Jack want with such extensive premises was the thought that puzzled Hesper—as its many additions revealed themselves. Why, it was large enough for a school or an institution, only it didn’t look like either; it only looked like an overgrown but very comfortable home.

“Come along,” said her hostess, when she returned. “You must be introduced to the house. It takes a little bit of knowing, because it’s so spread about.”

“So it seems. I had no idea it was such a large affair. How ever many servants do you keep?”

“We don’t talk about servants out here. We have helpers. (You must start to learn our language at once, please.) At the moment I have one only—Miss Ekström. You’ll meet her presently.

“I had an Irish helper, at first. Mind, I’m not saying anything against the Irish. Didn’t my own mother come from Belfast? I love them—when they are lovable, and they mostly are. But that woman was evidently sent me for my soul’s discipline. I saw no other reason for her existence. My china was smashed daily—but she never broke anything! She had only been ‘slightly unfortunate,’ she used to tell me.

“When I found the electric cooker still going full blast with nothing on it, while a kettle had boiled itself burnt-empty on the kitchen fire, I said it made my blood boil to see such carelessness.

“ ‘But what good does it do me if yer blood does boil,’ she replied, ‘when it’s boiling water I’ll be needing for yer tea?’ . . . (Oh, yes, we have electricity—water-power is cheap. . . .)

“Then again, she didn’t believe in sweeping too much, or in turning out. ‘Where’s the sense in raising all the dust?’ she would say. ‘Far better and healthier to let it bide where it is ’stead of stirring up them germs.’ And she let it bide.

“She was supposed to help me with the washing. But when I pointed out that she didn’t attempt to wash anything, but merely swilled the clothes through the water, she said: ‘You see, I used to wash perfessionally once, at a laundry, and it didn’t do to wash the things clean there, otherwise folks would have worn them too long, and that would be bad for trade’.”

“She must have been a treasure,” Hesper laughed. “What’s her successor like?”

“Britta Ekström is a Swede, a graduate of Lund University, and such a dear girl. She discovered, when she had finished her University training, that degrees were a drug on the market everywhere. The whole world is surfeited with them, and so few people have any use for them now. So she looked around to find out what was needed, and decided that good cooks were more in demand than any other workers. And she promptly specialised in cooking. To make a long story short—she is here with me, and what I should do without her, I don’t know. She’s not only a genius, but an extremely competent genius, which is more than they all are. We see a few geniuses here at times—so I know a little about them.”

“But you three people can’t occupy all these rooms, not even with me as a visitor.”

“We shall have them full of paying visitors all the summer—and then I engage extra helpers from the towns. They like to come out in the summer, as there is plenty going on, of one sort and another. And they can have a good time, in addition to good money. We can often get very nice college girls from the States, who want to earn money for their training. We are by ourselves in the winter; as there is not enough work, either outdoors or in, to make it worth while to keep helpers all the year round. And they prefer to be in towns in the winter.”

“How many visitors do you reckon to be able to accommodate?”

“I try to keep it down to a hundred. I can manage a few more at a squeeze, but I prefer to limit it to a hundred. It’s quite enough to provide for, in addition to the staff. You see, the gilt begins to wear off the gingerbread the moment a place gets beyond one’s personal supervision, and one has to hire a deputy boss at some huge wage to help carry on. And if even one’s deputy turns out all right—which is all a risk—the personal element disappears, and the house becomes just an ordinary hotel. That wouldn’t pay us; we flourish on individuality here. I saw, when I was at Slimmer’s, the advantage of having a special line of one’s own and boosting it for all it was worth. George Slimmer went in for the things he liked—so do I. I love cooking and housekeeping. Always longed to be able to potter around a house. I’ve got all the chance I ask for now.”

“But do you mean to tell me that you can look after all those people, even if Miss Ekström does superintend the cooking? And she couldn’t cook for a hundred, could she? It isn’t like institutional cooking.”

“She and I do it between us—with helpers for the routine work, of course. You’ve no idea what one can do with proper management; but you’ll soon see, as we shall have a crush, and earlier than usual this time. A big Convention is held every three years at our nearest town, Rushworth, which is only thirty-five miles away. It is on the lines of the Keswick Convention.”

“What’s that? I never heard of it.”

“It’s a famous religious gathering that has been held at Keswick regularly, I think, for a generation—ours lasts over a week, with several meetings each day, and well-known preachers and speakers come to give the addresses. Quite a huge affair. Every place for miles around is chock full with people from all parts of the world. Some come from a real desire to attend the meetings; lots come just out of curiosity and to say they’ve been. And all of them make it a holiday outing, and hope they will get a glimpse of Enoch Old.”

“How do they manage, if they stay here and the meetings are thirty-five miles away?”

“That’s no distance in Canada,” Mabel laughed. “Special cars and buses take them to and fro. It’s all part of the fun.”

“Well, I had no idea you were running this kind of a show,” Hesper said. “It will be a new branch of education to see how you do it. I thought a ranch was a sort of farm.”

“So it is. This was nothing but a farm originally. But as time went on and Mr. Old’s books became so famous, more and more people found out the place, and wanted to stay somewhere—and Jack’s people put them up. They added on two or three rooms as the visitors increased.

“After Jack’s father died, and I came out here, Mr. Old advised us to develop the paying guest business, and make the ranch a summer resort. Not that he likes the visitors haunting the place. He hates it. But he said it would be good for them to see such beautiful scenery, and good for us to have their money, because farming at this height on the hillside isn’t profitable now that wages are so high. He helped us with money, and advice, so that we could add still more rooms, and make a heap of necessary improvements, and now it’s a very paying proposition. But dinner is ready, and you’ll be starving. I mustn’t talk your head off the moment you arrive. And please get it firmly into your system that we have middle-day dinner, a fairly substantial tea, and then supper—with anything you may like if you’re hungry in between. We avoid town ways, and adhere to the simple life of the backwoods—but I’ll tell you about that to-morrow. After all, we’ve still a few days left, before you need go back home, in which to relieve our souls of undue pressure.”

The talk at dinner turned almost entirely on the forthcoming Convention, which was evidently of far more importance to the community than a General Election. It appeared to be the Great Event, for which the district braced itself and stored up most of its energies, in order to do the thing properly every third year. A candidate for the American Presidency couldn’t wish for more attention than was focussed on the Triennial Convention by Rushworth and the neighbourhood.

“And we get a good many of the ‘brass hats’ out here,” Jack explained.

“They like to get away from the crowd, into a little peace and quiet,” Mabel said.

“They enjoy Mabel’s cooking,” Jack interjected.

“Oh, but I don’t think that can be the reason,” Mabel replied. “Why, many of them have never been here before. It’s on account of Mr. Old that they flock out here.”

Jack snorted. “In this age,” he said, “when half the world goes around with a can opener in her hand, and the other half is only waiting to borrow it when she’s done with it—anyone who happens to find a good old-fashioned dinner anywhere, which he can enjoy and digest, mentions the fact for ever afterwards. We never advertise; we leave other people to do that for us. And they do. I guess even the famous George Slimmer would have forgotten all about the prehistoric baking dishes he was unearthing, if someone had put a plate of Mabel’s chicken pie before him. He’d have referred to that pie more than once, too, whatever else he might have found to tell his friends about his cracked antediluvian discoveries. And I miss my guess, if it didn’t take away all their appetite for tombs.”

“Speaking about excavations,” said Mabel, “have you ever met Dr. Roger Rosscombe?—at least he’s Sir Roger Rosscombe now, of course. I don’t think Slimmer had his books in my time, but perhaps you’ve had him since. No? . . . And you’ve never met him? Well, you will now, because he’s making quite a long stay here. I don’t know if he’s going to speak at the Convention. But he’s a great friend of the Dean of Glynchester, who is coming from England specially to speak and who is one of the lions this time.”

“They always manage to rope in a fair number of religious celebrities on these occasions”—Jack took up the theme—“in addition to a still larger number of people who could well be spared. The Dean is staying here with us—wise man—and Mrs. and Miss Dean will be with him. You’ll be quite in the social swim here, even if you are buried in the backwoods.”

“Mrs. Dean is an ‘honourable,’ ” Mabel explained. “But don’t mention the word ‘buried,’ Jack dear, or Hesper will be reverting to type and thinking about Slimmer’s again!”

Hesper wasn’t quite as elated at the prospect on ahead as they were. It didn’t sound as though it was going to be any more of a peace-haven here than the one Mr. Phelps had so kindly offered. Still, it was a curious coincidence that Dr. Rosscombe was coming—or rather, Sir Roger Rosscombe. She mustn’t forget it, if he had been knighted.

“How did he come by a title,” she asked, voicing her thoughts.

“Who? The Dean? Oh, you mean Rosscombe. I only read about it in the papers a week ago. He was out in India, somewhere on the North-West frontier, I believe, where there was one of the periodical little kick-ups going on between our people and some hostile tribes from over the border. Rosscombe, happening along just then, offered to negotiate with the enemy; and went alone into their camp. They knew him—he’s been up that way before—and in the end, he got them to see reason; or, at any rate, he induced them to repack their portmanteaus and go back to their side of the boundary. As it seemed more politic for him not to continue his journey at the moment, lest it might arouse new suspicions, he returned home. Had a chat with the King; I expect they had a cigar together while he told the King all about the little dust-up. And he found he had a title in his pocket when he came away. That’s all I know.”

“I hope he’ll tell us something about it when he comes,” said Mabel.

“I doubt it,” Jack replied. “Men of his breed are usually the last to say a word about their exploits. Between you and me”—to Hesper—“he’s more in my line than some of the folks who come to these Conventions. Not all, mind you. There is real gold to be found among them. But some of them——!” And Jack raised protesting hands, holding knife and fork, in lieu of suitable language.

“I don’t know that Deans are much in my line, either,” Hesper told him, “although I do happen to know that the Dean of Glynchester has a big reputation and is a very learned man. But—changing the subject for a moment—I would like to know exactly what is the full name and title of this delicious meat I am eating. I’ve never tasted anything like it before; and I’m sure I shall go on mentioning it, at intervals, for the rest of my life.”

Mabel and Miss Ekström exchanged smiles. “It’s roast pork,” said Mabel.

“Nonsense! It can’t be. I’ve eaten roast pork more than once in my previous existence, but it never tasted anything like this.”

“It is one of our many experiments, and we’re always trying experiments in the kitchen here. Instead of putting the pork straight into the oven, as people usually do, we lavish brown sugar upon it, and then some salt, and let it stay in that for a day or two, turning it and basting it so that it all gets a fair share. After that it is baked, with fancy touches added, but very little sage. People kill the flavour with sage as well as make themselves ill. And one has to think of these things. Anyhow, everybody so far has enjoyed the dish.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Of course, the great secret in having guests return year after year—and ours do—to any holiday place, is to make them comfortable—and feed them well. But it occurred to me that it would be an additional ‘draw,’ if we specialised in certain dishes. Remember how people used to flock to the ‘Cheshire Cheese’ in Fleet Street for the sake of the steak and kidney pudding? Well, I decided to copy them and make a feature of certain dishes.”

“How did you know what people would like?” Hesper asked.

“They soon tell one that. But I also made the discovery that a dish we ourselves specially enjoy is almost certain to be popular with other people. Human nature doesn’t vary so very much, when you get down to the everyday necessities. And, allowing for the average person, so long as he isn’t particularly dyspeptic or faddy, what is liked by one is liked by the majority.”

“Even a dyspeptic or a faddist would clamour for more of this,” said Hesper.

“Then that’s all right. We were testing it on you. We hoped it would appeal to you as it does to us. Now we know it’s a good line—only, alas! it isn’t a summer joint, so it will only be served before the weather gets hot.”

“What other dishes are your specialities?”

“Pickled leg of lamb is very popular. Also steamed or simmered chicken stuffed with sausages and infant onions. Deep English pies are liked, because they are not seen so often here as at home—but you must wait, and we will try quite a number of new ‘eats’ on you that Britta Ekström and I have been concocting. We were longing to find a polite victim who wouldn’t be too violent if she didn’t happen to favour any particular sample.”

“Isn’t Mrs. Thorpe wonderful,” said Miss Ekström, when Hesper was helping her clear the table, and being shown where the items belonged. Mabel had gone off to her poultry houses. Five hundred chicks were due in a few days from one of the incubators. And everyone who is on speaking terms with an incubator, knows that it is never wise to count your chickens before they are hatched.

“She is such a remarkable manager,” Miss Ekström continued, “and yet she never gets—what do you call it in English?—I mean temperamentally high-pressured. She is always so level in her head, and happy. Nothing seems to worry her. But that is usually the way with really clever people, isn’t it. How you must have missed her when she left you to get married.”

“Ye-es,” said Hesper thoughtfully. Some of Miss Ekström’s eulogy was undoubtedly “just like Mabel.” But, on the other hand, some of it, and also what she had already seen in the few hours she had been here, wasn’t a bit like the Mabel she used to know. She wondered whether, after all, it was safe to judge a girl or a woman by her office performances alone. And did her office work really matter at all? What did matter?

Oh, well—she was getting mixed! And the question needn’t be settled to-day. But she would make a note of that roast pork recipe; it didn’t sound so difficult to do!

“This afternoon you must study the house in real earnest,” said Mabel, when she came back from her chickens, and they were having some of the many cups of tea which were a characteristic of the ménage. “And to save you having to ask questions, I’ll tell you (what I don’t tell everybody) the plan by which I worked when I fitted up this place. The idea really originated through Mansfield Park——”

“Mansfield Park? Where’s that?”

“It was the name of the boarding house in South London—which called itself a Residential Hotel—where I lived while I was working in London, as my people lived in Yorkshire. It was a fair-sized house, standing in a nice garden. The late owner had been a wealthy sporting man named James Austen, who had written a book on Famous Boxing Matches. The house had only a number, but no name. That didn’t sound at all beguiling to the boarding house proprietor who had bought it fairly cheaply at James Austen’s death—it was at a time when there was that big slump in large property. Somebody chanced to tell him that the previous owner had written a book called ‘Mansfield Park,’ and advised him to give that name to the house; it would be so attractive to Americans visiting London.

“He did so; and you should have seen the collection of pipes and tobacco jars that decorated the author’s study: a room got up for exhibition purposes, and supposed to be where the book was written. This was reverently shown to visitors, till one bright person commented on the singularity of so refined a woman as the author of ‘Mansfield Park’ smoking pipes of all things—and such pipes too!

“The ‘study’ was promptly dismantled by the proprietor’s wife, who said it was evidently Mrs. Austen who wrote the book. The pipes and mannish things were cleared out, and the ‘study’ redecorated with an old work-box, an empty birdcage (supposed to have housed her pet canary), a faded green silk parasol with a broken handle, a stuffed dog under a glass shade and one shabby satin slipper. These relics had a better reception. People said how beautiful it was to think of such a clever woman being so tender-hearted as to cherish the cage of her dead bird and her dear dog. Endless ‘snaps’ were taken of that room.

“Of course I put my foot in it as usual. The wind blew down some old ivy from a wall, and I discovered a tablet underneath with ‘J.A. 1860’ on it. I went to the proprietress and said I thought she ought to know that the previous owner did not write ‘Mansfield Park’; and the real author had never been in the house.

“She only asked me coldly if I had been supplied with the names of all the authors who had visited the house in the past? And if not, how did I know that Mrs. Jane Austen had never been there?

“I trotted her out to the tablet dated 1860, and told her that Miss Jane Austen died in 1817!

“This didn’t squelch her, however. She then asked politely whether all the statements published in Jane Austen’s and other people’s books were facts? If not, why should fiction be right if printed, and be wrong if spoken? Moreover, as the Victorian parasol, dog, etc. were in the attic when her husband bought the place, they had been undoubtedly the property of the author—and that was what she told visitors. Neither more nor less, naming no names. And she supposed she could call her house what she pleased so long as she didn’t call it Buckingham Palace or Scotland Yard! But at the same time, if I didn’t like the name, perhaps I would find another house that suited me better.

“I told her I was going to do so, and would be getting married next week.

“This is a long yarn; but I got an idea from that ‘author’s study’: Why not give people the sort of thing they wanted? Seeing how those who were on a hunt for literary association enthused over Jane’s fictitious birdcage, why shouldn’t those who were hankering after the backwoods have it in real earnest—but have it in absolute comfort? See my point?”

“Quite,” said Hesper. “I’ve heard of Dude Ranches; was that what you had in mind?”

“Not exactly. And at that time even Dude Ranches weren’t as much to the fore as they are now in the States. My notion was to provide all the trimmings that people wanted to see, and would be likely to gloat over; but also to give them such a luxurious time in the matter of comfort that they would yearn to come back again next season. ‘Roughing it’ is all very well theoretically, but modern bones don’t care for hard beds; and the sound of a cup of tea brought up to you when you wake in the morning beats all the songs of the birds you may hear, while paddling out to the mountain spring to fill the morning kettle—at any rate once you’ve left your teens!——”

“I quite agree,” said Hesper.

“On the other hand, I didn’t want bathrooms like the one an American visitor told us about; it was so beautiful, that she never allowed anyone to wash in it!

“Now this long story will help you to understand the lay-out of this place.”

It did. Hesper saw rooms that looked exactly like those of some old-time inn, or mountain pioneer’s homestead, until one studied the details. Then it was noticeable that every seat was a comfortable one, with a back that sloped at the most restful angle, and a cushion that was just where it was most needed. The windows were not large—they had no need to be, there were so many of them. But the curtains and window plants were home-like and pretty.

Draughts had been cut out; light was in abundance. Floors were thickly covered and restful to the tread. Polished floors were taboo—“real accident-traps,” Mabel said. “I didn’t want people slipping down and breaking their legs. And they are not comfortable, even in summer.”

In the bedrooms, one was still in some wayside inn. Blue and white check curtains, with white spotted muslin, went with blue and white patchwork quilts. Pink gingham and white ball fringe went with white knitted quilts (though Mabel rather regretted these—they were so tiresome to wash). Hooked rugs, knitted rugs, hand woven rugs—Mabel had secured everything she could in this line, and added to them herself in the winter evenings. Pictures, books, ornaments—everything corresponded to the atmosphere that was really native to the place.

The home-made picture frames of wood, with pine cones, acorns and pieces of twig attached, and then all varnished over, seemed as exactly right in the living room as were the antlers of the moose on the wall above them.

“I haven’t much time for reading,” Mabel said. “So I try to improve my poor little brain when I do get a chance to sit down—by reading what the wise people of to-day are saying. And I gather that in a few years time we shall be living in steel tubes, or whitewashed pill-boxes, and sitting or sleeping on aluminium gridirons for furniture when we aren’t hurtling through the air. So I determined that at least people who come here shall have a little comfort to look back upon in their old age.”

Hesper felt as she went from one room to another—no two exactly alike, yet all related, and all in keeping with the place—that she had stepped off into another world, or dropped back a century or two. Yet everything spoke of ease and pleasant leisure. You knew instantly that you could rest here. It was the real thing in antiques, but also it was the genuine article in comfort.

“We point out the special features,” Mabel explained, “and ancient treasures, to any who show the least interest—and most of our guests do—just as the old slipper and birdcage used to be exhibited to the Austenites. I believe in talking up a thing, after I’ve taken so much trouble over it. The stuffed dog did draw business! So do my woolwork fire screens and chintz-covered band-boxes. More than one rich American has wanted to buy us up en bloc, feather beds, kitchen dressers and all, and transplant us to his own country estate.”

“The world is so overdone with civilisation, that people ache to get back to primitive, wild-life conditions,” said Hesper.

“Yes; but they don’t want the discomforts, and why should they have them, poor dears, when they are so willing to pay us to keep them out of sight.”

“I think you’re perfectly wonderful to have planned such a scheme and worked it out as you have—with everything so pretty and charmingly arranged, and yet so serviceable and nothing cluttered-up. Wherever did you learn all this?”

“Mr. Old was a real help to us with advice about the building, as well as with money—and he has been so generous.

“He advised us to have a low-built home with plenty of sloping roofs, and overhanging eaves, because nothing makes a building look more like a cosy home than a roof that goes fairly high and comes low down as well; and nothing looks less homey and more factory-like than most of the modern sky-scrapers and blocks of flats that don’t show a roof. He read us something that Ruskin wrote about roofs, though I don’t remember what it was. But anyhow we have a lovely roof in consequence; everyone admires it.”

“I don’t wonder. Mr. Old must be a delightful neighbour.”

“He is. He’s taught both of us such a lot. But before I knew him I learnt heaps from you in all sorts of ways. Look how we girls used to call you Delicate Fuss, because you were so dainty and fragile-looking and yet so careful that everything should look as nice as possible. You’ve no idea how many letters I re-typed (and without being asked to either) because I’d got a blotch or a bodge on them somewhere, and I knew you wouldn’t have liked them to go out like that.”

“What a female tartar I must have been!”

“No, you weren’t. I remember one girl saying that at least you were always sweetly reasonable, if you did like things to look their best. And you yourself were so orderly; your clothes were just ‘it,’ and were always exactly right to go with your lovely hair and eyes. Another girl said you always reminded her of a Dresden china figure.”

“Good heavens! and to think I never realised what a wealth of poetic imagination was tapping a typewriter in the next room. All the same, I should like to know how my being such a beautiful though persnicketty dragon helped you to organise this outfit.”

“I can’t catalogue it exactly. It was your general effect on me. There were the nice mottoes you used to have on the wall, for instance——”

“Mottoes? Did you say Mottoes? Surely not! I couldn’t have been as far-gone as that.”

“Why, you can’t have forgotten the cards you used to hang up, such as the one in the waiting room:

“Then there were little cards, like:

“And that other terror:

“Not that I ever ‘did it now.’ But I’ve found mottoes very helpful here. I feel I could never run this place if I hadn’t a few around. Some I hang in our own rooms, and some in the guest rooms. . . . Oh, all sorts of things, just what seems to apply at the moment. And I never leave the same one up too long. I’ve got a new one for the kitchen this coming season:

“Quite useful, isn’t it? . . . No, I’ve never put up ‘Do it Now!’; it would be wasted over here, because no one in Canada ever would. As a matter of fact that text so got on my nerves in London, trying to remember what it was I ought to do now, that I invented one to suit myself:

“Such a soothing thought, isn’t it. Stops one getting the ‘rush’ habit. And I put up one in the General Sitting Room here last year:

“That one does help visitors to be nice and lazy with a clear conscience.

“And there’s another, something like it:

“So you can see I owe lots to you in the way of sound training, and so does Mr. Old, in one way. He was rather taken with our mottoes. I had told him about yours, and he’s put up one or two for himself. But they are more high-brow than mine. You’ll see them. That reminds me—I must take you down to ‘Little Plantings.’ ”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s Mr. Old’s place. We should just have time to get there and back before tea.”

“I should love to see him. I’ve been longing to meet him.”

“Well, you’ll have to go on longing. He’s not here at present. He’s away at his place in Scotland a good deal, and in any case wouldn’t come near the district while the Conventioners are about. Can’t stand them at any price. He won’t be back till the end of the summer, when most of the visitors will have gone. We had a letter from him only this morning. . . . After all, ‘looking at the clock,’ I think perhaps we’ve left it too late to go there to-day. We’ll go in the morning. You’ll want time to have a good look around. . . . I must read you what he says about you in his letter.”

“About me?”

“Yes. We had to write to him on some other business, and I mentioned that you were coming, and that your great desire was to find a furnished cottage in the neighbourhood. I knew it would amuse him, as it did us, to think of any ‘furnished cottage’ being available up here! We often tell him the funny things that visitors say——”

“If anybody can find anything funny in what I say, then I can’t be as ill as I thought I was!”

“Don’t interrupt. He wrote back at once—here’s his letter; h’m—h’m—er—oh, yes—this is what he says:

“So there’s your cottage all furnished and waiting for you. And there’s the tea-bell!”

“Little Plantings,” like many other place names in a new country, had grown into daily use, and become attached to the holding, because of certain idiosyncrasies of the owner.

Enoch Old’s uncle, from whom the author had inherited the place, had been keen to try out new trees, to see how non-natives would thrive in the district. He was a farmer, in the days when farming paid the small man better than it does now; but his love for trees was his great hobby. He used to quote the laird in “The Heart of Midlothian.” “When ye hae nothing else to do, ye maybe aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing when ye’re sleeping.”

And whenever he could get hold of something different from the Jack pines, red cedar, Douglas fir, maple, etc., which clothed the earth around him, he made little plantings of anything new which he had been able to secure.

Some of it died the first winter. Some of it took most kindly to the new land, and flourished apace. But to the end of his days, Enoch’s uncle had continued his little plantings. And the name—first applied to his homestead in derision, by men who saw no sense in wearing out one’s back over new trees when nature had already done the job on so lavish a scale—became in time the official name of the home of one of the world’s most popular writers.

Enoch Old, the author, was the son of a Highland shepherd; his mother had died in his childhood. Like so many of his race, he had a thirst for knowledge and struggled to educate himself, as only a Scotsman can and will. Somehow, he got to a University and, after taking a degree, he secured a really good appointment. But unfortunately the previous lean years had so undermined his health, that he crocked up. An utter smash! The doctor said he ought to get into drier air. It was then that his uncle in Canada suggested that a holiday over there might do him good.

Before he had been in Canada a year both his uncle and his aunt had died, and everything was left to him.

Mabel was giving Hesper his brief biography, as they walked from the ranch to Enoch Old’s house.

“And he’s been here ever since,” said Mabel, “barring when he isn’t—which is a good part of the time. His father married again, and I fancy he has some half-brothers or sisters. But no other near relations. . . . Well off? I should say so! Quite apart from his books, which must be a little gold mine, his uncle had luck all along the line. His land was the best hereabouts. He left everything to our Mr. Old. We rent his land now—at next to nothing—and farm it with our own, as he doesn’t do much farming now.”

“What does he do with his time?”

“Writes quite a lot. Reads a lot more. Loves gardening and animals and birds. And is as keen as his uncle was on trying new trees, to see what might be introduced successfully into Canada. Only in his case, he has more cash to play with, and it’s easier for him to get hold of novelties. Every grower in the world sends his catalogues to him.”

“It must be an ideal life for a man of his type.”

“He has only one worry, I believe—people! From the first fine day till snow stops them, it is one long procession of admirers all coming here, in the hope of seeing him.”

“And do they?”

“Just as much as you will,” and Mabel laughed. “I’ve known them sit for hours at a stretch outside his gate—sandwiches and all—hoping he will show himself. But he never does if strangers are there. It isn’t shyness; it’s a hatred of lionising and adulation, and everything of that kind. He is anything but a recluse; only people really plague him.”

The two had left the meadow-like sweep which surrounded the ranch, and had entered some woodland which clothed a rather sharp slope. This was a little mixed copse, of wych elm, beech, birch, and oak—probably some of the earlier “little plantings.” Their bare branches were a contrast to the dark greens of the conifers, which climbed and climbed the mountain side, like straight regiments of soldiers.

A path wound downhill through the wood, with trees above and trees below it, arching overhead. In the summer, nothing could be seen but the green leaves above, and all around. But now, the bare boughs formed vistas, with glimpses of wonderful scenery beyond. Hills rising above hills, mountains towering beyond these; rocks scarred and chiselled with wind and snow, glacier and torrent. Here some dark fir trees near the foreground stood out incisively against a blue mist that blurred a distant valley; or as the two walked on in single file down the narrow path, the bare branches took the form of a big gothic window, through which they could see a torrent dropping sheer over a grey precipice and disappearing—where?

And then—they came out of the wood into another grassy sweep with a fresh panorama of hills and valleys stretching out before them. They were still high up, with a view that might have been Switzerland, so grandly impressive, so remote did it seem from anything Hesper had ever seen in England.

And there, on the hillside, so placed that it caught all the sun and escaped the worst of the winds, was a small grey stone farmhouse that seemed to have settled in that particular niche, with its outlying barns, like some comfortable old hen with her family round about.

A fairly high wall surrounded what was presumably the garden, though at present there was no sign of flowers, and very little that was green, as the snow had only just gone. But the first thing that caught Hesper’s eye, was a bold notice on the high gate, which said:

“Whatever does it mean?” said Hesper, looking round nervously for the loose dog.

“He puts that up to keep the tourists outside. Otherwise they will walk all over the place. He found a group actually in the kitchen once, and making notes of what he had in his pantry! Some people seem to lose all sense of decent manners when they are hunting a celebrity. There are no lengths they won’t go to, if they get the chance. Even now they climb up and sit on the wall, feeling that the dog won’t be able to touch them up there.”

“Is the dog savage?”

“Savage! You’ve seen Bessie up at our place?”

“That darling collie with her babies?”

“Yes. She really is his. She’s the sweetest, gentlest creature that ever went by the name of dog. She’s nearly human; though I believe she would ‘down’ anyone if he told her to, or she thought they meant mischief. Still, the notice keeps some of the tourists outside. Only it comes as a slight shock to some of his admirers, who invariably think he will welcome them with open arms.”

“But why doesn’t he?”

“You’ll soon know why, when you see the neverending stream that will flow this way for the next six months. We make a good thing out of them. But for Mr. Old it’s a perpetual nuisance; and they literally drive him from his own home. But isn’t it a dear place!”

If Hesper had looked at it critically, she might have thought it looked a trifle bare outside, since it had none of the climbers that make the English cottages so picturesque. Nor were there any shrubs about the garden, only some curious erections—like nothing she had ever seen.

“What are those mummy-like things there?” she asked.

“Now for pity’s sake don’t get on the track of mummies again! Leave all that with Slimmer. Those are rose bushes, clad in their winter woollies. You must remember that plants here have a harder fight for life than in England. Our winters kill most things that are above ground, excepting the tough trees, unless the snow completely covers them—as in Switzerland. In order to keep a bush alive, it has to be swathed in straw or something of that kind and finally enveloped in matting or canvas—anything that will keep out the cold. And that has to remain until all risk of frost is over. If it is removed too soon, it’s certain death to the plant; if it’s removed too late, most probably you won’t get any blooms that year. Now, isn’t this cosy?” as they entered the living room which opened directly on to the veranda. A big fire was burning.

It was an unpretentious room—an old-fashioned farmhouse kitchen, with just enough of present-day furniture added to make it extremely pleasant and cosy. Canadians do understand the art of being comfortable, and of making other folks comfortable too. Evidently very little had been altered since the death of the uncle and aunt. Looking around, Hesper could see traces of both. Whether it was due to sentiment, or merely a disinclination to have any drastic disturbance of the even tenor of his way, it was plain that Enoch Old preferred things to “stay put.” He didn’t believe in alterations.

While there was nothing in the way of unnecessary ornamentation or useless furnishings, there appeared to be everything that one would actually need for simple home living, and it was all of it solid and made to last. No nonsense about it.

It didn’t take any stretch of imagination to see that the man whose youth had been spent in the Highlands of Scotland found it easy to make his home in the Highlands of Canada. The plain frugality of the farmhouse just suited his temperament. And though wealth had positively rushed at him, his only extravagance appeared to be books. The place was crowded with them.

“There are two really nice spare bedrooms,” Mabel was saying. “I advise you to have this one, at present; it gets all the sun there is, and when the weather becomes hotter, move into the other, which is beautifully cool in the summer. Everything is well aired; we see to that when he is away.”

“Who looks after him when he lives here? The place is so spotlessly scrubbed and clean.”

“His man, who was in the Navy, and is as handy as two women at housekeeping. He goes to Regina, and helps a brother, who has a business there, when Mr. Old is away; but he draws his wages all the time, and has to be in readiness to return at any moment.”

“Well, if the dear saint really means that I may camp here for a few weeks, I’ll take him at his word. Can I move in to-morrow? This seems ideal, and far too good to be true.”

“You certainly won’t move in for a week or two. You’ve been invited on a visit to me, don’t forget; I’m not going to let you slip through my fingers the moment I’ve got hold of you. No! We’ll talk about moving another time. Unless you’re tired of us, of course.”

For the next couple of days, conversation was largely reminiscent, or concerned with the doings of those at the office whom Mabel had known in the past.

But after a little, Hesper noticed that Mabel’s interest in London affairs was flagging. Very much so! Though she got out her sewing in the afternoon (a patchwork quilt she always had on hand) and sat down with the announcement that they would now be able to have another cosy chat and discuss the universe—it was patent to an experienced observer like Hesper that the mind of her hostess was on other things.

When Hesper told her that the Bank of England had been entirely rebuilt, she only said: “I hope they’ll keep the place a bit cleaner than it used to be.” And went on to tell Hesper how she had been taken in over an incubator she had bought secondhand, and of the number of eggs she had lost owing to its defection—and her hopes for the batch nearly due.

Even a person less alert than Hesper would have realised that the five hundred chicks of the future were of greater importance than any happenings of the past, though she did become animated when Patty Foxcroft’s name was mentioned.

Hesper had been telling her about the unknown caller who arrived at her flat that foggy night, with a sheet of her note-paper in his hand.

“How did Patty get hold of it, is what puzzles me?”

“Why, she sneaked it from your desk, of course,” said Mabel. “I’ve seen her nosing around there more than once when you were out. She lived on cadging when she was a girl, and it’s my belief it’s her mainstay still,” she added vehemently. “She wrote me as I told you, saying that she was coming to ‘write up Canada,’ as it was time England knew something about the Dominion, and she concluded she could rely on me for hospitality, as she would be giving the ranch a ‘puff’ in her forthcoming ‘travel-logue’—whatever that may be.”

“The idea of England having to rely on Patty Foxcroft for information!” Hesper commented.

“I ignored her letter. She always did exasperate me. She owes me—I don’t know how much, that she borrowed in small sums and never repaid. It doesn’t amount to a fortune, I know, but it meant a good deal to me in those days, when I needed all I earned. I hope I shall never see her again. Hospitality is the last thing she’ll get from me.”

“Don’t be too sure. She has an uncanny way of turning up where she is least expected.”

“Let the subject be changed. We won’t admit her into our conversation. Leave disagreeables back home when you go for a holiday, is my motto. We’ll consign the Foxcroft to oblivion.”

“Long may she remain there,” said Hesper, “though she won’t. But to change the subject—I’m going to move into ‘Little Plantings’ to-morrow morning. No—it isn’t that I’m tired of you already, you know that. But we’ve talked our talk, and said our say, for the moment. I don’t want to bore you, and you don’t want to have to entertain me now that you’re getting busier every day. You’ve been an angel in the way you’ve set me on my feet again. I feel a different being, and it’s quite time you were quit of me.”

“Are you sure you’re well enough to be on your own?” Mabel showed proper hesitation at consenting to a parting. “At any rate, you must come up to us for your main meals.”

“Not a bit of it,” Hesper laughed. “I’m coming up here to help you if you can use me; but I’m not going to add to your work.”

“I’m engaging some helpers immediately, as I’ve some visitors coming earlier than I expected. No, not the same helpers I had last year. These are new to us. But they are sure to work well. Canadians are so practical, and Britta Ekström is a treasure. You will have to join the visitors when we have a house party here. It will do you good.”

Hesper doubted it.

Next day, with sunshine looking in at the windows, Hesper took possession of her new home. Jack had lit fires everywhere, and taken down her luggage. A goodly store of eatables were ranged on the pantry shelves, while in addition there was live stock in the shape of a love of a puppy—one of Bessie’s young family, of which she was pathetically proud.

“He’s old enough now to leave his mother,” Mabel explained, “and we thought he would be company for you. It’s never good to be the only creature moving about a house. One needs something else, if it’s only a cat or a canary, to make an occasional sound. Call him what you fancy.”

As Hesper had already made friends with Bessie and her offspring, the puppy left off eating the hearthrug and greeted her effusively.

“I shall call him Reginald,” said Hesper. “He looks like a Reginald, doesn’t he?”

“You’ll find he looks like the incarnation of mischief before long. He’ll need watching,” Mabel warned her, “or he’ll chew up the whole house. But it will be good for you to have some occupation, and he’ll provide you with a fair amount. Would you like someone to come and see to the fires each morning? . . . You want to do everything yourself? . . . Well—your aspirations do you credit. But if you should alter your mind, ring me up on the ’phone at any hour of the day or night.”

“And may I use as much wood as I want for fires? I’ll be very careful and economical.” Here spoke the Londoner to whom wood was a treasure of great price.

“May you! My dear girl, you may burn and burn all you want, and whenever you want. The supply is practically unlimited.”

“Can I gather those pieces I saw lying about in that forest we came through? I’ve always longed to be able to gather sticks to make my fire. But I don’t want to devastate the countryside, like people are always doing at home.”

“You won’t devastate it here—the supply is almost inexhaustible, if it were only used as you and I would use it. But, of course, some trees have to be felled. For every tree that comes down, Mr. Old has a young one put in. He has inherited his uncle’s liking for little plantings. We can cut what we like; he doesn’t charge us for it. But we must put in a youngster to grow up and take its place. This keeps up the supply.”

“Where do you get the young trees from?”

“There are plenty springing up from acorns, or seeds that have sown themselves. But if we had not these, the Government will supply one with seedlings—thousands if we wanted them—about a couple of inches long. They soon grow onwards and upwards. So you can pick up or cut down what you like.”

“I shall never cut down a living tree. It seems almost wrong.”

“You’ll find heaps of stuff that the gales have tossed down for you, whole trees and all. So you can gratify your longing to your heart’s content. Use as much as ever you like. Pile it high, and enjoy the feeling of being recklessly extravagant. I was quite a while, when I first came out, before I got over counting the sticks when I made a fire. I had been so used to the landlady’s methods at Mansfield Park—one lump of coal, and one only, in the scuttle, and no poker ever allowed to adorn the hearth—that it made me almost dizzy to find myself in the midst of such abundance. Well, I’ll leave you now, if you’re quite sure——”

And Mabel was gone.

Hesper felt a sense of freedom such as she had never experienced in her life before—freedom and space in which to enjoy it, and above all, pure, clear air to breathe, that put new life into one. Oh, the air—the dry, life-giving air!

And quiet—perhaps one couldn’t say it was absolutely quiet; rushing water and the wind in the trees sang many songs. There was no lack of sound; but it was sound that soothed one’s nerves. It never jarred, or worried, or irritated.

Not for a single moment did it occur to Hesper that she might be lonely. She knew only too well that there is no loneliness so intense as the loneliness of an isolated unit living by herself in a crowded city.

Wasn’t it John Burroughs who said, when asked why he was living alone in the wild-woods: “I have come here to find myself. One can get lost so easily in the city”? There is a friendliness about grass and trees and birds and flowers that is never to be found in pavements and sky-scrapers.

“I don’t want to become a self-centred freak,” she said to herself, as she stood on the veranda, “but if I can have a couple of months of rest here, I shall be thankful. I’m tired—worn out—elderly—yes, elderly! But if I could get rid of my wretched insomnia, I might be able to forget about—— But I will not think about it; I’ll think about you, Enoch Old. I’m grateful to you—I believe you’ve saved my life. I only wish I could tell you so.”

After arranging her belongings, she decided to explore further afield. Looking around for Reginald, she found him fast asleep in a large flat basket, many sizes too big for him, in a corner by the living room fire. Such a picture of fat contented innocence, with a well-filled little stomach, and his front paws folded tidily on his chest.

“I must look well after him—he’s all the family I possess.” Hesper laughed to herself, despite feeling so elderly.

The garden gave little indication as yet of what it could do in the way of flowers. It was waiting for warmer days to waken it up. Most of it was evidently underground, since so little that looked like “garden” was visible. Yet Enoch Old undoubtedly loved flowers, his books revealed that. Probably something would show itself later.

The mountains, however, were beyond the need of any seasonal assistance. Summer and winter made no fundamental difference to them. Snow came and went; sunshine and storm swept over them; trees clung to their sides as long as they could find strength and foothold to defy the elements. But nothing could subdue the heights. Bereft at last of everything but the eternal snow, they held their summits calmly aloft, undisturbed by the little doings of mankind—a symbol surely of the radiant purity which finally awaits us when we get beyond the devastation of human sin.

The mountains filled Hesper with awe. She needed to be alone to try and grasp something of their stupendous magnificence. She felt so small and insignificant beside them, yet they gave her strength. They compelled her to look beyond her own tiny corner of the universe; to turn her eyes away from the futile strivings and inadequate accomplishments, and the petty animosities of men and women—and gaze on the world as it comes fresh from the Hand of God.

One needs silence and solitude to learn some of life’s biggest lessons.

The walk in the keen fresh air soon made her hungry. “I mustn’t forget that I’m my own cook now,” she reminded herself, as she returned to the cabin. “And what a solitary-spinster habit of talking to myself I’m developing already!”

There was no need to do much cooking that first day. Mabel had stocked the larder generously with what the stores lists describe as “Ready to serves.”

As Hesper went into the living room to lay the cloth for her meal, she took another affectionate look at the small occupant of the big basket. To her surprise, there were two puppies snuggled up together and snoring peacefully.

“Could I have made a mistake?” she asked herself. “Did Mabel say a puppy, or puppies? Perhaps Reginald’s brother was chewing something in another room, and I didn’t notice him. He had better be Archibald. Family is bigger than I thought!”

Later the brothers awoke, and with one accord fell upon Hesper’s shoes, which she had put near the fire to dry. They abandoned them, however, in favour of bread and milk, with which they once more stuffed their rotund anatomies.

Later, having removed everything which she thought they might try to eat, she took her done-with dinner things into the kitchen. Here she came upon one of Mr. Old’s mottoes, it hung above the draining board. It was a verse by Christopher Morley, which he had evidently cut out and stuck on a card.

“Very true; I’ll bear that in mind. I shouldn’t wonder but what three—or perhaps even two—plates are really all a person needs for a meal.”

After this she spent some time re-arranging her bedroom. “To think that I shall see trees and mountains, to say nothing of the sun, when I wake up, instead of chimney pots and houses opposite.” She nearly sang as she put her personal oddments in convenient places.

Yet the spartan simplicity of the furnishing seemed to make her own little knick-knacks look like the gay over-dressed townspeople one sometimes meets in country lanes—very pleased with themselves, and utterly out-of-keeping with their surroundings.

“These fripperies look ridiculous in this masculine house. I believe the room will really look nicer if I put them away. This chest wasn’t made yesterday! . . . And what a boon to find drawers that move in and out as easily as these do. Whoever made this furniture, made it to last and to be good to the end. How father would have loved it. . . . Here I am, talking to myself again!”

Going out of the room, she noticed some pencil lines on the back of the door, and against each a name and age.

Then it dawned upon her. These were evidently the heights of the various children who had been born in this house. She had heard that they had died before Enoch came to live with his uncle and aunt.

She looked round the bare little room again. It took on a new interest. In a flash, she saw that its plainness was not the outcome of a man’s preference for severity. It was the simple furnishing of a woman who had started to make a home in the wilds when means were small, and the conveniences of civilisation almost unreachable. She could only add a little at a time—but she saw to it that what she did add was sound and solid.

Doubtless she would have looked with interest at Hesper’s blue silk and lace nightdress pocket—and probably with amazed disapproval at her blue silk and lace nightie. But she would not have had much time for either—little Henry, and Bobbie and Susan must have taken up most of the time she could spare from the farm chores and cooking for the men. Though she would have looked a second time, a trifle longingly at the blue silk and lace, probably wishing she had them to make into dresses for Susan. Hesper felt somehow that to flaunt these “frilleries” was almost vulgar, in the circumstances. She closed the door gently. It seemed sad to think that those pencil marks were all that remained of the little ones. And Enoch himself was the last of the race, an elderly bachelor, with no one to come after him, to take care of this spotless little home. It was a pity.

It was getting on for tea-time when next she looked at the clock. The day seemed to have flown. And yet—she had done next to nothing so far. Well, she must have a time-table and stick to it. She would get really busy to-morrow.

Once more she started to lay a meal in the living room. And then she suddenly wondered if her brain had given way, or her eyesight had failed her. She had read of people becoming peculiar when they lived alone in the wilds, but this was so soon after settling in. Yet—she certainly did see three puppies curled up in a heap in the basket—three heads she could count quite distinctly—and there were three sets of infantile snores going on. She nearly dropped the tea-tray in her surprise.

Next moment she decided that Mabel must have brought the little stranger, and left him there as a joke.

“He’ll have to be Algernon—that is, presuming he is a ‘he’.”

The ’phone rang. It was Mabel, who was sorry she hadn’t been able to get down that afternoon, as a party of visitors would be arriving earlier than she expected next week. But was Hesper all right? If she felt the slightest uneasiness about sleeping there alone, she was to come straight back, etc.

Hesper said, Thanks to her kind thought in sending the other puppies, she would be nobly protected.

“What other puppies?” Mabel inquired.

Hesper explained.

Mabel said she knew nothing about either Archibald or Algernon—if these were the creatures’ ridiculous names—and what had Hesper had for dinner?

Their argument was cut short by the appearance of Bessie, who stole in quietly with yet a fourth puppy in her mouth!

She had evidently tracked after her missing baby; and finding him safely established in her old home, and in her own basket, she decided to bring along the rest of the children.

“Though she is fond of us, she is always restless when Mr. Old is away,” Mabel told Hesper. “She must have been delighted to find the house open, and her basket in its old place by the fire.”

She certainly was. The faithful mother went back, and fetched the fifth and last of her offspring, and then just lay down with her little ones beside her, and gently wagged her tail, as she looked beseechingly at Hesper.

Was she asking for sympathy or approbation? Or merely expressing joy at having found her lost child, and being back home again?

A dog understands us so much better than we understand it. We comprehend so little of what it tries to tell us; yet it comprehends so much that we say to it, and far more than we think of our conversation.

“I guess I’ve got a proper-sized family at last,” said the lady of the house, as she set to work to get supper for the whole bunch.

Yes—it was easy to be happy by day. She was going to be happy. She was convinced of that.

But it’s at night that “the old sorrow wakes and cries!” And in the dark hours, before the quiet and the air had ousted insomnia, she kept on asking “Why?—— Why?——”

Forgetting that the demon of jealousy still slays its innocent victims as ruthlessly as in the days of Cain and Abel.

Summer seemed to come so quickly once the cold weather ended. There was a certainty about it too, quite unlike the coy dallying of an English spring, which may lead to warmer weather, but on the other hand, may land one back in wintry rains.

Hesper for the first time saw the wonder that is in life when lived for the most part in the open.

She learnt something of the thrall of rushing water; saw the miracle of leaves appearing—almost in a night—with not a sound to betray their movement, though it was on so colossal a scale.

She discovered that trees can be more companionable than some humans. They are never unsympathetic; never suggest thoughts that jar; never obtrude themselves annoyingly; never misunderstand; never strike a false or inharmonious note. Their strength—passive and silent—communicates itself in some mysterious way to the onlooker. To touch their bark and lean against their strong trunks was actually a pleasure to one who had been for so long cooped up amid bricks and traffic.

Then there was an endless joy in the little wild things who were fast becoming her friends.

How few people really know what country life—as distinct from town life—is like. Thousands with a genuine love for nature, who even think they are more or less experts on the subject, actually only know it as it is in August, or July, or whenever it is that they take their annual holiday. And even then, a great many spend their time at some seaside town where the surrounding country has been spoilt by the enterprising builder (“improved” is the term generally used), and divested of the most beautiful of its wild plants by those criminal marauders who dig up a plant or fern wherever they can find one to dig up, leaving perpetual desolation in their train.

Such districts may have fields and hedges, and even buttercups and daisies in their season; but they are poor apologies, at best, for the real “unimproved” country.

And motor tours are worse than useless, as they give one no time to see anything.

Of course, circumstances shape our lives for us to a large extent, and often decree that we must take a holiday in the summer, and spend the rest of the year in some crowded centre, where business is doing and an income can be made. Also, if we can only have one holiday in the year, it is decidedly wise to take it when the days are long and there is a faint chance that the sun may shine occasionally, and the grass be less damp than is usual in our climate.

For these reasons, and several others, even ardent nature lovers will carefully avoid the early months of the year for outdoor investigations, unless there be snow that can be utilised for winter sports. In this way they entirely miss some of the most beautiful of nature’s secrets. January and February seem to be regarded as blank periods with nothing doing—even in England, where there is so much going on in the wild woods. If one owns to having spent some of those weeks in the country, town people say:

“But how could you endure the dullness? Whatever did you do to help pass the time?”

The native of London and other big cities seldom realises that the winter fog which overhangs the city, clogging our lungs and our brains, ruining our window curtains, often turning day into night, chilling our bones, delaying our trains, running up our gas and electric light bills, and reducing us to pessimists of the blackest dye—that particular type of atmospheric exuberance which may be our daily fare for days, even weeks, on end in town, is unknown in the country. The climatic dullness which makes London hideous in the winter is replaced either by sunshine, or at any rate by light, in the country.

One has ample daylight to work by, even on pouring wet, or misty winter days, once one is out of the smoke radius. In December and January—the year’s shortest days—one does not need to light the lamps till sunset. There is no working all day by artificial light, as in the city. And the fact that daylight is available does much to eliminate the dullness and gloom which so many townspeople associate with winter.

Another delusion of the urbanite is the notion that there is nothing to do in the country.

“However do you fill in your time?” they ask.

And the country dweller replies: “There is no time to fill.” Which is true. One never has any spare time in the country; indeed one doesn’t seem to have nearly enough time for all one wants to do.

And this applies to everyone. People live so much out of doors, whenever the weather is fine; and this leaves far less time for indoor occupations than would be the case if they were in town.

Of course there are always a few people who try to live in the country precisely as they live in town. No rule is ever strong enough to stand upright without the support of a few exceptions. And here and there, about the countryside, one finds people whose chief interest centres on bridge parties. But these are in the minority, and are of the profiteer class mainly. They are not really representative of the country residents, the majority of whom, in England, are keen on their gardens, no matter how many men they employ, while many include pigeons, poultry, bees, and all sorts of domestic animals among their hobbies. All these need regular attention.

Then again there are plenty of comings and goings. Country life isn’t as cramped for room as it is in town. Besides, a little extra pressure on one’s space isn’t as suffocating a business, when there is all the world outside to supply fresh air.

There is an old English saying, which was used when things were a trifle compressed in the days when one’s visitors stayed in the home as a matter of course, and not at hotels:

“Better one’s house be too little one day, than too big all the year after.”

Visitors take up a good deal of one’s time in the country, especially in these days when cars can always carry them to the door.

No wonder that the majority of country-dwellers say the same thing: “I never seem to have a minute to call my own. I don’t know how the time flies.”

It’s a good thing when time never hangs, and the days never drag. As for the nights—insomnia is almost unknown among those who spend their lives in the fresh air. They are asleep almost as soon as the head is on the pillow.

Hesper had been making all sorts of, to her, surprising discoveries along these lines. She had no visitors, it is true. But she had been taken all about by Mabel, and had made lots of visits herself. She had discovered for herself that time flies quicker out of doors than it does in an office, though she never would have believed that if anyone had told her so in the past.

The coming of the garden was a wonderment to one who had never owned a garden.

To arrive at a place in the grip of winter; to see the snow vanish, and the earth burst forth into a glow of colour—all in so short a time—was a miracle.

The garden had looked empty, save for the swaddled rose trees. It scarcely seemed credible that nature could do so much in the course of a month or two. Yet the miracle happened while Hesper watched.

One sweet-scented morning, when the earth and the trees all seemed to be giving off a perfume that means the rising sap of spring, and the stirring of unseen forces in the earth, a sturdy looking Scotsman arrived in his noisy “Tin Lizzie” and began unloading some plants on the cabin veranda. Mabel had warned Hesper that he would be certain to turn up when the right weather arrived. He was a gardener, who lived about twenty miles away (a mere nothing, of course, in the way of distance in Canada), devoted to Mr. Old, and every spring he came out to put the garden to rights. He knew the exact moment when the roses should be unwrapped, and every other covering removed. And he saw that it was done.

This time he brought with him a collection of flowering plants from his greenhouse, some geraniums, fuchsias, a pot of narcissus, a couple of hyacinths, a cactus and some flowering stocks. Mr. Old had written to him that a very important young lady was staying at the cabin, and he was to take her some flowers.

Were these what she liked? he was anxious to know.

Hesper was delighted; she realised now that flowers were the one thing she had lacked. The place took on a youthful gaiety, and the windows looked charming with the bright blossoms inside the glass. The hyacinths and stocks filled the room with their perfume, while the funny nobbly cactus hunched himself in his pot with an air of “Wait and see! I shall be here when all those fal-de-rals of geraniums and fuchsias will be gone.”

Hesper and the old gardener had quite a pleasant day together. He showed her how the tulip bulbs had been covered with leaves and boards and anything else that would keep out the cold. He had brought some boxes of seedlings with him, and demonstrated how to plant them out in a few days time, if the weather kept right. He pointed out the various hardy plants which had been hibernating under ground all the winter, but were now sending up inquiring shoots to ascertain if it was all clear above ground.

In the Rock Garden, all sorts of sturdy little alpines had kept themselves happy and well all the winter with their roots under the rocks and their heads under the snow blanket. Now they were having a lovely wake-up in the sunshine, and were starting to make up for lost time.

The gardener worked with the deft touch and tender handling of one who loves all growing things. He seemed to know at once where a plant needed a piece of string or a bit of twiggy stick to help it along.

Hesper learnt more practical stuff that day than she would in a week or two at some very learned college of gardening. For the man treated each plant as a separate entity; he humoured them as if they were children, and he knew their separate characteristics; and, like a mother giving parting instructions about the children’s food preferences, he told Hesper how to feed certain plants—to give a little soot to the pinks, some old mortar to the wallflowers, some lime to the irises, and so on. And with it all, he mingled praises of Enoch Old—his kindness; his virtues; his love of flowers; and added a warning to keep them “pesky puppies” off the garden, for they would be the ruin of everything if she didn’t.

The place held a fresh interest for her now she felt a personal responsibility for those plucky, persevering little hopefuls growing up out there, that seemed like new members of her family and were something to be watched and cared for.

Her first attempt at garden work was not only practical but quite successful; though no one could deny its amateurish qualities. She drove some stout pieces of wood into the ground—when she had at last discovered the need of sharpening their ends a little. To these she fastened wire-netting, having found a good selection in a barn that was evidently used as a workshop; this was to keep the puppies at bay. It wasn’t at all professional looking when rigged up. Also there was a question as to how she herself was going to get to the plants now she had completely barricaded them in!

But the ever-obliging Jack came to the rescue, and sent down a man a little later to make a wire gate, and square things up in ship-shape style.

Thus Reginald and Co. were baulked, though they spent much time in trying to find a hole large enough to enable them to squeeze under or through the wire.

Certainly, she found plenty to do now, both indoors and out, but best of all, she was beginning to look at life from a new angle. The open-hearted, eminently practical, hard-working Canadians whom she met filled her with admiration. Their sane views, their healthy mode of life, and their amazing unselfishness, made her own sophisticated efforts at living in the past seem ridiculously petty and woefully self-centred.

It was a beautiful country, and she was responding to its influence. She could have been supremely happy, but for the ever-present, galling remembrance of the treatment she had received at the hands of those she had served so faithfully.

Coming leisurely up the mountain path towards the cabin one morning after a stroll, she paused to get her breath, some little distance from the house, studying its many attractive points, and generally revelling in her good fortune in having such a desirable resting place thrust upon her at a time when she needed it so acutely.

She had been gathering wood for firing.

What is it in that most fascinating occupation that captivates all sorts and conditions of people, from the boy scout to the millionaire?

It cannot be merely the lure of “something for nothing.” It must go deeper than that. I have seen the most staid and quite well-off women suddenly become as alert at gathering wood for the hearth fire as any poor cottager—more so, in fact; for the cottager, if poor, will have ceased to find romance in the daily task; whereas the one who gathers wood for the first time must be dull indeed if he or she doesn’t feel a real interest in the business.

One soon gets to know the difference even in dead wood; some will be brittle and burnable; some will be far too new for immediate use—though the thrifty gatherer, if wood be not too plentiful, takes it home and stores it for the future.

Mabel declared that Hesper’s wood pile had become a mania. She was so proud of it. And she had developed method that would have done credit to a woodman.

Small kindling wood was hatcheted to the right length on the chopping block in one of the barns, and then stacked in a dry corner. Chunkier bits that wouldn’t chop were sawn through where needful, and piled in another corner.

Light brushwood was, for the most part, left outside. It took up too much room in the barn. But it was useful stuff, and handy for heating the oven for bread-baking. Britta Ekström had been giving her lessons.

Small branches were chopped off big branches, and any fairly long straight poles were tilted against an outside wall—to be sawn up when she had nothing else to do.

As much of the spruce and other conifers as she could she stacked in the barn, because she loved the resinous scent which filled the place. It was a pity to waste a bit of it by leaving the branches in the open.

When the pile seemed to be taking up too much room indoors, she stacked more wood outside—all in the neatest order. Just as she had kept her office impedimenta.

She was Delicate Fuss still, though working with a different medium. For she loved to see the woods orderly. It must spoil the young growth, she said, to leave great branches lying where they had fallen when the wind snapped them off and tossed them down. How could the young trees spring up beneath them?

“You’ll have your work cut out, if you’re going to tidy up these forests and pick up all the bits,” Mabel laughed. “But go ahead—dust them thoroughly. It’s doing you good. And at least you’re a healthier colour than when you landed here. But you’re as bad as Mr. Old. He gathers the wood himself; says it’s the primitive man in him coming out again as soon as he gets into man’s first home and natural surroundings. I daresay he’s right. I remember it wasn’t so long ago that I couldn’t leave a nice, dry, turpentiney branch lying on the ground. It seemed such wicked waste. But I’m used to seeing them now. And I’ve not the Wood Pile Craze that you have!”

It was true that Hesper gloated over the wood like a veritable miser. Jack said he believed it had so got into her system that he wouldn’t be surprised if she apologised to each stick before using it.

Britta Ekström understood more than most of the mysterious influence of the woods. She came from a land of endless forest trees, the “feeling” for wood was born in her. She loved the forests as some women love dress and some love their household furniture. They seemed like home to her. She knew that one loved to handle the wood because it was part of man’s first inheritance; that one liked to burn it because it stood for the home hearth, and the unquenchable associations of comfort and happiness that will for ever cling to that hearth, no matter how many radiators, electric and otherwise, the human mind may invent to supplant the hearth.

There are still magical qualities in the earth around us; and nowhere more so than in the quiet of the forest ways.

Hesper was carrying an armful of trailing branches she had been gathering as she came up the hillside.

“What a boon it is, to be able to get right away from people like this,” she thought to herself, as she resumed her climb. Suddenly she stood stock still. She was certain she had seen a figure pass the open window inside her bedroom. A figure in white! Yes—and there was another, someone in red! Mabel? No, she had ’phoned first thing, saying the ranch was now full to overflowing, and wouldn’t Hesper come up and make herself sociable.

Instinctively, Hesper looked around for Bessie. She had organised a juvenile “meet” for her offspring, and was teaching them how to hunt in an adjoining wood. But she answered Hesper’s whistle and came bounding up to her, the five youngsters following in her wake. Hesper strode quickly up the path. As they neared the house, the collie suddenly stiffened and gave an ominous growl—the five doing their best to imitate her.

Hesper held Bessie’s collar. She didn’t want her to rush forward and do any harm, she told herself—though actually she didn’t want the dog to rush forward and leave her bereft of protection!

The dog’s growl and bark brought the white dress and the red dress out on to the veranda; likewise a brown tweed, and a navy wool crêpe-de-Chine, and a grey linen, and—good gracious! was it an excursion or a Sunday School treat? How many more were there? Hesper wondered. And why had they come to call on her? Whoever they were, it was like their nerve to go indoors at all, much less into her bedroom. It had never occurred to her to lock her door in this uninhabited region.

She would have been shatteringly frigid when she reached the veranda-steps—only one can’t be frigid with one’s arm embracing a bundle of firewood and out of breath with hurrying uphill. She had intended to inquire of the strangers if it was their usual custom to explore the whole house when making a call; but they didn’t give her any opportunity. The spokeswoman and apparently the leader of the skirmishing party—a hard-voiced, amply-made, middle-aged woman, in a kittenish costume much too tight for her—got in the first word.

“Enoch Old not here at present, we heard; so we’re having a look round his place. Anything special we ought to see?”

“Yes,” said Miss Pew icily. “There’s the gate; and perhaps you’ll kindly shut it, with yourselves on the outside.”

“But, my good woman, you don’t understand, we’ve come to see over the house—Enoch Old’s house,” raising her voice, as though Hesper were deaf and hadn’t taken in the importance of the visitation—“the author, you know. We’ve come all the way from London,” impressively, “London in England, and we broke our journey here on purpose to see his place. You’re his caretaker, I suppose——”

Was she? Hesper wondered for a moment how she should be classified.

“We’ll make it worth your while, of course,” chimed in the white dress, which didn’t improve matters. She was undoubtedly one of those who had had the cheek to pry into the bedroom.

Hesper ignored her. Still holding Bessie’s collar, she entered the house.

“Of course, you’re quite right to be particular,” said the navy-blue wool crêpe-de-Chine, “but we’re a great admirer of your employer, and we want to see his study, or work-room, or whatever he calls it, and all the things he tells about in——”

What? They were actually following her into the house!

Drawing herself up to look as indignantly dignified as she could, she said: “This is a private house. I’m amazed that anyone should be so devoid of manners as to enter it as you have done. Kindly leave as quickly as possible, as I wish to close the door.”

“But, my dear girl——” the spokeswoman started again.

“I’m neither your dear girl, nor your good woman. Neither is this your dear door, nor your good veranda. The door happens to be mine, at the moment. I wish to close it. The nearest way to London, England, is down that garden path. Good afternoon!”

“What a most discourteous caretaker!” Hesper heard the brown tweed remark, as they trailed down the path.

“Colonial,” snapped the spokeswoman. “Colonials are all alike. No manners.”

Mabel only laughed when she heard. “You’ll have a deluge of such-like callers now. But we’ve some better specimens from our beloved native land here now, for the Convention; and, on the other hand, we may have still worse. I had a letter from Patty Foxcroft this morning.”

“Oh; what does she want?”

“Well, reading between the lines—and there always was something between the lines with her—she intends to come here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. She’s evidently managed to wangle herself into a party of journalists who have come across for some newspaper celebration in Quebec, and says she has a roving commission (nice vague term) to do anything she likes for her paper (which is her paper?) and would love to look around this district.”

“Which means that she is going to plant herself on you and save hotel expenses while she is this end of the earth. She won’t wait for anything so trifling as an invitation. Still, I mustn’t criticise her, seeing that I’m here myself.”

“Don’t forget that you were invited, urged, begged to come. And when at last we got you here, you insisted on paying for every atom, like any other guest. And I expect you’ve a secret money-box down at the cabin into which you drop a coin morning and evening, saying: ‘That settles things up to to-day, Mr. Old!’ Do you imagine Patty intends to pay. I don’t think. Why——”

At that moment one of the helpers appeared.

Hesper was at the ranch with Mabel when the helper announced: “A Miss Foxcroft is here. Says she is a friend of yours, and you are expecting her. And will you kindly pay the car which brought her from the station, as she has no change.”

Mabel looked her surprised annoyance, though she told the assistant to pay the man. “I’ll see her in a few minutes.”

When they were alone again, Mabel continued: “She hasn’t lost much time. But what am I to do with her? We’ve not a bed vacant. And isn’t it characteristic of her to have no change. She never had in the past if she ran against anyone she knew in a bus.”

“Tell her flatly that you are unable to put her up,” said Hesper.

“One can’t turn anybody out in this land, you know, to roost on the mountains all night.”

“No; but I can take her off your hands for the night, and we must be very firm in speeding her on her way to-morrow.”

“All right,” Mabel smiled. “You can be as firm as you like. I shall love to see you at it. But I wouldn’t mind betting that it will be several to-morrows before we get her under way for anywhere else.” And she went off to interview the new arrival.

When she returned to Hesper, she reported: “I found her cooing her loveliest to Jack and enlarging on her deep-seated affection for me; our beautiful, close friendship, and her longing just to see me again. Jack looked almost ready to weep on her shoulder with emotion, when I rescued him, he was so moved to think that such devotion still existed on this callous earth. But when I arrived it was a different story. She had no idea, I could see, that you were here, till Jack told her. But she quickly decided that it is you she yearns to see. Loved you like a sister. And so on. She’s having some tea now, while I’m supposed to be searching for you. What in creation am I to do with her?”

“Hand her over, as I said before.”

“Gladly! Only I don’t see why you should be saddled with her either. Oh; and I almost forgot to tell you! She is wearing your turquoise ring, unless I’m mightily mistook. I spotted it at once and remarked on it. She replied quite coolly that she had so admired it, when it was given you, that she had ordered one exactly like it for herself.”

“So that’s where my ring went. She was left in the room with my bureau for a few minutes, while nurse cleared away my tray, I remember. But leave her to me. Don’t give another thought to her. I’ll take her down to the cabin. Mr. Old wouldn’t mind my having a visitor there for one night. I’ll go to her at once.”

When Hesper entered the room where afternoon tea was served, she found Patty had already introduced herself to all the visitors who were in sight. At the moment she was talking her brightest to a tall dark man, probably about thirty-eight years old. Hesper did not notice him particularly; she was too much engaged in trying to hide her exasperation at having to endure Patty’s company in her quiet quarters. This was the last type of visitor she desired.

Patty greeted her with a familiarity that she had never indulged in when in town; talking at the top of her voice and for everyone to hear. “Halloa, Hesper—so I’ve found you out at last. I wondered where you were hiding. Be sure your sin will find you out—as they used to say to me when I was young.”

Hesper winced, and wished with all her heart that she had not offered to put her up for the night. But she couldn’t leave Mabel with this added burden. She had enough on her hands as it was. The dark man, after an interested look at Hesper, turned away, without saying a word, to leave the two friends together.

Incidentally, Patty was not now displaying a turquoise ring.

Hesper was never quite sure how she got Patty away, for she seemed keen to stay. But at last they were down at the cabin, and now that there was no audience to be taken into consideration, Patty’s voice became normal, and she made no effort to appear either affectionate or brilliant. She was merely commonplace and vulgar.

She made herself at home immediately; commented disparagingly on the sparse furnishings; wondered that a man who made a fortune on his books should live in such meagre style; took up her residence there as a matter of course, without showing any sort of gratitude, and decided finally: “Of course, it is a stroke of luck for you to get a place like this, when you’re out of a job. And any sort of a shelter is better than none when you’re penniless. I suppose your landlord in London let you off the lease of your flat?”

Hesper felt furious. It was the first time in her life that anyone had described her as penniless. But she knew it would be the height of folly to let herself be put out by anything Patty said. “I shall only be ill if I lose my temper,” she thought. “She will clear out to-morrow. I can stand her till then.” Aloud she said:

“I let my flat, as the house is my own.”

“Oh?” Patty was suddenly interested. Evidently Hesper still had some cash which could be borrowed.

While Hesper cleared away the tea, her visitor went around fingering and examining everything, in a way that irritated Hesper almost beyond endurance. She herself had been most scrupulous not to touch a thing beyond what she actually needed, excepting when she was dusting the rooms. And now, here was a newcomer hauling out books, and even opening drawers. At last she settled herself at Mr. Old’s own writing table in the study, and started to write letters on his note-paper!

“I seem doomed to have marauders on the premises to-day,” Hesper thought.

When Patty had finished writing, she said:

“Now I suppose we must dress for the ranch.”

“The ranch? I don’t spend my evenings up there.”

“Why not? You don’t mean to say that you mope by yourself down here all the time? I don’t wonder Jack said he was thankful I was going to stay with you——”

(“I don’t wonder either,” Hesper meditated. “And he’s ‘Jack’ already!”)

“——But if you can’t tear yourself away from this hut, I shall go up by myself and see the fun. Of course it’s essential for me to be in the thick of everything. It’s all good ‘copy.’ And I’m sure to know some of the people.”

Hesper decided to go too. She had undertaken to relieve Mabel of this unasked for infliction; it would never do to let Patty loose on her and worry her just when she was so exceptionally busy.

The ranch was fairly full when they arrived, with chattering groups established in little coteries all about the place. A religious convention is a meeting place for friends; and in a country like Canada it was an opportunity not to be missed for getting into touch with everybody one knew in the Dominion. A few days were always spent, before the convention started, in renewing old friendships, gathering up lost threads, and generally getting linked up again with one another’s interests and doings.

They were hard at it when the two arrived, though all the guests were not conventioners; some were tourists merely on holiday from Great Britain or from the States.

Some of the people were whole-heartedly engaged in discussing someone else. An American lady near Hesper was saying to a friend with whom she was confabulating: “You see Kate was one of those women who pride themselves on having no secrets from their husband. And she took up so much time telling him all about her lapses, from babyhood upwards, that he could never get in a word about his own. And it riled him, till at last he gave up trying to tell her, and went and found someone else, who, not being his wife, didn’t feel it necessary to reveal her own secrets (though I guess she had a lot!) and therefore had time to listen to his.”

“Yes, if one has a husband these days, it’s a problem to know what to do about him,” her friend replied thoughtfully. “It really looks so unenterprising and out of date only to have one; yet, if he’s a good sort, one wouldn’t want to risk a change. And it isn’t always easy to go back to Number One, if Number Two or Three turn out a failure. Because by that time Number One will have found someone else, possibly several of them; and would have lost count of me in the meanwhile. I believe it’s safest to be a widow.”

“Judging by Kate, I should say it is. For if those two share one tombstone, there is only one text really adequate: ‘Their warfare is accomplished.’ ”

Hesper felt more personal sympathy, however, with another visitor, who was explaining that she hoped one would not be obliged to have relations in Heaven. “Not that I object to them as a social system,” she said, “but I would like to start afresh and choose my own, instead of having someone else’s selection thrust upon me unasked.”

Her hearers agreed with her warmly.

Patty had floated off at once in search of possible acquaintances, or indeed, anything that she could turn to her own advantage. Hesper listened awhile to the clatter, from an unobserved corner for a few moments. The fragments of conversation she heard sounded very mixed. . . .

“He’s a wonderful preacher, I’m told, but have you seen her? My dear! And an honourable, too. Such a drawback to a prominent man when his wife doesn’t dress. . . .”

“. . . And when she died, they found several empty whisky bottles, in cretonne covers, on her wardrobe shelf. Created no end of a scandal. Till her woman explained that she used them as hatstands. . . .”

As Hesper listened, she decided that it was not easy to distinguish the sheep from the goats, excepting perhaps the lady with a plush voice, who was explaining that certain words in the language were immoral in themselves. They gave her a shiver down her back when she heard them—“entice,” for instance.

She sounded a most immaculate sheep.

Hesper soon had enough of it and looked round for anything in the way of deliverance. Seeing a lonely-looking unit, who might have only just arrived, she sat down beside her and started conversation, little suspecting that she had annexed a tiresome bore, whom everyone else was diligently shunning.

Hesper listened politely, however, as the lady rambled on through interminable details about herself that seemed of no importance. She could have given Lot’s wife points in looking backwards, for she seemed to be recording everything she had ever done in her life—and she was a fair age.

Presently Patty joined them, seeming very pleased with herself, and sat down on the other side of the bore. She meant to know everybody, and didn’t intend Hesper to retain any friends for her own exclusive pleasure.

“What a wonderful memory you have,” Hesper was saying kindly. “You could write a bookful of reminiscences.”

“I know enough,” the visitor said eagerly. “But the trouble is—I don’t know how to write a book. I often wish I could learn.”

Hesper saw a sudden look—as of a bright idea—cross Patty’s face, and she replied, before Hesper had a chance: “It’s easy enough if you know how. But of course you need to be put into the way of it. A few lessons would make it quite clear to you. And as it happens, I shall be giving a series of Talks on Authorship next week. So many people like yourself have it in them to write—if only they knew how; I expect you would find the series helpful.”

The bore was all enthusiasm. Where would the talks be given? In Mr. Enoch Old’s house? Actually in the house? How very delightful. Of course she would attend.

Hesper felt that she must scream if she sat there a minute longer. Evidently Patty had no intention of leaving to-morrow. She got up, and made her way out of doors.

The bore didn’t even miss her, so absorbed was she in the scheme Miss Foxcroft was outlining, whereby books could be written with the minimum of trouble—or ability. Others joined them, and also felt that they too had it in them to write books, if only they knew how. And before long, Patty had secured quite a nice nucleus for a class; had fixed Monday next for the first talk, and when asked about fees, had been astute enough to name a low figure, since this would induce more to join than if she had charged a high price. And she could as easily talk to thirty as to three.

Naturally, she did not neglect to advertise her own attainments, and talked glibly about her connection with the London Press, and all she was engaged to do for her paper while in Canada. When someone asked which paper she represented, she said quite brazenly “The Times.”

Hesper had stepped out on to the veranda, and was wondering what she ought to do, when someone said to her: “Do you think we might be allowed to introduce ourselves, as we are in the Land of the Free? My name is Rosscombe. You are Miss Hesper Pew—as everybody knows. I’ve been hunting for Mrs. Thorpe ever since you came into the ranch, as she promised to say a good word as to my upbringing and my antecedents. But I can’t find her; and I don’t want to lose another minute, or you’ll be gone again. I’ve been looking for you for days.”

“It’s very kind of you.” Hesper felt thankful to anyone who would take her thoughts off Patty pro tem. “Of course I’m very interested to meet you.” But to herself, she was saying: “This is the tall dark man who was talking to Patty when she arrived. Where have I heard his voice before?” His was an unusual voice—a beautiful voice, many people would have said. It was a voice that would be worth anything to a talkie film. Yet Hesper couldn’t place it at first. Then in a flash it came to her—it was similar to the voice of the man who called at her flat that foggy night, asking for Miss Foxcroft.

“I hope you are going to make kind inquiries about your Missionary and his brick—unless you’ve forgotten all about him? I should be glad to get him off my chest,” Roger Rosscombe began.

“I haven’t forgotten him,” Hesper answered. “And I should like to know what happened, only please remember he isn’t my Missionary.”

“That’s what everyone said. But——”

(A voice within: “All I can say is: Kind hearts may be more than coronets, but a tiara lined with bank notes takes a lot of beating!”)

“Would you like to go for a stroll? It’s a lovely evening. And with such items of useful information filling the air all around us, it’s not easy to talk here.”

Hesper agreed, smilingly, and noted the mischievous look in her companion’s eyes as he glanced towards the talking community.

“Did you find anything worth while in that Tibetan river bank?” she asked. “I’ve been away from town for so long, I haven’t heard a thing.” (No need to give him the reason for her continued absence.)

“Mrs. Thorpe told me you had been ill. She felt sure we would prove congenial souls, she told me, because we both love to burrow underground. I’m sorry, however, that we both drew a blank over that brick. I suspicioned something when I handled it. It was so obviously a fake. I saw the man, however, and put him through his paces, having first of all ascertained from the Missionary Society that no such person was on their staff. He was merely one of those derelicts who drift about the East, getting money where they can. When he found how much I knew, and that his little game was busted, he owned up, and I let it drop at that. I told Slimmer that the brick was worthless, and I conclude he returned the manuscript in the usual course.”

Hesper was silent for a moment. She felt glad, distinctly glad, that Charles Slimmer had not got the book from Roger Rosscombe that he had so coveted.

“I expect you are disappointed,” Rosscombe continued, noticing her silence. “But it all comes in the day’s work you know. One draws a dozen or more blanks to one prize in all work that’s worth doing. You’ll come upon ‘the’ big thing sooner or later. It’s always so good when it does turn up that it’s worth waiting for.”

“Tell me—how is your sprain? It was bad when you were in Paris. I won’t ask you to tell me about your last journey as, of course, you will be publishing that later. And I shall read it then.”

“I have a book coming out soon; I’m correcting the proofs now, and, if you’ll accept it, I’d like to give you the first copy. But it isn’t being published by Slimmer. Perhaps you won’t approve of it, therefore.”

“I—I——” then she paused.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said, noticing how disturbed she looked.

“I’d better tell the truth,” she said, “or part of it, at any rate; it will clear my conscience, if it doesn’t do anything else. I’m not feeling at all cordial where Charles Slimmer is concerned. The reasons can stand over. But I’m not a bit sorry that he didn’t get your book, and I believe I’m heathen enough to be right down glad that the brick turned out a frost. It would have rankled with me for ever if he had secured such a plum as a book on some unique discovery written by you, when I—— But I’d better end now! I’ve let you see how mean I am. But at least I’ve been truthful.”

“Then as we’re launched on confessions, I want to say that it would have rankled me still more if I had had to hand over a book to Slimmer, when you weren’t there. I know Charles even better than you do. And nothing would have induced me to let him publish anything with my name on, excepting the fact that it was through you. Now we are quits. And I’ll ask you the proper questions which should have been asked at the beginning: What do you think of Canada?”

“To begin with—I like to think in dollars,” answering him in the same spirit, “because, while it doesn’t deplete my bank balance (which alas, is by no means what I would like it to be), it gives me a feeling of opulence, which is soothing, and at the same time, inexpensive——”

“Halloa, peoples!” Miss Foxcroft’s voice interrupted them. She came hurrying towards them, a wrap in her hand. “I’ve been hunting for you everywhere,” this to Hesper. “She mustn’t be out after her illness, unless she is well wrapped up”—this to Rosscombe, as she proceeded to fling the cloak around the astonished Hesper. “We have to take such care of her, she is so precious; and after her long illness, she mustn’t run risks.”

With that she fell into step with them, walking the other side of Sir Roger, and plunged at once into an account of her proposed talks.

“Some of the visitors are so anxious for me to give them some lessons in authorship,” she said; “and I couldn’t say No. And of course the atmosphere of Enoch Old’s Cabin is so right for anything like that. Environment does help so much, as you know. I shall count on you, Sir Roger, to come and give us the light of your distinguished countenance at the opening talk,” she continued ingratiatingly.

“I’m afraid I can’t promise,” he said. “But I think we had better return now, as it is close on supper-time.” On the walk back, Patty still monopolised the conversation, which was as well, for Hesper was literally dumb with annoyance.

“Who is that sweet-faced girl in blue you were talking to,” the wife of the Dean of Glynchester asked Roger Rosscombe, a little later.

“Miss Hesper Pew. Shall I bring her to you?”

“I wish you would. So that’s Miss Pew. Mrs. Thorpe mentioned her to me. I was struck with her beautiful expression, the moment she came in.”

Sir Roger piloted Hesper across the room, and introduced her to Mrs. Meller-Waldringham.

“But I wouldn’t bother about that name if I were you,” said a roughish-looking girl standing by. “Everyone calls mother Mrs. Dean. It saves a strain on the memory. And I’m Netta Dean, aged sixteen summers. So now you know all about us.”

Before long, Hesper felt that she had known all three of them—Mrs. and Miss Dean and Sir Roger—the whole of her life.

The Hon. Mrs. Meller-Waldringham did not specialise in the fashions. Her dress was quietly dignified, with nothing at all to fix it on one’s mind. But her pleasant smile, and her desire to draw out the best in everybody, left behind it a warm feeling that was almost affection for her, wherever she went.

The Dean was known to be an extremely learned man. This sometimes raised a barrier between him and ordinary people—though it was they who raised the barrier. He never did. Learned men are easily misunderstood. But Mrs. Dean more than counterbalanced all that. Her lovable and approachable personality was a byword—while Netta shocked and delighted her parents every hour of the day, and continually caused them to speculate as to which side of the family had bestowed such audacious and reckless good spirits upon her.

“If you haven’t made any other arrangements, will you join us to-morrow?” Mrs. Dean said. “There will be plenty of room in our car—we should be so pleased to have you with us.”

Hesper wondered vaguely why, when, and where they were going?

“Netta isn’t going to every meeting, as she is here for her health,” Mrs. Dean went on, “but as to-morrow is the opening of the Convention——”

Oh! Hesper began to understand. It was the Convention they were going to. Only she had no wish to go. Never for a moment had she thought of going. Religious gatherings had never appealed to her, though she would have denied it at once if anyone had called her irreligious. It was more a case of indifference, her mind being preoccupied with other interests. She felt, too, that she knew most that was likely to be said at the meetings. They would be excellent, of course, for the poor and the ignorant; also for those whose business in life it was to deal with sinners, and get them to turn over a new leaf. But for herself——! Still, Mrs. Dean was so charming; it would be churlish—almost insulting in fact as he was a Dean—to refuse her invitation. So it was settled at that.

Netta said she was thankful Miss Pew was coming, as her temperature had been unsteady all day, owing to her fear that Miss Vinegarette (as she had named a lady who suffered from mental acidity) would be invited—and she couldn’t stand her.

Mrs. Dean said “Sh! Sh!” but Netta finished her sentence, “And one never can tell what one’s mother will do nowadays! She does need such watching!”

Altogether, it was a pleasant evening, though by the time the two got back to the cabin that night, Hesper was too utterly tired to say what she thought about Patty’s plans for Talks on Authorship.

Though she hadn’t realised it, she was not quite her former self yet. The shock of her dismissal, coming on top of her long illness, had done her nerves more harm than she knew. And the annoyances she had experienced to-day had undone some of the good the weeks of quiet rest had effected. She was afraid if she said much to Patty that night, she would break down altogether.

But she did say: “I was surprised that you hadn’t first consulted me about giving the authorship lessons here. I wonder what Mr. Old will think?”

To which Patty replied (in anything but the tones one usually employs when speaking to the “so precious!”): “Why should you be consulted? This isn’t your house. Enoch Old will be glad enough of the advertisement I shall be giving him. He has every right to be grateful to me for organising the talks in his house. To make quite sure, I wrote him to-night, while you were hobnobbing with the Deanery. I sent it off in Mabel’s postbag. She said his address was care of his New York publisher. I told him I was here, and should be staying some little while.” (Hesper nearly gasped at the news.) “He is evidently quite willing to take in folks who are out-of-work.”

“But I thought you came over on a special job with the journalists?” Hesper said.

“So I did; only a cat of a creature turned up, who said she was the one authorised by the Daily Lyre; she cabled across to London, and made no end of a wow-wow. Eventually, I had to—I mean, I left them. I wasn’t going to stay and be insulted. So I came on here. These talks are a real first-class brain-wave of mine. With the district packed with visitors, and all of ’em sure they could write a best seller if only someone would tell them how, I shall rake in some money, and then be able to pay my way like a millionaire.”

Hesper said nothing. What was there to say? But her insomnia came back that night—when she hoped she had quite got rid of it.

“It’s just like the Foxcroft,” she thought. “Sure to turn up again to plague me!”

The first day of the Convention being Sunday, the various speakers dispersed themselves round the district, to preach for the local clergy. The Deanery party divided itself up, the Dean preaching at one church, while Mrs. Dean and Netta showed their interest by going to another church some distance in another direction. Hesper went with them of course. And as Sir Roger was going with the Dean, Patty was invited at the last moment, to use the vacant seat in Mrs. Dean’s car. She accepted with an alacrity which surprised Hesper, remembering all the annihilating things she had said about conventions, religious gatherings and the relations of Deans, only that morning at breakfast. And she made herself so agreeable one might have imagined that she had been craving to attend that service.

The church was packed. There was an air of hearty expectation everywhere. The congregation had come with a child-like faith that now they would get new light, new help and strength for the many months when nothing of the kind would be forthcoming.

The preacher was anxious to be considered an “advanced” thinker, who was in touch with the newest ideas. He felt a certain amount of pity for those whose narrow religious education was the old-fashioned Bible teaching. But at any rate, he was determined to do his best for them. He selected Elijah as the hero of his discourse, dealing particularly with the scene on Mount Carmel, when the fire descended in answer to Elijah’s prayer, and consumed the sacrifice.

That preacher was most painstaking in his efforts to elucidate the matter, explaining the miracle so satisfactorily (from his own point of view) that there was no miracle left by the time he had finished with it. He cited great authorities in defence of his suggestion that Elijah might have used paraffin oil in place of water when he drenched the sacrifice before the fire descended upon it. He quoted Mark Twain as being in favour of petroleum; and told them what Sir Thomas Browne had said 300 years before, with regard to the probability of naphtha having been employed by the prophet. The only point he omitted to mention was—how Elijah was supposed to have got all that paraffin—petroleum—naphtha to the spot without the prophets of Baal getting wind of it.

By the time he had finished with Elijah, half the people in the congregation were wondering what it was all about; and the other half were thanking heaven that they weren’t compelled to listen to him every Sunday, and congratulating themselves that he was only down for one more address at the Convention—which could easily be missed. The sermon continued in this strain to the weary end. Hesper was not the only person who was relieved when it was over.

No comment was made on the sermon during the drive home. Mrs. Dean talked about the scenery with Hesper, while Netta divulged to Patty her secret desire to write. Patty encouraged her to talk on this theme.

In the afternoon, however, when Sir Roger, really looking for Hesper, came upon the two reading in a shady spot, Patty greeted him loudly:

“You didn’t miss much by deserting us this morning. The sermon was a perfect scream. It would have amused you.”

Sir Roger looked inquiringly at Hesper.

“The preacher knocked Elijah and the fire on Mount Carmel so thoroughly to bits, that by the time he ended there wasn’t any fire left and scarcely any Elijah either!” she answered his look.

“What a pity. What a grievous pity,” he said, without the slightest indication of being amused.

“Oh, but it won’t hurt Elijah,” Hesper said casually. “He’s been tossed about the earth by preachers long enough now to stand anything. And I suppose that sort of stuff is what the people come for.”

“No; that’s just the point. It is not what they come for.” He spoke quietly, but very emphatically. “Elijah can well take care of himself, as you say. He’s already survived all the tests there are. But so many of the clergy and ministers and lay workers who come to these conventions spend their lives in scattered parishes, and lonely outposts, where there is little to refresh their souls. Some of them are starving for spiritual food, and count on a gathering of this kind to replenish their exhausted supplies. They are so eager to get new energy and help for their work. Watch their faces. You’ll see it written there plainly for anyone to read. This is what they look forward to when they are inclined to get depressed, or doubting with the monotony of their work and their failures. And then, when they ask for bread, if they are given a stone, it’s more than sad—it’s wrong!”

Hesper looked at the speaker in surprise that he should take the affair so seriously. She hadn’t given the matter any particular thought; she had merely assumed that he didn’t feel any more interest in the Convention than she did. She was not prepared for such pronounced views.

“I hadn’t thought about that side of the question,” she said. “I quite see your point.”

“For my part,” said Patty, “all sermons bore me stiff, unless the preacher has a true sense of the dramatic—which he never has. Don’t you think it would be a good thing if we had actors to preach the sermon, men who have a good delivery?”

“I agree that a good delivery is an aid, but even then, everything would depend on what he had to deliver. After all, it is the message that is all-important.”

“You really ought to take a meeting yourself,” said Patty in sarcasm. “You would move the old ladies to tears. But there’s the gong. Frankly, I’d rather have a cup of tea than the longest sermon you could give me. Very sinful of me, of course; but I’m made that way. Where do we have our tea, Hesper: ranch or cabin?”

“Cabin,” said Hesper, firmly.

Quite a crowd assembled at the cabin on Monday afternoon for the first Talk on Authorship. Every available chair had been carried to the big living room—other seats improvised with the aid of rugs spread on boxes. The overflow occupied both the adjoining kitchen and the veranda.

Patty was a radiant hostess. Hesper had no time for anything but the finding of fresh seats, though as each newcomer arrived she could only marvel that the world still contained so many people all anxious to write. She thought they must all have written themselves out by this time, judging by the number of books published each season.

And such a mixed assortment, too—of all ages and fashion; worldly and unworldly, wealthy and not-much-to-spare; gay girls and staid-looking matrons. There were a few men, but they kept to the veranda outskirts, and pretended they had only come to pay their wives’ fees.

Patty spent no time in talking about the fundamentals of sound writing, because she knew nothing about them. But she had read plenty of novels of the feebler sorts, and her memory supplied her with a variety of data from these. “In any case”—as she said to Hesper later—“where would be the use of my telling them how to write classics, when there’s absolutely no demand for them now?”

Quite so!

In consequence, there was nothing approaching the classic in her instructions.

Having told her audience to use their notebooks lavishly, and have no hesitation about asking questions, she announced that she would first deal with the writing of novels, leaving poetry and belles-lettres till later, as probably many of them were keen to write best sellers.

They all were. You could see that by the looks of appreciation which they exchanged among themselves. Here, undoubtedly, was a lecturer who knew the very kernel of the matter.

Briefly, her instructions were in the following vein—omitting her smaller talk and repetition.

“Begin with the intimate note,” she told them. They wrote it down.

“Describe in extenso every minute detail entailed in the process of getting up, washing, and dressing——”

(“How do you spell extenso?” Netta inquired in an anxious whisper of Hesper). The rest wrote rapidly, she gave them time for this. Then they waited, pencil in hand, for the next words of wisdom——

“——Not forgetting the toothbrush.”

This important item was entered up.

“This will demonstrate: Firstly, your powers of observation; secondly, that you know all about such matters.”

Silence, broken only by the sound of violent scribbling, and hasty flapping of turned over pages.

“Note A. You must always impress your readers with the fact that you know everything about everything.”

A voice from the veranda: “But supposing one doesn’t?”

“Oh, you must assume that you do. Psychologically speaking, the more you are sure you know, the more you know——”

(Stage whisper from Netta: “I don’t have to write all that down, do I, Miss Pew? I wish she used shorter words.”)

“——But to proceed with our analysis of the opening section of a novel. The description of the toilet of the hero or heroine (preferably the heroine, as she gives you more scope in the matter of dress), puts you en rapport with the public at once. We all wash ourselves in some form or another, before we come down in the morning—your readers will do the same. Your novel will probably come out as a seven-and-sixpenny; and seven-and-sixpenny readers belong to the cleanly class. Hence they will be able to follow you without undue mental strain.

“Note B. Never put any tax on the mental powers of the reader if it can possibly be avoided—and it usually can be, and is.”

After a due pause, to give her hearers time to keep their notes going—also to enable her to think of something else to say—she continued:

“This opening word-picture can be made to serve many useful purposes. You can, with a few strokes of the pen, convey to the reader the exact financial, social, and moral status of the heroine.

“For instance: By stating that she washed herself in a cracked basin with yellow soap, you have demonstrated beyond argument the fact that she is poor, but—so far—virtuous.

“On the other hand, if she dons a boudoir cap and adjourns to ‘the’ bathroom, one knows that she is not actually in want, though the household may not be in affluent circumstances.

“But the mention of a valuable antique cabinet of assorted bath-salts in hand-painted crystal bottles, and her own bathroom decorations in jade and lapis lazuli can be made to hint delicately that the heroine’s career will be variegated and colourful.”

A voice from an elevated seat on the dresser in the kitchen beyond: “But supposing one starts with the hero?”

“In that case, see that he shaves. That is essential. And the way in which he shaves can be made to give a cameo, so to speak, of his character and temperament. Slow, careful strokes of the razor imply a calm, deliberate, even lethargic disposition. Hurried impetuous work accompanied by a nasty cut, indicate a petulant, nervy, overstrained or uncertain temperament. And so on.”

Here some tiresome person drew a red-herring across the trail, by inquiring what would happen if the action of the story started at midday or the afternoon? Should the morning bath be mentioned, or should the heroine be having her bath before dressing for dinner?

And this incited another determined seeker after knowledge to ask how such details could be secured if the opening page found the heroine at a dance? She herself had a novel under contemplation wherein the heroine is at a dance and meets—— But perhaps Miss Foxcroft would excuse her not giving away the whole plot?

Miss Foxcroft was quite willing to excuse her. The very last thing she desired was to hear the plots of all the novels surging in the fertile brains before her. Though later, she decided that a good way to fill up the time, when she couldn’t think of anything else to say, would be to encourage each to outline her plot. However, at the moment there were other points to be attended to. The questioner said that she didn’t see how she could drag in a bath tub under the circumstances.

But the lecturer was equal to the occasion: “Merely sketch it lightly in the background, with a few deft touches,” she counselled, convincingly. “As the hero’s arm encircles her in the dance, he recognizes the elusive fragrance of the Essence of Daphne which he knows she always uses in her bath.”

“It doesn’t sound quite proper to me!” Miss Vinegarette suddenly ejaculated.

Someone giggled.

Patty realised that it would never do to let the audience get the least bit out of hand. So, as time was getting on, she announced that she thought they had gone far enough to-day to enable them to write an opening chapter, for practice, which she would criticise for each in due course.

Meanwhile, she was intending at forthcoming talks to deal with specific types of novels. Such as:

and so forth.

She also urged them to write their questions and send them to her beforehand—such good practice for them to condense their thoughts. She enlarged on this.

She wasn’t anxious to have too many profound inquiries sprung on her in public, without a moment’s notice.

After some more earnest questions had been answered, the talk came to an end.

On the whole she thought the venture had been a great success. People went away quite pleased with themselves—or so it seemed to her.

Yet—had she but known it, several of her hearers thought they might have employed the time more profitably.

While to Hesper, it seemed almost sacrilege to hear such sordid bathos being voiced in a house where she had hoped to hear words that at least would be helpful, if not actual jewels of thought.

The months Hesper had spent away from all the conflicting forces and cross-currents of modern city life had given her time to think her own thoughts.

There had been no opportunity for this in the past. There seldom is for the worker who is engaged in the wage-earning fight. Life’s aims had focussed on her business—not selfishly, for it wasn’t her own advantage that she thought of primarily, though naturally she expected some advantage as the result of her efforts. But everything circled around the Slimmer business; increasing its activities, its output, its reputation, its revenue; improving its methods—business, always business; working at it all day in the office, all the evening when out of the office. Even her recreations taken circumspectly with a view to the business; people and places visited that might be useful to the business; invitations declined which would only mean time being expended with no gain to the business.

And what did it all amount to in the end?

She had never thought of that before. Now the question confronted her with disturbing insistency.

She tried to answer it.

Increased work meant wages for more people.

Yes, that was an argument in its favour.

But even then—was the work the best they were capable of doing? Or was it a mechanical treadmill, producing a race of weakly men and women, except in the few cases where someone managed to thrust his head above the mass, and get a bit higher up?

She thought of all the girls and women who swarm to the city daily. How many had the chance to develop their own individuality as Mabel had done? What would Mabel have been like at fifty had she remained in the office?

Such questions as these crowded thickly upon her, as she tramped with Bessie along forest trails, or climbed the gentler slopes of the foothills, and sat on some sheltered rock in the sun. Yet she found no answer to any of it; only a growing conviction that somehow, somewhere, she was on the wrong track.

Work was good; work was needful; concentration was desirable. But, as an all-absorbing goal, it was inadequate to satisfy and supply all that humanity craves.

“If I could have gone on improving the Slimmer business till I was a hundred—what then?” she mused.

All down the centuries, men and women have been asking the same questions; thinking the same long thoughts.

The answer to them was given nearly two thousand years ago, when the One Who alone knew the solution of all earthly difficulties took on human form and dwelt for a little while among us. But men have built up such a complex superstructure, under the guise of modern civilisation, that those who long to do so, find it increasingly difficult to disentangle themselves from the man-made network, and live happy rational lives, as God meant them to be lived. While for many, the noise of the money-making machinery drowns everything else.

It is not easy to hear the Still Small Voice in the babel of the market-place.

More and more Hesper wished she could talk things over with someone who had travelled the same road of questionings and perplexities, but who had found the turning in the long lane, and knew which was the right road and whither it was leading.

Nevertheless, her business instinct told her that even if she happened to meet such a person, he would probably be too busy to give more than a few minutes of his time to her needs. Thousands of other people would be waiting to consult him. The most he would be able to do would be to hear what she had to say, advise her on that statement to the best of his ability, and leave it at that.

And then a further thought came to her: How could she ever explain in a few minutes—in an hour even—all the problems that were pressing upon her? So many new ideas had come to her in these solitudes; she couldn’t even detail them in set sentences to herself. Some had come to her like veritable visions, clearing fallacies from her mind. But still the main questions reiterated themselves in her brain, and remained unanswered.

“What is life? Why has it been given us? What are we supposed to do with it?” This thought came to her frequently.

And ever as a minor under-current: “Why was my work snatched from me, when I was really giving my best to it?”

Our biggest problems are so often attached to some personal perplexity, which would seem very small and of no account to an outsider.

But the Lord of all, Who takes note of the fall of a sparrow equally with the balancing of the stars, knows how vital are the seemingly insignificant happenings to the one who is called upon to bear them.

Hesper was thankful when the second Talk on Authorship relieved her of Patty’s trying society for a short while.

She had gone out alone for a quiet walk—which, she feared, would soon become a rare luxury. But though she said all she wanted was her own company, she wasn’t displeased when Roger Rosscombe caught her up and walked with her.

“We were discussing your views on Canada when we were interrupted the other evening,” he said. “Shall we continue them? You’ve given this life in the back blocks a fair trial now; I wonder if it has really come up to your expectations, or disappointed you?”

“Barring one or two quite minor inflictions——”

“Which don’t really belong to the wildwood, but have thrust themselves upon you; yes! we’ll cut these out pro tem.”

“I quite admit that I shouldn’t want to live with Miss Vinegarette always——”

“Then she can go, too.”

“Nor to live in an atmosphere of authorship——”

“I say! Aren’t we rather wandering from the main theme? None of these people are wildwooders. They—and we may as well include myself—are merely a temporary outbreak which will subside in a few weeks, when everything will revert to its native glory and aloofness. Now I wonder if the place in its normal condition really appeals to you—if it comes up to your anticipations? Or if you find it lacks something that you need?”

He asked the question as though he wondered how she, the expert business woman, had ever been able to stagnate for so long in so primitive an environment.

Her being rose in protest against anything that might be a slight on the beloved cabin. Why every stick and stone of the mountains and the forests seemed already to have become dear to her. They had given her brain-rest, and strength for body and mind.

“I never imagined anything half so wonderful as it all is,” she said enthusiastically. “I’ve been happier here than I ever expected to be again. I’ve grown to love the cabin, and the birds and trees and the water—and, above all, I think, the stillness. But I’ve missed one thing I had anticipated, and one only. I did hope I should meet Enoch Old. I wanted to see him and to talk to him more than almost anything else. I had an idea (possibly I was wrong) that he would have been able to explain some of the things I want explained. But never mind. He has given me health, a renewed belief in myself, and a determination not to lie down and die—which was my cheerful frame of mind when I arrived here.”

“I doubt if he could have given you more than that if you had met him,” Roger replied thoughtfully. “So few of our real problems can be reduced to words. If we do manage to frame them into sentences, we give them a bias. Even if our adviser, or Father Confessor, is able to follow all we say, he doesn’t know all that we don’t say. In many cases we should probably omit the most important parts. But anyhow, your unknown host has done a good piece of work already, in lending you some of his wonderful air and perfect quiet, to build you up again. Very nice and generous of him.”

Hesper glanced at him, wondering if this last was said in sarcasm. Or was he a trifle jealous of her admiration for the author? But his face gave her no clue.

“And it is wonderful air and marvellous scenery,” he continued a moment later. “There is something about a mountainous region——”

And they branched off into what Miss Foxcroft might have termed a “Travel-logue.”

Never in her wildest aspirations after virtue had Hesper dreamt of sitting out such an orgy of religious meetings as fell to her unwilling lot that week. Not that anyone urged her to attend the Convention. She had merely been let in for it, she told herself, through her feebleness of character. If, when Mrs. Dean had first indicated the vacant seat in their car, she had declined it—politely, firmly, tactfully, or as best she could—and let it be known at once that she was not a Conventioner, she would have been saved a good deal.

She had already attended the sermon on Elijah, and a second meeting the next day. And now it seemed probable that Fate (still in the guise of dear Mrs. Dean) intended her to sit out the whole of the meetings! And if so——!

But then, and on the other hand, wouldn’t it be quite as bad to have to endure Patty all those extra hours? Which was the worst—a morning of Patty, or a morning of Convention? Patty, she decided, emphatically!

Meanwhile, another kind message came from Mrs. Dean next morning, inviting both Hesper and Patty to travel to the Convention in the Deanery car, as the Dean was travelling with Sir Roger and a couple of other friends. Hesper was not entirely gratified. Patty, on the contrary, was delighted, and Hesper was again surprised to see how delighted, until Patty said that she had one or two things to attend to in the town, and this would save the bus fare. Also, she added, that as Mrs. Dean was patronising her authorship business, in allowing Netta to attend a couple of talks, to see how she got on, it was the duty of Hesper and Patty to patronise the Deanery business, and show up at a few meetings.

Hesper felt that she couldn’t have dodged going to-day, in any case, as the Dean was the chief speaker; and his address was certain to be worth hearing.

His reputation as a scholarly theologian was world-wide. When he published his famous pamphlet on that disputed question as to whether the Greek word something-or-other, used in the epistle to the Galatians, didn’t mean the same as the Hebrew word something-else used in Deuteronomy—even his own Canons had thundered! And the religious press for weeks had any amount of free “copy,” in the heated letters written by the clergy—for and against his theory, with any number of totally irrelevant arguments thrown in.

Yes, he would undoubtedly say something out of the ordinary; that was one consolation. Also Hesper was quite prepared to do her social duty and show proper appreciation of the distinguished guests residing temporarily under the Thorpe roof. She owed that to Mabel. Besides, she liked Mrs. Dean, and Netta was a delightful girl, unspoilt and unsophisticated. Of course she would have gone in any case to-day, car or no car. But she did hope Mrs. Dean would offer her spare seats to someone else for the rest of the meetings.

When they reached the town, Patty absented herself for a short spell, while she went to the office of the local paper, and arranged for an advertisement of her Talks on Authorship to be inserted in the next day’s issue.

Then she returned to the Hall where the meeting was being held. To Hesper’s relief, she had to take a seat a little distance away. Her constant “asides” would have been irritating in a meeting of this type. Hesper was glad to have quiet Mrs. Dean beside her, with a pleasant-faced Salvation Army officer on the other side.

While the audience was “settling in” Hesper studied the faces of the people. Sir Roger had said: “Watch their faces.” She found it strangely fascinating. She had been used to crowds all her life, and was familiar with tired faces in packed buses and tubes; sullen, antagonistic faces in Hyde Park demonstrations; self-conscious, sophisticated faces in fashionable restaurants; good-humoured faces on Bank Holiday outings—but the general look on the faces around her was different from anything she had noticed before. It was eager expectation of something that would be satisfactory. At yesterday’s meeting, she couldn’t fail to notice the sympathetic response to what was being said, which showed in the eyes and in the expressions, though the hearers said nothing—but only listened.

There seemed some mysterious affinity between them all—speakers and listeners. What was it they were experiencing or expecting? Why was it that she felt no sort of thrill, was expecting nothing—and was quite certain she would receive nothing? She wasn’t even interested, excepting in watching the faces, and trying to discover to what it was that Sir Roger had referred.

Yet there could be no doubt but what most of the audience were deriving actual enjoyment from these gatherings. Strange!

Religion was strange, when it could take such a hold as this on people of such varied intellect and outlook as were gathered here.

But, after all—what was Religion? She had to admit to herself that she didn’t know, save that it was advocated in church and presumably had its origin in the Bible. And then her mind wandered away down many other paths. She was thinking of her own troubles. What could religion do for such wrong as had been done her?

The Dean took his seat on the platform at the appointed hour, facing a gathering of a size that would have elated most speakers, so great a tribute was it to his fame. But his face was impassive, as though he didn’t actually see them.

After two opening hymns had been sung, a chorus was repeated, in order to give time for everyone to “squeeze up a little further if you possibly can, please, and make room for just one more.”

When every available corner and every safe perch was occupied, a Methodist minister prayed for them all, and especially for the speaker, that he might be given the message which each most urgently needed.

The Dean then said he would give his address first of all, and have the Scripture reading afterwards, as he wished their last thought to rest on God’s Word.

He gave out his text, Ezekiel xxii, 30.

It was no new theme. Many sermons have probably been preached from the same text.

But because the Bible is God’s own word to humanity, each can see something of his own soul, and the individual needs of that soul, mirrored therein. And a well-worn text can bring a new message every day, according as God uses it to teach His children.

The Dean spent no time in going back to ancient historical data, or in discussing the linguistic origin of the words. He plunged at once into the midst of the world as it is to-day—at first sight, a depressing scene of gaps and broken hedges; waste places; and worst still, wasted lives; despair in men’s souls; civilisation being undermined by godlessness and the devil’s rule.

He had no need to enlarge upon the present aspect. All his hearers knew something of the chaos that had followed the War; and how evil put forward every effort to gain the supremacy at the moment when men were at their weakest, and staggering blindly from the blow of the War.

That there were Gaps in the Hedges no one could deny! But could they be repaired now? Hadn’t the task grown almost beyond the power of human amendment?

Yes, it had. But it was not beyond the power of God!

Then, with the Bible as his authority, he talked to them, first of all of the one and only remedy for the world’s sickness—a whole-hearted return to God, and a continual effort to follow the teaching of the Lord Jesus and to obey His laws.

Simple facts these; and obvious too, some might think. Yet how far we have wandered in these days from the simplicity of Christ’s teaching! And how difficult it often is for the mind that is riddled with dogma of modern manufacture to return to the child-like attitude of outlook, which is an essential for entrance into His Kingdom!

The Dean knew that this was familiar ground to most of his hearers, yet he dealt with it in some detail, and spoke emphatically on the absolute necessity for the specific consecration of each one to the personal service of the Lord, and a daily renewal of that consecration, if men and women were to be forthcoming and effective, when God’s call came to stand in some gap, and make up one of the many broken places in the hedge.

He knew how easy it is to neglect the cultivation of one’s own spiritual growth, even when engaged in the very work of looking after the souls of others. He kept always before himself St. Paul’s words, “Lest that by any means, when I have preached to others, I myself should be a castaway.”

It was this thought that impelled him to make an earnest plea for each to examine his own relationship to his Master. Some preachers make a definite appeal for personal consecration at the end of their sermons. The Dean made this at the beginning, knowing that it is the first step to be taken; and that without it, man’s efforts lack a compelling and sustaining motive power, no matter how good in themselves they may be, and often are.

When he had made the need for a personal surrender to Christ so clear that even a child could understand him, he went on to the after work of Christ’s servants—repairing the gaps in the hedges.

He did not minimise the fact that the work was not likely to be easy. But it was worth all the difficulties which might surround it, for it was the only work in life which brought satisfaction to the soul; and without soul-satisfaction, every human being is doomed eventually to find life a huge disappointment, no matter what they achieve.

Rapidly he dealt with some of the gaps to be filled, but always he addressed his hearers as individuals; they were to work as personal servants of the Most High, rather than wait to think of the effect of concerted movement.

We have got so into the habit to-day of measuring everything by its size; of thinking in big figures; of speaking of nations instead of people—we are being suffocated mentally with this preponderant atmosphere of masses. And in order still further to eliminate any feeling for the individual unit, we seek to standardise everything we can lay hands on, including children and their fathers.

Yet, the Lord was seeking a man—not a battalion, and not a machine—to stand in the gap before Him. And that man might have saved the land.

Though he spoke for nearly an hour, to judge by the attention of his hearers, the time was none too long. He conveyed to them something outside and beyond the actual words he used; for he spoke with the personal conviction of a man who has himself proved that the only thing worth striving for is the carrying out of Our Lord’s commands. And the work most worth doing is that which God puts definitely before us in our own particular sphere, and which in some way benefits others, and makes for righteousness.

His firm hold on the things of God gave strength to many a despairing soul in his audience. His certainty that the power of God working through man would overcome evil, if volunteers responded to the call—transformed many a weakly waverer into a stalwart soldier, willing to fill any gap where needed.

“If in days on ahead,” the Dean said, “some of you seem to be reaping nothing but discouragements; if there is very little, apparently, to show for your persistent labouring, take heart in the thought: ‘I am filling a gap in the hedge. The Lord called for someone to stand just here. I seemed to be the one He was calling. I am working solely for Him, not for any recognition or reward.’ To such a man or woman God will give special power, and use them beyond their highest hopes—though they themselves may not see the results.”

His closing words were those of a kind father addressing his children perhaps for the last time. He begged them to consecrate themselves anew, in order to be ready for whatever work was waiting for them. So that of them, at least, it should not be said: “I sought for a man that should make up the hedge . . . but found none.”

At best a written sermon is a poor substitute for the spoken words. And it would be useless to attempt to give his full address. But at the close, men and women rose up, one after the other, to signify their willingness and determination to be ready to answer God’s Call. Some said only a word or two; some merely stood up and then sat down again. No one had asked for this; it was quite spontaneous, and free from any element of overwrought hysteria. But it was an impressive scene, and one not easily forgotten.

In conclusion, the Dean read part of Isaiah lviii—his final sentences falling as a Benediction on the hearts of his hearers.

“The Lord shall guide thee continually, and satisfy thy soul in drought! Thou shalt be like a watered garden, and like a spring of water whose waters fail not. And they that shall be of thee shall build the old waste places; thou shalt raise up the foundations of many generations; and thou shalt be called, The repairer of the breach; The restorer of paths to dwell in.”

Hymn sheets were rustling for the final hymn. The Salvation Army officer smiled across at Mrs. Dean, and said simply: “I thank God for such a message!” but her look said far more than this.

Hesper had followed the preacher with a certain amount of curiosity. But in a detached manner. She felt that what he said in no way applied to her. She was moved by the final response of the listeners—no one could help being that. And she was interested in what she called the psychology of the meeting.

She thought how pleasant it must be to be able to look at life from such a simple angle. She almost regretted, at one moment, her own wide outlook, and her knowledge of a world of affairs far bigger than anything these people were likely to know. Of course it was easy for these clergy, and other religious workers, to follow the Dean implicitly. It was part of their profession to do so. People expected it of them—naturally.

But for her—well, to start with, there was an insurmountable barrier which would always prevent her accepting his theories, or following his directions. She had been filling a gap! A big gap, with responsibilities such as the people here would know next to nothing about. She was filling it effectively and conscientiously and as well as ever she knew how.

And—she had been turned out. Actually driven away from the post she was filling!

What use, therefore, to talk to her about being ready to fill a gap!

Patty joined her as the congregation was filing out, Mrs. Dean being monopolised for the moment by friends.

“Thank goodness, that’s over!” Patty whispered. “I thought he was never going to sit down again!” They were waiting in the vestibule for Mrs. Dean. A well-meaning but rather unwise woman came up to Patty, and said:

“Are you saved, sister?”

“Yes, thank you. And I hope you are too?” Patty replied brightly, and in anything but the orthodox manner customary under such circumstances. Mrs. Dean joined them at that moment, and they passed out to the waiting car, leaving the woman looking after them rather reproachfully.

“Tactless ass!” Patty murmured in an undertone to Hesper. “She might have known that people can’t bother about their souls on an empty stomach. And all of us starving for our dinner an hour ago!”

Patty’s advertisement about her Talks on Authorship had caught the eyes of several tourists who were keen to pry into the private business of any celebrity, and were more than pleased to have an opportunity to go over the house of the famous Enoch Old, who had the reputation of being inaccessible. Among those who decided to respond to Patty’s advertisement was a small group of British and American peculiarities, who had formed a literary society of their own—though the members would have shrieked had they heard their conglomeration of kindred souls called by so prosaic a title.

The members were either young people, or those who called themselves young. They had run against each other, at one place or another, while on a Round-the-World Tour. And discovering one great bond of union—their individual conviction that everybody else in the world was wrong, where literature was concerned—they formed themselves into a Guild—“The Soaring Skylarks,” so called because they maintained that the most elevated songs should tell of saddest thought. And they declined to take cognisance of any literature save that produced by their own members. All that had gone before, no less than all that was being produced by non-members at the moment, was to the Soaring Skylarks less than negligible.

Though, in fairness, it must be added that their mutual admiration was not entirely bereft of discrimination; for there was not one among the members who did not recognise that his, or her, own work was infinitely superior to that of every other member.

This little coterie had ’phoned to Miss Foxcroft the moment they saw her advertisement, and asked if they might come along that afternoon, and hold a séance (they called it a “Chapter”) in Enoch Old’s own study? Not that they approved of his writings: he was a hip-less, backbone-less William-the-Fourthian, if not positively Elizabethan. But they might as well take him in their stride across the Continent, as they were making a special study of the Aborigines, and were so near.

Patty immediately settled the time—and fee—with business-like promptitude.

And the Soaring Skylarks duly arrived, characterised mainly by a general slovenliness of appearance. For the rest, they seemed to be quite ordinary human beings, with normal appetites—judging by the amount of sandwich papers, chocolate wrapping, and empty cartons they left scattered about the garden, after taking a picnic lunch under Mr. Old’s trees.

Their language, however, was the compound essence of pessimism and gloom. And this studied attitude towards life they took as seriously as they did their ample lunch and their writings.

As one young woman expressed it to Hesper: “I would rather feel the cold steel of a dagger surging in my breast than be a nerveless jelly-fish lapping up such stuff as ‘Flower in a crannied wall.’ ”

Hesper refrained from asking how a jelly-fish lapped; but said she was glad to hear that they set their faces against robbing the countryside, as people who dug the wild flowers and ferns out of the old walls in England were becoming a curse.

The soaring one brightened when she heard the word curse. It was such an ample, strong word, she said; and she branched off into the beginning of a discourse on the advantages of using only full-blooded words and discarding the anæmic.

“Oh! I expect you prefer something more fruity than flowers!” Hesper replied. But the Chairman now calling the “Chapter” into full session—their interchange of confidences was cut short.

As they had only half an hour for their meeting, and part of it had gone already in a general babel of small talk, the first item on the programme was announced—as usual, a reading by a member of his, or her, own effusion.

It was a decadent rigmarole, positively immoral in its repellent details and its pessimism. And as foolishly useless as Patty’s own remarks had been. Only it was more dangerous, as representing a definite pose cultivated by the members, in the hope of gratifying an unhealthy craving for notoriety at any price.

At the conclusion of her short recital, the author added the important information that she owed nothing whatever to writers of the past. Not one had had the slightest part in shaping her ideas, or influencing her style.

Remembering the subject matter of her prose-poem, to say nothing of her manner of handling it, Hesper thought how grateful the writers of the past must be to her for this definite assurance.

She listened till she could stand it no longer. Then she slipped out of the house, with a sickening sense that was more than disgust. It was not merely that the theme was so objectionable; she felt appalled at the littleness of aim, the ghoulishness of mind that could find pleasure in such performances.

She felt she must get right away into clean air and solitude, or she would soon lose her own sense of balance. She took an uphill path unobserved, as she thought, and made her way to a seat she had found soon after she arrived—away from the world and in the midst of all the loveliness the heart could need. Here she would stop for a little while. She had worked hard, as usual, getting the room ready for Patty—now Patty could take a turn, and get her own tea for once, instead of leaving all the domesticities for Hesper to tackle.

She wanted to think what was the best to do in order to get rid of Patty. For this desecration of someone else’s property must not be allowed to continue.

Or, should she get rid of herself—and return to London? A very good post had been offered her by another firm of publishers, though she didn’t want to go back yet. She was so much better here. But she certainly could not endure things as they were at present. It was all so unsatisfactory. Nothing seemed to work out as she had hoped.

She thought of the Convention Meetings. Was there any satisfaction to be derived from the hopes and aims of the people in those audiences? What were they hoping and aiming for? It was odd how that question persisted.

“I thought I had the copyright of this seat,” said a voice. She looked round to see Roger Rosscombe coming towards her. “I was intending to introduce you to this discovery which I made the other day. And now I find you know it already. Another fond hope blighted in the bud! Would it disturb you seriously if I sat right at the other end of the seat? Or should I be too black a blot on the landscape? You needn’t talk if you want to be silent.”

“I found this seat soon after I came here. It is a wonderful help in thinking things out. I often come up here to sort out my worries!”

“Why not leave some of the worries behind? The wind at this height will soon carry them out to sea. But seriously, I hope nothing has happened to spoil things for you here? I suppose it is useless for me to ask if I can help. But, at any rate—if there is any mortal thing I could do for you, do let me know. I hope the Literary Talks aren’t bothering you? I happened along, and heard part of this afternoon’s recital——”

“Then I hope you feel edified! But I didn’t see you there. It’s the first time you’ve called! I wish I had known, so as to do the honours properly.”

“Miss Foxcroft had told me about this party, and wasn’t sure what sort of a gang it might prove to be. Sometimes these holiday-making people on the hike get up to all sorts of ‘rags.’ So I told her I would be on the spot in case. But they are quite harmless. Their jargon is the only animated thing about them, and that will soon wear itself out. It’s only a pose.”

“It isn’t so much the kink in their minds that has upset me, as the fact of Mr. Old’s house being put to such base uses, when he has made it such a shrine of all that is wholesome and ‘bettering’ in thought. It makes me feel positively ill, to realise how I have betrayed the trust he left with me, when he so kindly offered the loan of his house. What will he think of me, when he hears of it all!”

“I can’t see that you have anything to worry about! If, as Miss Foxcroft says, she has asked his permission, then you have no sort of responsibility in the matter. It is an arrangement between Miss Foxcroft and Old, and solely their affair. Let them fight it out between them—if there is anything to fight about. But I don’t think there is. Had those young men started to smash the chairs, I should have acted policeman, and have done my best to save his property for him. But merely sitting on them won’t hurt them! And we men don’t lavish affection on our sticks of furniture as women do.”

“It isn’t the actual furniture that is being injured,” she said. “It’s the whole atmosphere of this place that is being damaged, and polluted——”

“How dreadful!” he said, with a mischievous look. “I had no idea it was as bad as that. Though it tastes and smells just as nice to me as ever”—sniffing audibly. “But of course, as you are such an admirer of Enoch Old——”

“Aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid I haven’t thought much about the matter.”

“But you’ve read his books?”

“I’ve read one, since I’ve been here. I do try to keep pace with the times, you see!”

“Is that all? Oh, do read some more. He is wonderful. He’s the one author who kept me sane when everything went black—I had some trouble a little while ago,” she added hastily. “I can truly say that I adore him for the help he has given me.”

“Almost thou persuadest me to buy all his books!” he replied laughingly. “Indeed, I think I must. But seeing that he’s the type of man he evidently is, I’m sure you can cease to worry about his house. He would certainly tell you so himself, if you could see him and explain. Now, having settled that difficulty once and for all—let’s talk about something else. I want a snapshot of you.”

“Impossible. I never allow such a thing to be perpetuated. I take so badly.”

“Not as I shall ‘snap’ you,” he said. She looked around for his camera.

“I don’t use a camera for this form of photography,” he explained. “I take a picture with my eyes. Some years ago I was on an important expedition—with much depending on the data I collected and the book I was to write. When out of reach of any sort of repairs, my camera collapsed. It was essential that I should remember what I had seen—yet I was seeing so much. I was afraid I should get it hopelessly mixed. So I selected certain views, just as I would for the camera—tried to memorise the features. Shut my eyes to test how much I had seen. Found I had taken in very little the first time. Repeated the process over and over again—till I had assimilated all the main characteristics of the view. I gave the scene a title—entered up all the details I could in my notes—went on and made more mental pictures for the rest of the tour. And it really was a useful stunt. I’ve practised it over and over again since then. And now I’m going to start a Family Album full of pictures of this district——”

“I see. What a good notion. I must experiment myself. What is this academy picture you are about to take, to be called?”

“ ‘Hesper.’ That is all. It will be you sitting on that seat, with the dark firs throwing up the golden gleams on your hair—don’t look away please: it’s so upsetting to the eye of an artist——. The balance of light and shade is just right.”

“Aren’t you going to shut your eyes, to make sure that you have every detail correctly in place?”

“I was going to do so. But that chick-a-dee up there has just mentioned that you intend to disappear, if I do. And as I’m never quite certain whether there isn’t a streak of the wood nymph in you—I won’t run risks! Besides, I know every detail.”

The talk was becoming rather personal. But it was a relief to get away from Patty and all that she stood for. And Hesper felt more in the mood for nonsense than she had for months past.

“How truly delightful it will be to bring out your old Family Album, and look at the ‘snaps’ in after life!” she said mockingly.

“Yes! And I shall come back here, too, and have a look at this very seat.”

“And when you are ninety, I can see you tottering up here, to find an old lady of about one hundred or so, sitting here, also studying the Family Album. You will say, ‘Shall I disturb you seriously, if I sit right at the other end of the seat?’ And she will reply, ‘Not if you will avoid being too black a blot on the landscape!’ ”

“And I shall say, ‘Is it you?’ ”—he took up the chronicle. “And you will say ‘Is it you?’ Won’t it be thrilling?”

“Yes! And you will proceed to tell me all about your great-grandchildren and how wonderful they are. And I shall proceed to tell you all about my cats and my parrot and how wonderful they are.”

“It will be idyllic,” he said dreamily, looking out across the landscape. “Especially will it be touchingly beautiful,” he continued pensively, “to meet such devotion to dumb animals—though, by the way, perhaps your parrot will talk?” looking suddenly at her.

“Yes. I shall teach him to say ‘Roger’—simply that one sweet word! That will at least compensate for having your ‘snap’ labelled ‘Hesper’.”

So absorbed had they become in themselves, that they had not noticed someone approaching—till a painfully well-known voice exclaimed:

“Here you are. I’ve been hunting for you everywhere”—and Patty precipitated herself upon them, like the most welcome little ray of sunshine. “I heard that you weren’t well, Hesper, and had gone off looking quite ill. I couldn’t get away any sooner, those tiresome people kept me talking such an age. I was worried to a pulp wondering what had become of you.”

“I expect she has done a little too much to-day,” said Sir Roger, with assumed anxiety. “The meetings are rather a mouthful for an invalid. But we’ll get her home safely somehow!” His eyes twinkled. “If Miss Pew takes my arm, she’ll be all right now, I think.”

Hesper felt so limp with aggravation at Patty’s intervention, that she took the proffered arm. In this way Patty was relegated to the rear, as the path was only wide enough for two to walk abreast.

“We’ll continue our arguments later,” he said to her quietly. “The subject interests me greatly.”

“You might let me know when you are going off on your own for these secret meetings,” said Patty in an aggrieved tone when they were alone. “It is rather trying for me to have to go out tea-less and hunt the district for you, when I’ve had such a strenuous afternoon. But wasn’t it a huge success?” Patty recovered her spirits at the recollections of the packed room. “If I have audiences like this every day for the next fortnight—I shall net—let me see—how much will it make?”

“I shouldn’t count my chickens just yet, if I were you,” said Hesper. “You have yet to learn how many of them are coming again!”

“And I should advise you not to count yours, either just yet,” said Patty, with a distinct touch of malice.

Even in the dark ages, ladies of such undeniable respectability as Hermia and Helena were known to scratch each other!

It did not occur to Hesper to reckon up how many times she saw Roger during the days that followed, otherwise she might have noticed that it was fairly often. Not at the Convention meetings; he did not appear to go to them. At any rate, she did not see him there. But at other times, he crossed her path continually, and, without making the fact conspicuous to others, he was frequently at her side.

Though not always alone. It was almost uncanny the way Patty would appear and walk or talk with them. She might have been a female detective in charge of Hesper, the way she haunted her goings out, and hung over her, if Roger were anywhere within sight, or suspected of being in the offing.

Yet, in spite of Patty’s vigilance, the other two managed to discover that they had much in common, tastes that coincided, and to find a good deal of pleasure in each other’s society.

Of course, circumstances served to foster this; their environment was exceptionally favourable, and they had leisure in which to enjoy it—and enjoy it all the more if they shared it together.

There are times when one feels one must be quite alone with nature—when one’s soul craves silent communion with the Author of such beauty. And there are other times when one’s enjoyment is greatly increased if some congenial friend is there with whom one can talk or be silent. Someone who has the seeing eye and the sympathetic heart. Someone who doesn’t need to have everything explained to them, but who knows and understands.

It was on these lines that friendship developed rapidly between Hesper and Roger. Where it might lead, Hesper at any rate did not stop to inquire. She was accustomed to having men around her. Masculine society was no novelty to set her emotions a-flutter! She was quite able to appreciate brains; and equally she was able to diagnose fools, even though at times in the world of business a woman has often to suffer fools—if not gladly, at any rate politely. She had suffered a good many already! But it was a blessed change from Charles Slimmer to listen to a man like Rosscombe. It was like getting up into the clear mountain air after the smoky fog of London, to come into contact with a keen, business man, whose ideals seemed as high as the heavens—a man who knew precisely his market value, yet one who would not lower his own standard, no matter what the profit attached.

Roger Rosscombe knew well the power of money. He had made plenty, and in more ways than one—but he had never made it by shoddy means, neither by wronging others nor himself. He valued his soul above his bank balance.

All this, and more, Hesper learnt about him, sometimes from indications he himself let drop unconsciously; often from what she heard others say of him.

His personality was not easily classified. A man of the world, he seemed still unspoilt by the world, possibly because he spent so much time away from that doubtful boon—modern civilisation!

Whatever the reason, he certainly appealed to Hesper; and his coming brought an entirely new element of enjoyment into her holiday.

While she had thoroughly revelled in the weeks she had spent alone at the cabin—Mabel within reach if wanted, and no one to bother her if not wanted—she had found life very different since Patty’s arrival. It seemed as though Miss Foxcroft had been there for months, whereas it could hardly be called weeks as yet.

Hesper, in desperation at the uninvited invasion of her happy solitude, had summoned up enough courage to ask her visitor how long she was intending to stay.

Patty replied that she thought Hesper ought to be most grateful to her for turning up at the moment she did, seeing the way people were talking about her! Naturally, those who didn’t know her as Patty did, thought it strange that a young woman should establish herself solus like that! And—equally naturally—some of them had not hesitated to say unkind things about the affair. But she (Patty) had made a point of taking Hesper’s part, and explaining that though she was always rather peculiar, she really meant no harm.

“Even Roger Rosscombe noticed it,” she said. “He told me and Mabel how thankful he was that I was with you, as he didn’t quite like the look of the thing—your being here alone. And as to my going, you must leave me to settle that with Enoch Old, just as you will do, when you no longer need the convenience of his house.”

Hesper felt she had not gained much but annoyance by her inquiry. She knew it was useless to go on discussing the matter, for Patty would only add more fuel to the fire.

She did inquire of Mabel, however, if Sir Roger had really criticised her being at the cabin.

Mabel looked quizzically at her, and said soothingly: “I should have thought that you knew the Foxcroft well enough by this time to discount every single word she says. What Sir Roger actually said was: ‘How frail Miss Pew still looks! I should think she needs someone to take care of her; instead of her having to clear up after these consignments of would-be novelists.’ And he said it to me, not to Patty. She must have had her ear to a keyhole somewhere to have heard it! And I’ll tell you another thing. You won’t get quit of her while he is here—or I don’t know Patty. I’m not blind!”

Thinking the matter over later, Hesper remembered there was one incident which might perhaps have occasioned some remarks.

Among the visitors who came avowedly for the Convention was a man named Shaw, who was not at all popular. A middle-aged man, he was so unctuous, so officially religious—if one may so call it—as to irritate some, and nauseate others. He addressed every woman as Sister; used Biblical phraseology in season and out—mostly out; and positively “exuded piety” as Patty expressed it.

At the first meetings he attended, he constituted himself a leading light—showing people into seats, looking after hymn sheets, ejaculating loud Amens, when he was not engaged in punctuating the prayers with other fervent signs of approbation.

To Hesper he was particularly offensive—not that he intended to be; on the contrary he fancied he was making himself irresistibly fascinating. She felt his hypocrisy, though she could not have stated anything that might be considered a fair instance. Also he was vulgar. She avoided him studiously. He, however, did not intend to be avoided; he haunted her, and in spite of her protests, addressed her with his familiar “Sister,” till she ceased to see him or answer him, no matter how he forced himself upon her.

After a day or two, she decided she would remain at the cabin in the evening, he was so obnoxious. She had had more than enough of his pestering attentions. Patty could go up alone, which she did, nothing loath.

Someone inquired if Miss Pew were ill, as she had not come with Miss Foxcroft?

Oh no, Patty explained, she was quite well, but painfully industrious, and domesticated, and was spending the evening in mending and darning.

Shaw heard this. A few minutes later he got up to go out. Someone spoke to him, but he said he was going for a walk.

Mrs. Dean looked up. A moment later she was putting on her own hat. Roger was with the Dean in their private sitting room. She asked him if he could spare a few minutes as she wanted to go out. Quickly they made their way down to the cabin, in time to find Shaw trying to force Hesper to admit him.

She was standing firmly barring the doorway, and saying: “I must ask you to go away, as I am not able to talk to you to-night.” She was very white, and more than thankful when she saw the two coming up the garden path.

Shaw slunk off, murmuring something about not wishing to intrude, if she was engaged.

Both Mrs. Dean and Roger were more concerned about the incident than they let Hesper know. It was easy to persuade her not to remain there alone in the evening. Netta too would have to be carefully guarded. But that did not alter the fact that they evidently had in their midst a most undesirable visitor, and the very last person they wished to have taking a prominent lead at the meetings. He might do untold harm.

Fortunately, for their peace of mind, Shaw’s future was being arranged for most satisfactorily. It happened that one of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police was home on leave, visiting his mother in the town. Under strong maternal compulsion he had gone to one of the Convention meetings, and as a matter of second nature, he studied the faces of all whom he did not know personally.

He looked at Shaw a second time, then a third time. The red hair dyed dark brown, the sandy eyebrows that had been blackened, didn’t deceive him. The devout Amens left him cold. He slipped out in the first prayer.

Someone tapped Shaw on the shoulder during the next hymn, and drew him into the vestibule on some trifling pretext. The local police were also there to assist if needed.

But—as it is well-known—sooner or later, whether they find him at last at the North Pole or the Equator, the Mounted Police always get their man!

They got him that time!

With the exception of the Thorpes, and the one or two most keen to be rid of him, most of the visitors had no idea of the real reason of his disappearance. It was better that they should not. He had merely been called away suddenly. And it was left at that.

But Hesper wasn’t the only one who was thankful to know that he had gone.

She concluded therefore that the talking of people to which Patty referred, was in connection with this little episode.

Trying as Patty undoubtedly was, and a disturbing upheaval in what had been a veritable haven of “fair quiet,” there were bright intervals daily—the times when Hesper and Roger were together; at least they were bright intervals to Hesper, whatever Roger may have considered them. They were never purposely arranged; always accidental, apparently; yet they were pretty frequent!

Usually they met out of doors. Hesper made a habit of going for a long walk at the hours appointed for the Talks on Authorship; after the second day she would listen to no more of them, they were more than she could endure.

No need to ask how the two chanced to meet. Perhaps they didn’t know themselves. The main point was that they did meet. And then they would saunter on and on. Sometimes Roger took her to see some new beauty spot, or some remarkable tree that he had discovered. Or they sat in the sunshine in some comfortable nook—there were so many of them. The seat they had named “The Family Album” was a favourite.

Generally he did most of the talking. She liked to listen. But apart from this, she had long ago learnt the priceless lesson, that things go best both in offices and elsewhere when man is allowed to do the talking, while woman listens admiringly—and at the same time, gets on with the work if necessary!

She enjoyed hearing him; his voice in itself was so musical. Even if he had talked bald platitudes, or read a page from a telephone directory, he would have been pleasant to listen to. But as it was, he was crammed full of just the stuff that was Hesper’s world. She was thoroughly in her element—and in his—when he described some of his experiences in places which hitherto had been nothing more to the world than blank spaces on maps, with a few unpronounceable names to save them looking too bare.

It came as a surprise, however, to Hesper, to find how interested he was in plant-life, flowering shrubs and new discoveries among smaller wildlings. Although not the main object of his journeys, he had brought home quite a number of rare novelties, particularly from among the rhododendrons, growing in undreamed-of numbers in the remote woods among the mountains of Western China; while his ever-increasing collection of that immense family, Chinese Primula, appeared to be a hobby without an end!

From these, they wandered to the wild flowers of Canada. He had taken her that day to see a patch of Lady’s Slipper he had found in a boggy piece of woodland.

They talked of the wild blue iris; of the Canadian May Flower which was carpeting the pine woods with dark green glossy leaves and white flowers; of the blue-eyed grass, and the wild yellow lupin. He had evidently made good use of his time, and with the quick eye of the explorer, had discovered all sorts of treasures which she had not noticed.

They compared the wild flowers around them with those of the British Isles. He showed her an expanse of the lovely Painted Trilliums. “We haven’t these wild in England,” he said.

“It seems ungracious to say so, when Canada offers such real gems of other kinds, but I do miss the primroses. Why don’t they grow them here?” she asked.

“Climate! The moist soft winters we have at home, with no heavy snow followed by long hard frost, enable the primroses to flourish. The not-too-hot summers continue the good work, and help them to last through the summer. In lands where the sun always shines at full power all through the summer months, primroses won’t survive; and the same applies to a number of other wild flowers. Our much-maligned English climate has a few things to its credit. Have you noticed the absence of moss here in Canada, and the lack of creepers that you see everywhere in England? It’s all due to climate. Moss likes soft, damp winters, and not too much heat in summer. Creepers and most flowering shrubs won’t stand intense cold.”

“What do they do if they want creepers over the house?”

“Virginia creeper will live in some parts. Otherwise the creepers have to be swathed and swaddled in winter, excepting in the west.”

“I noticed the roses, when I first got here, were smothered in straw and canvas, which was removed when the fine weather came.”

“That’s the only way to keep roses here. Someone is sure to see to all that for Old when he is away; otherwise he would have nothing but the hardier forest trees, and the plants that are underground all the winter, and blanketed with thick snow. I expect that was why the original owner of the cabin did his little plantings. He was anxious, I should imagine, to find out which trees would stand the climate. Those that lived have grown into these mixed woods round about. Though I notice that Canadians smile if one refers to these as woods. Men think in such large sizes here! Nature plans on such a huge scale as compared with our little island.”

In small talk like this, time flew. They were always surprised to see how late it was when they returned (or when Patty pounced down upon them!) None of their conversation was at all lover-like.

Yet Love has often travelled by such a route!

The Convention was nearing the end. The Ranch-party would be breaking up next week. Though some would be staying on a little longer, others would be going, with newcomers to take their places.

Patty was all agog to know who would be coming—though Mabel did not enlighten her. She was hoping to net new subscribers for her talks. She knew quite well that some, at any rate, of the next visitors would be certain to feel it within them that they could write a novel, if only someone showed them how. She intended to awaken, and then develop that latent feeling.

Hesper, on the other hand, wondered who would be going and who would be remaining, not but what she knew, in most cases, who were going. The Deanery party would be leaving, for which she was very sorry. Several very pleasant missionaries would be going; she would miss them. A tiresome man who was always buttonholing her, to explain how wrong all the theologians were, and how his pamphlet had set them all right, he was going on Monday too—for which she was heartily glad.

Others had told her of their plans—only she really wasn’t wildly interested in them. The one person whose plans she would have liked to know, but wouldn’t ask about, was Roger Rosscombe. She had no idea how long he was staying, or where he was going when he finally left.

The thought that he would leave, and that he might leave any minute, even on Monday, as he was very friendly with the Dean, filled her with a sudden blank dismay.

Of course she had known he would have to leave some time. For the matter of that, so would she! But she had relegated the thought to some undated period in the future. Not a matter for present consideration. Whereas now, everyone seemed to be packing, or studying routes and time-tables, ’phoning and booking up reservations in other hotels or trains or steamers. There was no certainty anywhere, and Roger was included in the uncertainties. She didn’t like the outlook!

Of one thing she felt sure, however—if he were leaving immediately, he would tell her personally, and probably say something about seeing her in London.

She would go up to their favourite seat to-day. He would most likely look for her there. Patty couldn’t grab at them for the next hour, as she was engaged on a talk—though only to a very small audience. Most of her original disciples had dropped out fairly soon. Patty’s talks had not proved particularly helpful to the aspirants.

But though Hesper remained for half an hour, sitting on the Family Album, Roger did not appear.

She felt curiously depressed. Everything was disappointing, she told herself. Everything was futile. Existence was one long mockery. In this mood she sat reviewing the past.

She had worked hard all her life, and worked well. What was her reward? She was kicked out for her pains!

Then again, after her illness, she had only desired a quiet place for herself, where she could think and plan and get back her strength—and immediately Patty was dumped upon her!

She asked very little of Fate in the way of friendship—yet, when, for the first time in her life, she met a man who really seemed to embody all she had ever thought or pictured as her ideal, he would pass on and out of her orbit, as unconcerned about her as a star in the heavens. And she must accept it silently. She couldn’t chase after him, as Patty would, if she thought it worth her while to do so. She could not even speak of what was in her heart, not to anyone.

What a hopeless mix-up life was!

And yet, some people seemed to get so much out of it. Those people at the Convention, for instance—so many of them seemed to get such satisfaction out of their religion, that it carried them over heaps of troubles and worries. Her mother had been like that; though she herself had never pretended or desired to understand it.

In her mother’s case, she had accepted it as a relic of the Victorian tradition. But here was that bright medical missionary—Dr. Alice they all called her—whose husband was also a missionary, with a parish as large as England, and who lived somewhere up around Hudson’s Bay, where the snow lay on the ground nearly the whole year round. A terrible existence it seemed to Hesper. Yet that woman was fairly bubbling over with enthusiasm for their work. Hesper had talked a good deal with her, because, from force of habit, she always kept her weather eye open for any traveller who might have information which would be useful to her in her business. But Dr. Alice had assumed at once that it was the work itself that had interested this nice, quiet, clever Miss Pew, who asked such intelligent questions and listened as though she enjoyed hearing about it all. And after anyone had been shut in by the arctic snow and ice for a year or two at a stretch, it was so delightful to meet congenial people. She poured out her soul to Miss Pew, and told her what a lovely time they were having at the Convention.

And Hesper wondered in what way it was so lovely. Just as she wondered what a brilliant woman like that could find so enthralling in tending a make-shift hospital, containing a handful of Indians, Esquimaux, or half-breeds, and in trying to wean the natives from their uncivilised unsanitary ways.

Then there was the little Salvation Army officer who had sat next to her at a meeting. She spent her life in one of the worst purlieus of the East End of London. Some wealthy lady had paid her expenses—after an illness—to give her this holiday in the dry mountain air, and to enable her to see her sister who lived in Winnipeg, and to attend the Convention.

She also had told Hesper about her work—and dreadfully drab, sordid sort of work it seemed to her listener. Yet the Salvationist spoke of it as though she were specially privileged in being allowed to take part in it. Her eyes glowed as she told of the changes that she herself had seen in the lives of people around her since the “Army” had been working in that spot. She, too, had assumed as a matter of course that Hesper was keen about such things, and had begged her to come and visit them when back in London. “You will so enjoy knowing some of the dear people,” she had said.

And again Hesper wondered what there could be in such a slum to hold a woman’s interest, and keep her radiant, when there seemed nothing to relieve the monotony of the wretchedness and sordidness from one year’s end to another. The officer had said herself that this was the first real holiday she had had for several years.

Well, it was useless to try and fathom it. The only way to explain the phenomena was to say that we are not all alike. Some find pleasure in one direction; some in another.

She didn’t for a moment question the sincerity of such people. The woman doctor and the Salvationist were real gold; there was the true ring in all they said and did. But though she admired them personally, their enthusiasm left her cold. She desired neither slums nor heathen!

But what did she desire? She suddenly asked herself this question and faced it squarely.

She knew! And knew too surely for her heart’s peace!

But putting Roger Rosscombe entirely outside her life (which he was evidently going to do himself) what else did she want? What was she going to do in the future?

She realised in a flash what she would like to do, if it were possible—punish Charles Slimmer in season and out; make him suffer for the vile injustice of his treatment. She would like to devote her life to the job! Yes! that was the plain, unvarnished truth!

“What a vindictive cat I’ve become!” she said, surprised at the depth of hatred she had discovered still seething in her system. “The Convention hasn’t done much to improve me, evidently.”

Then came the reaction. How appalling it was that she should allow one act of a worthless man, egged on by equally worthless women, to ruin her disposition and embitter her life like this! Why couldn’t she forget it all, and make a new start?

“I shall never forget it,” she answered herself. “It will always rankle. Nothing can eradicate what has been done. There can be no new start. Life is over for me; no matter how many more years I may live. I’ve finished my allotted span.” Though probably no outsider looking at her would have imagined that she had reached the “done-with-everything” stage.

The sound of footsteps! Someone was coming up the path. Her heart gave a joyous bound; followed immediately by the blankness of disappointment. That leisured tread, those occasional stumblings, did not belong to the man for whom she was waiting.

The footsteps drew nearer, deliberate, slow, and measured, with frequent pauses to admire the view. No one who had eyes to see would ever hurry up that path. At last the pedestrian reached the bend, and Hesper saw the Dean. She felt a twinge of irritation at her solitude being disturbed. Though keen disappointment was more probably the cause of the cloud that shadowed her face.

He did not see her at first. He was standing still, looking at the panorama of mountains, foothills, lakes and streams spread out before them.

But there was something more in his gaze than ordinary appreciation of beautiful scenery. To Hesper, there seemed to be some inner light which gave to his rugged features a beauty that was outside earthly standards. While he was looking apparently at the stupendous panorama of mountains and foothills stretched out before him, some inner sense told her that already his soul was glimpsing a still better country; and looking

Yet the look on his face was not one of supernatural or mystic exaltation. It was a look of calm joy; a satisfied peace; a certainty of something more staple than anything the world can offer. A look such as St. Paul must have worn when he wrote to Timothy: “I know whom I have believed.”

His lips moved silently; probably in prayer.

Hesper felt uncomfortably like an eavesdropper. She remembered having had exactly the same feeling of embarrassment as a child, when she had once entered a room very quietly, and found her mother on her knees. On that occasion she had crept out as noiselessly as she had come in.

But she had no such easy way of escape now. So she turned round and studied the view in another direction. He would see her when he came a step nearer.

Soon he continued his walk, and noticing someone sitting with her back towards him, admiring the scenery, he coughed slightly, to announce his presence, without unduly startling her.

“I did not know you were here, or I would not have disturbed you,” he said. “Such opportunities for quiet thinking and resting in utter peace are so precious to busy people like ourselves.”

It was true Hesper didn’t crave his society. Still, he was a long way from the ranch, and might be tired.

“Won’t you sit and rest for a little while? This is a very comfortable seat.”

“Thank you. I won’t disturb your solitude for long, but a little rest would be very acceptable. It’s a good pull up to get here—but worth the effort!”

After a pause, he continued: “I came up here to say ‘Good-bye, and may God bless you,’ to this beautiful land. As you know, we are leaving very soon. To anyone like myself a time comes when one has to take final leave of places. Sometimes it is almost like taking leave of a person. I have found this such a friendly country. I think these forest paths must be paved with the love for them all that visitors have left behind!”

“But you must come again. Anyone who has once seen all this”—waving her hand towards the mountains—“must surely long to see it again. Of course you must come back! Why, I don’t believe you’ll be able to keep away!”

“That is youth speaking—and the way youth should speak, too,” he said, smiling. “But at my age such journeys can’t be repeated. It’s been a wonderful experience, and I have stored up enough happy memories to last me for the rest of my days. I have met so many new friends here. And though our ways may never cross again, these brief contacts leave so much happiness behind them.”

“Oh! but I think it’s devastating to meet people with whom one seems to have much in common; and then—to say good-bye, and probably never see them again.”

“I think it should be enriching, rather than devastating,” he said thoughtfully. “At best, one can only keep in close personal touch with a limited number of personal friends. The everyday demands of our work make it impossible for us to maintain a large number of intimate friendships. But it widens one’s outlook, and enlarges one’s sympathies, to discover yet more and more people whom one can truly like; people whose roots thrive in the same soil, so to speak, as our own. Merely to meet and greet such, in passing along life’s road, should be a help to us. And there is always the lovely possibility that they, in their kindness of heart, may have found something in us that attracts them, and for which they will remember us. But I ought to be making my way back now, or they will wonder what has become of me.”

He looked very worn and tired. Hesper didn’t like the idea of his taking the long walk alone. She had noticed him stumble once or twice on the way up.

“I must be moving homeward too,” she said. “May I walk with you?”

He seemed very glad of her company. They walked for a few moments in silence. Then he said:

“I want to say something to you, as this may be my last opportunity. Will you forgive me for speaking plainly?”

“Certainly!” though she wondered uneasily what sins she had committed that necessitated plain speaking? In her young days, when people prided themselves on speaking plainly and saying just what they thought, it invariably resulted in some unpleasant or uncomplimentary criticisms. Yet the Dean wasn’t the type who would go out of his way to wound a person’s feelings!

“Why do you hesitate,” he said very gently, “about taking the definite step that would give you the happiness you crave?”

Hesper almost started with surprise. What did he know? Had she betrayed to outsiders her feelings for Rosscombe? She shrank from the very idea. And in any case, what step could she herself take. She couldn’t force his hand; and wouldn’t if she could.

“I don’t think I understand what you mean?” she said.

“I am sure you are longing to find definite satisfaction in life—some worth-while basis to build upon. But, so far, you haven’t found what you are seeking. Isn’t this so?”

“It seems to me that I’ve been looking for it in every direction! But perhaps not in the way you mean.”

“Our Lord speaks to us in different ways. How He speaks to you I do not know. But I am certain that He is calling you. Why do you hesitate to take a definite stand on His side?”

For a moment, Hesper felt impatient. Evidently here was an attempt to convert her, and converting others seemed to be the end and aim of three-quarters of the people who attended the Convention. One or two had started on her, but she hadn’t encouraged their well-meant efforts. Why couldn’t they spend a little more time looking after and improving their own souls, instead of being so inquisitive about the souls of others?

Yet as quickly followed the thought that she was despicable in thinking such things, for no one could be more sincerely a Christian, in the fullest and highest sense of the term, than the Dean. And no one less inquisitive.

“You talk about taking a definite stand. I conclude you mean that I should get up in some meeting, and lay my soul bare to the audience. I don’t believe in that type of religion.”

“I wasn’t referring to any one specific act. Whatever declaration you choose to make, and whatever form it takes, would come later, in a natural course. I am speaking of your own personal relationship to the Lord Jesus Christ. Your soul is starving for something that will satisfy it. Nothing that the world can offer you, will ever satisfy you permanently and completely. No soul ever can be entirely satisfied with what the world can give; but some are longer in finding this out than others. You have discovered a great deal already as to life’s real values, but you haven’t found as yet the key to its problems. Your nature is deep; no matter what the future may hold for you, there will always be a lack, if you ignore the craving of your soul for God.”

“May I speak plainly and say what I really feel?”

“I should be glad if you can.”

“It seems to me that it is extremely easy to drop into certain forms of religious phraseology; but very few of the people who talk religion seem to know what they are talking about, or to have any concrete foundation for what they profess to believe. And even when they do appear to have a few theories, each person contradicts the other. Everyone has a little framed theology of his own; and when it comes to any hard test, most of it drops to pieces. Of course I know there are exceptions, splendid exceptions; but what is there in the rank and file of average professing Christians that is worth copying?”

“Why spend any time at all in studying the idiosyncrasies of professing Christians, good, bad, or indifferent?” he replied. “There is one Example—and only one—for us to follow, the Lord Jesus. Neither the weaknesses, nor the strong points of other Christians have any bearing on the case. To live your life to the fullest advantage, you need to live near to Christ, to listen to His words and follow the directions He has left us. You are not concerned with the theories and arguments of others.”

“But how can one live near to Christ?”

“Through prayer. And by cultivating an attitude of mind that turns to Him when not occupied with other legitimate claims. Our instructions are all in the Bible. Go to that for information and guidance. The theories of other people can wait. There is no other way of getting into touch with the Lord, save by one’s own personal act of speaking to Him in prayer.”

There was a moment’s silence between them. Then Hesper said:

“It seems so vague and impracticable. It would be so much easier if one had to go on a journey to some stated headquarters; or perform prescribed acts. One can see the appeal of pilgrimages in order to acquire merit.”

“But such things would be limitations, not aids. If one had to take a journey in order to reach the Father, the poor and the feeble would be shut out from Him, also the business men who couldn’t get away, and the mothers of young families who couldn’t be left, and the men who dare not leave their job in case they never got another. It would mean that access to God would only be for a small privileged class. It is one of the marvels of God’s plan for our welfare, that there is no barrier. Everyone can approach the Lord Jesus, irrespective of earthly conditions.”

“But I have prayed—sometimes,” she admitted. “Yet everything has worked out adversely, and my enemies have scored all along the line. What is the use of going on praying, if God takes no notice of one’s requests? If He answered me, it would be different.”

“You cannot bargain with the Almighty. You must place yourself and your affairs unconditionally in His Hands, then accept what He sends as being part of His plan for you.”

“When everything goes wrong? and one’s enemies triumph? and life becomes a wilderness?” she said bitterly.

“Yes. Even in those circumstances. Our Master was called into the wilderness; so are His servants. But He never leaves them there alone to perish. We also have enemies who do us wrong; so had He. We are only being tested, and we must ask Him to give us something of His marvellous power for forgiveness.”

“I have no faith to believe all this.”

“Very few of us have, till Christ teaches us how to trust Him and believe. But if we are willing to learn, and if we ask Him continually for the ability to believe, evidence is given us of His care for us and of His nearness. The religious life is one of growth. We don’t invest in it ready-made. It is as much a matter of gradual development, as was the growth of this great tree here, from the seed underground to the spire towering skywards. And the motive power moving us is God.”

They were near the ranch now. The Dean had only time to say a last word: “My daughter, when you hear the Lord calling you, don’t turn away without giving Him a chance to show you what His love can be to you.”

Netta had seen them coming. She ran out to meet them.

“We were getting worried because we couldn’t trace you, darling,” she said, slipping her arm into her father’s, and looking up at him a trifle anxiously, Hesper thought. “But mother said she was sure some kind angel would be taking care of you. I might have known it would be Miss Pew”—and she looked at her with a smile.

As a regular practice, Patty Foxcroft now went up the hill to the ranch each evening. At first, Hesper thought it was solely with an eye to business. She needed money. If she could induce more people to attend her talks on authorship—or fan the interest (which showed signs of waning) of those who had already attended one or two of the series, it would enable her to make a little. One could hardly blame her for seizing the chance with both hands.

Thus Hesper argued the matter with herself. Of course, she went with Patty. Though it was several days before she discovered why she preferred the company at the ranch to spending the evenings alone at the cabin. For even Bessie, the collie, had practically deserted her, and only returned occasionally, now that her puppies were off her hands. Patty hated dogs, she said. Couldn’t understand how Hesper could tolerate that great brute about the place. Most unhealthy to have a big dog in the house. She had heard that collies were so treacherous. And so on—till Hesper got weary of it.

Bessie would look at Hesper with her soft brown eyes, in such a questioning manner, as though she understood all that was being said against her irreproachable character, and was asking Hesper why?

But she had that extra sense possessed by so many dogs which told her when she was with an unsympathetic human, and she went off in search of more appreciative companionship, since Patty gave her forcefully to understand that she was always in the way at the cabin.

Up the hill there were several friendly hands ever ready to pat her and rub behind her ears; and several friendly voices to welcome her, and to say gentle endearing things to her when she laid her nozzle on their hands, and looked up beseechingly into their faces. Some animals appear to crave human affection in a way that is itself almost human. Bessie was one of these. She seemed to flinch at the sound of a harsh word flung at her, as though she knew its meaning. She did know the meaning of its tone, and Patty’s execrations got on her nerves. She lived as much as possible at the ranch, where Roger’s voice would always welcome her, and Netta’s hand always be ready to pet her. She decidedly preferred the ranch these days.

But it made the evenings seem more lonely at the cabin, if Hesper did not go out with Patty. Besides, there were a number of very interesting people staying at the ranch, in addition to some who were a trifle weird! Even the weird ones were less irritating than Patty, however, though some of them might have proved quite as trying to live with, had they planted themselves upon her in the cabin, with every indication of remaining there permanently at her expense, as Miss Foxcroft had done!

But it must not be forgotten that people as a whole can be divided into two classes—the sane who keep up the work of the world; and the unsane (quite distinct from insane) who keep up the spirits of the sane! There were several unsane people at the Convention. There always are!

There was the lady who specialised on funerals. And if it chanced that a coffin lay in state for the public to pass by, she made a point of being in-waiting at the beginning of the queue, so as to get out again nice and early, which gave her time to tag on at the end once more, and so secure another round of inspection! After describing one specially ornate lying-in-state, she added, with tearful elation:

“It quite reconciles one to the thought of one’s own funeral, doesn’t it, to see such tasteful arrangements?”

And there was an ultra-good lady who was always referring to “poor benighted souls.” She was so shocked at the amount of money spent on flowers for the previously mentioned lady’s funerals, when “poor benighted souls” were in need. It was useless to try and explain that flower-growing meant employment for thousands; and that men were better at such work than loafing about doing nothing, on the dole. Poor benighted souls still needed the money.

She was ill one evening, and Mrs. Dean suggested to Netta that she should inquire how the invalid was, and see if she could do anything for her.

On Netta’s return, she reported, in a stage whisper: “It’s her poor benighted inside that has gone wrong. She says she feels as though it had become unbuttoned.”

“Sh! Sh! My dear!” said shocked Mrs. Dean. And several people near her couldn’t help smiling. Netta was a great favourite.

“Oh, it’s quite chaste to mention insides, Mother, so long as it’s only in female society. So don’t look worried. And she’s miles better already. I suggested snap fasteners!”

The evenings were never roysterous. Partly out of consideration for the Conventioners, who were in the majority at the moment, and were not keen to have excitements after the more serious atmosphere of the meetings; and partly because it was a habit at the ranch to foster the more old-fashioned virtue of early to bed, though you got up when you pleased. Mabel was not long in discovering that more people in this feverish age were in need of a sedative than in need of jazz and dancing.

As she explained it to Hesper: “It’s far better for nervy women to have a quiet evening occasionally, than to be for ever swallowing aspirins.”

Long days out of doors in the vital mountain air made young and middle-aged equally ready, after a day or two, to see the wisdom of the rule of the ranch: “No music after 10 p.m.” Most of them—the feminine portion at any rate—didn’t want anything after 10 p.m. but their beds.

Of course there was always the possibility that conversation would become a little exacting on occasion, when there was nothing else in the way of entertainment on hand. But in these cosmopolitan days, most women travellers know how to give and take—certainly, how to give!—when conversation in a general assembly isn’t precisely in a line with their own opinions.

At the ranch, however, there was only one really difficult person at this time—she whom Netta styled Miss Vinegarette; though there were several harmless bores.

Among those who had come expressly for the meetings, there was the usual sprinkling of people who loved to recount every emotion of their religious life, with their experiences—unregenerate and regenerate—each step of the way from their cradle to this the latest of the many religious gatherings they had attended. On the other hand, there were those whose well-balanced views on life, and constant practice of the Christian virtues, did more than any words could do, to reveal to the onlookers the surpassing beauty of the life that is truly hid with Christ in God.

It is inevitable, however, that the talkers are the first to receive attention. They obtrude themselves straight away, whereas it may take a little longer before one gets to know the inside of the heart and head of those who are really worth knowing, but who say nothing about it.

The talkers were hard at it, when the two from the cabin entered the big living room of the ranch, the evening of the last day of the Convention.

A good many of the women guests were doing needlework. Some practical person, who had stayed there before, realising that Mabel’s wonderful array of patchwork quilts meant, not only untold work, but also a large assortment of material—had brought some intriguing bundles of “pieces” with her—and had inspired others to help reinforce Mabel’s linen cupboard, by sewing away in their leisure time. To-night it had all the appearance of an old-time “Bee,” so universal was patchwork. Those who said their sight wasn’t good enough for the sewing, were cutting the papers and doing the tacking. Even the shyest units felt the “get together” spirit, and were comparing the designs of the scraps they were handling, with those of their neighbours, and each deciding which she would prefer for a dress.

Hesper, taking a vacant seat someone kindly indicated, found she had arrived at the finale of an account one guest was giving another of the delinquencies of some third party—presumably absent.

“I was absolutely speechless with amazement, and I did give her a talking to, I can assure you; I said all I could think of then, and even now I’m treasuring up quite a few more remarks for that young woman if I meet her!”

The account would probably have been repeated, for Hesper’s enlightenment, had not Miss Vinegarette butted in. Being always anxious to impress her own unique personality on everybody, she promptly opened out and aired a new avenue of thought—in an all-pervading tone of voice, that rendered most people in the room “absolutely speechless” while she herself was talking.

“I always live by D.W.,” she began. “I find it stabilises my outlook.” This with the hopeful air of one waiting to be catechised and contradicted.

As no one offered any objection to her appropriating the whole alphabet if she fancied it, Miss Foxcroft filled up the pause with:

“A new form of delirium tremens, isn’t it? Or am I thinking of tuberculosis?” (There was no need to placate Miss Vinegarette, she had given up attending the Talks on Authorship, finding them inadequate.)

“D.W. represents the bulwarks of sane living,” the stabilised one replied; and then she declaimed impressively: “They stand for ‘Diet Wisely,’ ‘Dress Warmly,’ ‘Discard Worldliness.’ ”

She then looked round for arguments, anxious as usual for combat.

“What a fascinating game!” chirped up someone. “It beats crossword puzzles. Let’s have a competition, and see who can rake up the most bulwarks. I vote for Drink Whisky, Dance Wildly—I can’t think of anything else at the moment, but I shall later on.”

“Discard Woollens during wintry weather,” another suggested.

“Drat Writing,” exclaimed a third, who was polishing off arrears of letters and picture postcards.

“Don’t Wobble”—nonsense of all sorts was quickly forthcoming.

The stabilised lady showed signs of becoming sadly unstabilised, at the ridicule she knew was gathering round her. But the quiet voice of Mrs. Dean took up the theme.

“I think D.W. is quite a useful combination. I should vote for Do Work, Drink Water, Don’t Worry. But then, I love work; I’m fond of water, and I haven’t much time for worry; so of course I’m prejudiced.”

A crisis was averted! But the ball hadn’t stopped rolling yet.

“I think it’s very helpful to regulate everything by something else”—another guest started. “Now I myself am interested in literature, as Miss Foxcroft knows——”

Miss Foxcroft looked properly animated, and nodded her head. (The speaker had attended each talk so far; hence was entitled to every attention.)

“Now it always elucidates an author for me,” the literary guest continued, “if I can think of him, or her, in biscuits.”

Looks of inquiry all round.

“Take Carlyle, for instance—” (nobody really wanted to take him at the moment, so they unselfishly left him to her) “—isn’t he exactly like lunch biscuits? Very dry, but very good, doubtless, if you’ve time to eat them slowly and thoughtfully and in small mouthfuls—only one so seldom has the time. Then there is Tennyson—he’s like sound and sensible Osbornes, a touch of sweetness with calm beauty.”

“What about Browning?” inquired one of the needleworkers.

“Bath Olivers!” was the decisive reply. “They are what I call high-brow biscuits, eaten by the elect; but they need a certain amount of mastication.”

There was a slight pause, while one or two tried to think of some other poet, but couldn’t lay hands on one for the moment.

“How would you classify modern poets?” asked a budding poetess.

“Some of them are like those Rye-Villainy biscuits; you chew and chew, and can find nothing, though doubtless the maker is striving to put some worth into the material.”

“Oh, but they aren’t all like that!”

“No, some are like very sweet wafers; and then again—some are like tea rusks—a lot of scrunch and noise, but little to show for it. And quite a number of them are like a bag of broken biscuits.”

“I’m afraid you aren’t a judge of modern poetry,” began another youthful poetess, rather aggressively.

But once again Mrs. Dean’s voice intervened.

“Though I never thought about people in connection with biscuits,” she said, “I’ve often likened certain types to flowers. Wild thyme, for example, seems suggestive of the woman who is none too well off, yet is always bestowing something—appreciation of other people; a helping hand where needed, or warm hospitality that greets you at the door with ‘Come right in. I’m so glad to see you.’ The Sweet Rockets seem to me to be like the lovely traits of character one meets with in ordinary everyday people—such as the rough, hard-handed man who is tenderness itself to a sick wife.”

Her hearers took up the subject con amore; illustrations and comparisons followed one upon another. It was a relief to some to get away from what they called “Crank-topics,” and all felt more equal to flower comparisons, than to the analyses of literary biscuits.

A pause in their conversation gave an opportunity to a young man who, so far, had felt rather out of it. The older men were smoking in the billiard room. He didn’t smoke, but he did like to be near a piano—and there was a good one in the living room which he played when he got the chance. There was no piano in the boarding house where he lived. Also, and above all else, Netta was in this room.

“Would anyone like some hymns?” he asked. Most of his audience were Conventioners, to whom frequent hymn singing was the right and proper atmosphere suited to the occasion.

But Patty wasn’t a Conventioner. Besides, she was finding patchwork and no Roger a dull combination. Hymn singing was the final straw!

“No, I’m sure hymns are the very last thing we want,” she replied before anyone else could speak. And as no one else was exactly yearning to sing, they didn’t trouble to say anything—though several felt that the refusal was unkindly worded. He was such a nice, well-intentioned youth; a pity to hurt his feelings like that!

He went crimson at Patty’s very decided smack; and turned away saying, “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to——” nervously and apologetically.

“He does look so disappointed,” Hesper said in a low tone to Patty, as he passed out into the veranda.

“Let him!” Patty snapped back. “I’m fed up with this eternal hymn singing.”

No one heard but Mrs. Dean. She went on tacking for half a minute, then she looked up and said: “I was thinking that perhaps, after all, as it is our last day together, and so many of us have to leave this lovely spot so soon, Miss Foxcroft wouldn’t mind if we did have one hymn together. It would leave a happy memory behind. Though I don’t want it to be a burden, if others don’t feel equal to it?”

Instantly a comfortable-looking matron spoke up. “For my part, I should enjoy it.” She had boys of her own, and had seen the crestfallen look which had come over the eager face of the lad, at Patty’s heartless snub.

And everyone else seemed also anxious for hymns! Most of them had felt a twinge of conscience, at sitting silently, and apparently condoning the ungracious treatment he had received. Yet what could they do? To oppose Patty flatly seemed just as ungracious. They were thankful to Mrs. Dean for settling the point.

At a look from her mother, Netta—who had been vainly trying to read in spite of the general talk, and then found the sudden momentary silence just as trying—ran off in search of the young man.

“Mother says she would so enjoy a hymn; and most of the others say the same. You went out so quickly, we hadn’t time to find out what the others wanted,” she added tactfully. “Won’t you come and play for us? You do play so beautifully.”

The lad couldn’t have resisted Netta, whom he worshipped—from afar—if he had positively hated music. As it was, it was a radiant person who sat down to the piano.

Patty rose ostentatiously from her position near the instrument, and took a seat as far away from it as possible. No one minded.

One after another asked for their favourite hymns. And though the singing may not have been always in tune, the kind thought that had prompted it must surely have transmuted all into perfect harmony, in the hearing of Heaven.

The youth was a born musician; there was no doubt about that.

“Now, won’t you play something to us?” Mrs. Dean asked. “Have you ever composed anything yourself?” She knew that the young must express themselves in their own medium. And in all probability he had sheaves of manuscript locked away in his room at the boarding house, or at any rate some treasured items in his brain.

He had! However did Mrs. Dean guess it? he asked happily. She only smiled. The comfortable-looking matron contributed the information that “you can always tell!”

He played well, flushed with pleasure at the general interest in his performance, for by nature he was shy and reserved.

They thought he was playing to them all. But—he was now playing to Netta—who still sat in the window seat, not attempting any longer to read, but listening, listening.

There are times when youth has no need even of wireless, to bridge space!

When he left off, conversation soon became normal again.

“It’s curious what a lot of odd people seem to collect at a religious convention,” said Hesper to her sewing neighbour.

“All the world’s queer—except thee and me!” the other quoted with a twinkle. “But I won’t finish the sentence as the old Quaker did to his wife, and say, ‘And thee’s a bit queer too sometimes,’ because you’re not! But I quite agree that a gathering of this description does bring together a few unusual specimens; which is all to the good. They are better in such company than anywhere else.”

“And there’s another thing,” said the comfortable matron, “while I never say a single word against my own sex, never, I must say that their conversation often becomes very feeble, if there aren’t a few sensible men around. I’m not surprised that the poor boy found us dull. I wonder where all the others have got to?”

Hesper had been wondering the same thing.

At that moment, however, several of the men came in, including Rosscombe. His glance took in the whole room—the “Ladies’ Working Party” spread all over the place. Netta holding a book, but not reading, in a niche by the window. Several good souls grouped near her, busily describing occasions in their past when they had fallen from grace—and all appearing to enjoy the recital of their various sins! Mrs. Dean, calm and restful-looking as usual, tacking pink print on to paper diamonds. A glance of mutual understanding passed between them.

Then he looked over at Hesper. Their eyes met. He smiled his good evening; they were too far apart to speak. He looked more intently at her; noticed that she had rather an uncomfortable seat; turned back and got a cushion out of the next room. As he was bringing it towards her—and there was no mistaking the fact that he was intending it for her—he had to pass Patty, who instantly took it out of his hands, saying brightly, “How awfully kind you are, Roger. I’ve been simply longing for a cush-cush, but was too lazy to get one!” And she smiled up at him with something more than an ordinary chance-acquaintance smile, as she stuffed the cushion in the hollow of her back.

At the same moment Mrs. Dean got up, as quietly as usual, saying she would have to leave the sewing, now, as she was wanted elsewhere. Roger followed her to open the door for her, and say a low word to her, as she went out. The cushion was forgotten! Evidently it was a matter of indifference to him who secured it. But not to Hesper! Certainly not to Hesper!

For the first time in her life, she felt jealous; madly, insanely jealous! She was surprised at herself, and at the actual violence of her feelings. It seemed unreasonable that she should have grudged Patty that cushion. Yet she knew that her friendship with Roger Rosscombe was the one thing she wanted to keep to herself. She couldn’t endure the idea of sharing it with anyone, much less with Patty.

She got up and went out into the garden. She must go away by herself. She felt white with a passion of jealousy she had never even imagined before. People might notice it.

She had never been the type of girl who imagines that every man who is pleasant to her is consequently in love with her. She had always accepted masculine acquaintances much as she did women. She knew quite well that the fact of Sir Roger having sought her out so often, might have nothing more than a business significance. If she were publishing a book of his, he would have talked to her in her office. As she happened to meet him in Canada, instead of in London, he talked to her here. It was a most ordinary experience for her society to be sought by people who wrote books—so she argued with herself, and tried to instil some calm reason into her agitated brain.

But it was no use. Whatever his feelings might be, she knew what hers were. She cared for him as she had never cared for anyone in her life before.

Yet for all she knew, he might be engaged to someone in London or in Tibet—or devoted to Patty! Yes—to Patty! “Roger”—she had called him!

Now that her eyes were opened, she remembered many things—trivial molehills they had seemed at the time; now, they became menacing mountains.

She saw that Patty had annexed him on every possible occasion, and always referred to him with an air of personal proprietorship. He had gone to that gathering of the Soaring Skylarks, because Miss Foxcroft had asked him, he said. He evidently knew more about her than either of them had ever divulged.

She understood now why Patty always trailed after her, if she chanced to be alone with Sir Roger—on the plea of her anxiety over Hesper’s health. She knew why Patty was sticking on at the cabin like a limpet—why she had come there in the first place. Evidently she knew he was here before her arrival; she was talking to him that first time Hesper saw her at the ranch.

He was the man who had knocked at the door that foggy night, asking for Miss Foxcroft. She was sure he was the same by his voice. Though he had never referred to it. Neither had she.

Life was a sad mess, at that moment, for Hesper!

She was recalled to commonsense by the appearance of Netta, who linked an arm in hers, saying:

“I’ve been longing for a chance to have a good old pow-wow with you. I hope I’m not interrupting great thoughts; but those dear Saints in there are simply wallowing in the vices of their unregenerate days—one of them once went to the theatre; one of them actually tried to smoke a cigarette. I got tired of it; yet I couldn’t help hearing them as I was so near, and they were so proud of it all, dear things. Some good people are very trying, aren’t they? Should I be trying, too, if I talked to you for a minute about myself?”

“Talk away,” said Hesper. “Sins and smokes and all. I can stand it.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t sure if you were ‘Wrop in Meditations,’ and not wanting to be ‘unwropped’—you looked so serious. Well—it’s like this—I’m pretty certain I’ve no best-selling novel hidden inside my chest, not if I studied authorship for ages. It’s not the slightest use for me to try to write anything. ’Smatter of fact, I didn’t understand half of what Miss Foxcroft was talking about at her lectures.”

“Neither did anyone else!” Hesper longed to say. But she closed her lips firmly, and resolved not to exhibit her spiteful jealousy before this child.

“On the other hand,” Netta went on, “I do love cooking. Now don’t you think I should be wiser to drop novel writing, and specialise in cooking? You see, I want now to be able to earn my living. I don’t want to be a drag on anyone. Roger said I was to talk to you about it; as there was no one better able to advise me.”

At any other time, Hesper would have been pleased to hear this. But to-night she couldn’t see straight, and her first thought was: “Yes! I’m useful as a business specialist! That’s all!”

She did not want to damp the girl’s ardour, however, more particularly as she saw how sound her decision was.

“I think you are making an exceedingly wise exchange,” she said. “The world is overcrowded with people who use pens and pencils, and under-staffed with those who can use wooden spoons.”

“That’s just what Britta Ekström says. I’ve had lots of talks with her. Isn’t she clever! Her name means Oakstream—isn’t it just right for anyone living here! She says lots of the Swedish names have to do with nature, like that. She’s shown me how to make those lovely cakes with the unpronounceable name, like we had for tea to-day. I don’t mind you knowing, but I helped to make them! I really did! . . . I thought that would amaze you! . . . And she’s been telling me that in her country, every day at the end of a meal the children always go to their mother and say, ‘Thank you so much, Mother dear, for the nice meal you’ve given us,’ and they kiss her, and then they say it to the father. And visitors always bow to the hostess when they rise to leave the table and say, ‘Thank you very much for this delightful meal’—or something like that. Now it seems to me it must be lovely to have your children and friends thanking you every day for the food you have provided. It wouldn’t matter how many novels, or poems even, I might write, I shouldn’t get thanked for them every day, should I?”

“No. Honestly, I don’t think you would—certainly not if you insisted on reading them aloud daily!”

“That’s just it! Whereas, I should make such lovely dinners, that everyone would bless me. And if we ran short of a cook at home, they would bless me still more, because I could take on the duties.”

“I don’t fancy you would often be short of work. And I’m sure your home would resound with blessings. But let’s look at the matter from the practical point of view, as well as from the ideal. You will need proper training. If you intend to do anything at all with it, do it as well as ever you can. You must know how to cook by every sort of heat—from a scouts’ camp fire to the latest perfection in electric cookers. And you’ll have to study all the various branches—cooking for big dinner parties, for small households, for large institutions; foreign cookery; invalid cookery; vegetarian cookery—do you think you could tackle all this?”

“Rather! Why this is just what I want to learn. I can understand why Roger says you are so wonderful! You always know just what one wants. I was anxious to find out all about it. Can you tell me where I could study? Mother is as keen on this as I am.”

Hesper put her on the right track and suggested suitable training schools.

“Britta Ekström has been telling me what a number of girls from her country come to England and take posts there, just as she has done here in Canada. She is so surprised that we don’t do more of this ourselves. She says it’s well-paid work, if one is properly qualified—and she thinks there’s nothing so satisfactory in the way of work as doing something that will really make people comfortable—and good cooking goes a long way towards that, doesn’t it?”

“That’s true. Bad cooking means all sort of uncomfortable things!”

“The only drawback to the work that I can see, is the sad fact that when you’ve made a dream of a cake—in less than no time, it’s gone! And the dreamier it is, the quicker it disappears! Whereas, if you’ve made a dream of a poem——”

“No one bothers to read it! Stick to cooking, dear. If you should ever feel an urge to write, you’ll find time to do it, as well as the cooking.”

“I’m so glad you are encouraging about it. I shall tell Roger that you approve, and then he’ll approve too.”

“Of course I shall,” said a voice behind them. “I always approve whatever Miss Pew approves!”

Roger Rosscombe joined them.

The three talked for quite two whole minutes about the loveliness of the evening; how light it was; how clear the air; what a long distance they could see. In that two minutes Hesper’s world grew as bright and serene as the world around her, with never the slightest shadow of a cushion or anything else of a cloudy character.

When they could think of nothing else to say about the beauty of the scenery, Netta discreetly said she was afraid she must go in now, as mother might be needing her.

“If anyone wants me,” said Roger, “I shall be up studying nature above the bluff.”

“I won’t forget. But if anyone wants Miss Pew, I shan’t have the slightest idea where she is, but shall conclude she is diligently reading Plutarch’s Lives all on her lonesome in the cabin,” she added mischievously. And was gone.

“I tried to track you this morning,” Roger began, as soon as they were alone. “But I saw the Dean taking the birchwood path, and I knew that if you were sitting on the Family Album, he would find you there. And that seat was only made for two! So I waited—not very patiently; but at any rate I waited—till he should come down again. Then I saw you were with him. I was glad, for I’ve wanted you to have a chat with him.”

“The word ‘chat’ doesn’t seem to fit in exactly with the Dean!” Hesper replied. “But we did have a long talk.”

“You did? I knew you two would get on together. Isn’t he splendid? I’ve never known anyone quite like him, and he is so utterly sincere and practical. He wastes no time in walking round his subject, but says at once just what he means. Didn’t you find him like this?”

“Yes. And I admire him. But——” She paused, undecided whether to say what was in her mind or not. The Dean was his friend. She ought not to say anything that savoured of criticism.

“But what? Do finish your sentence. I want to know what you think of him.”

“I was very interested in all he said. I’ve thought quite a lot about some of his remarks. Only, it seems to me that a man in his position can hardly enter into the feelings, or understand the circumstances of anyone like myself, for example; or the thousands of others whom he meets. He does his very best to understand; I know that. It isn’t his fault if circumstances have made it next to impossible for him to see how hard life is for most people. For you know he has everything in this world that he can possibly want—a high position, money, a happy home life, work he enjoys, unlimited opportunity to do it with nothing to hinder him—now how can such a man know anything of the feelings of those who are denied some of life’s best gifts? It is so easy to talk hopefully, and prophesy pleasant things, when life goes well with one in every direction. But when life doesn’t—when you’ve lost what you value most—what then?

“Don’t think I’m cynical or carping,” she continued. “I’m not. I’ve thought of many things since I’ve been here that never troubled me before. And, honestly, I want to see daylight. But at present, I can’t. When I look at the Dean, I see a man who has everything. When I look at the people he is addressing, I see a multitude most of whom lack something, some of them lack a great deal. This fact discounts everything he says, without in any way reflecting on his sincerity, you understand. He is handicapped, literally, in his office, by his good fortune.”

“I’m so glad you have raised this point,” he said seriously. “Because I can answer part of it for you. What do you think of a man who suddenly loses the sight of one eye, and shortly after hears the verdict that the sight of the other will be gone in a few weeks? And yet he won’t let a soul know; but calmly faces his task of speaking and preaching at dozens of gatherings in connection with his Canadian visit; seeing inquirers personally and generally helping and enheartening others, with never a thought for himself.”

“Do you mean our Dean? Is he losing his sight?” Hesper asked in real consternation.

“It has almost gone already, and it went very unexpectedly, just before he left England.” He was very grave. “Did you notice at that meeting he couldn’t find the last hymn, and someone on the platform handed him his own copy?”

“Yes! But were you at that meeting? I didn’t see you there.”

“But I saw you! Only I like to be out of sight in the remotest corner of the background. I’ve gone with the Dean to all his meetings. That’s one reason why I came to Canada—but only one reason. There are others!”

“Does Mrs. Dean know the worst? She seems so calm and untroubled.” Hesper was truly disturbed by the news.

“Yes. She’s a marvellous woman. And Netta is a brave kid. She’s my godchild, you know. She only heard to-day that there is this further trouble ahead. I told her. It was one of the hardest bits of work I’ve ever undertaken. She was so plucky. She said to me: ‘Then that makes it quite clear where the gap is that I have to fill. I’ve been wondering where it was ever since father’s sermon. I’ll devote my life now and for ever to taking care of those two darlings.’ She talked about ways of earning her living, as she doesn’t want them to feel they need deny themselves anything on her account; and was so courageous and calm, after the first blow—just like her mother.”

“Can he still preach?”

“Yes, but he is resigning the Deanery. That has been the part that cut him most. He is only sixty-five, and was hoping to do some years of good work there yet. But he sent off his resignation to-day.”

“He never gave the slightest hint of this when talking.”

“No, and he never will. He wouldn’t let anyone know about it, as he was afraid some might feel so sympathetic and sorry for him, that their thoughts would be partly diverted from the Message he wanted to impress upon them. He always strives to keep himself in the background, lest by any chance the preacher should come between a soul and its Maker.”

They were walking slowly. There was no need to hurry. The way was steep and rugged, and a walk that people seldom took. The ubiquitous Patty would not be likely to look for them up there, Hesper congratulated herself. Once, when she slipped, Roger put out his hand and took her arm to steady her; it stayed there. They walked together as close friends—or more than friends—who needed no words to explain their mutual understanding. Yet it was not the moment to talk of their own love—Hesper felt that. His news had been a painful shock to her, and she knew too that it affected him. He and the Dean seemed like father and son; she herself had grown to like the whole family as something more than passing acquaintances. And the words of the Dean had penetrated deeper into her inner consciousness than she admitted, even to herself.

“How does he take it?” she asked presently.

“As a Christian,” he answered simply. “As a man who knows what he believes, and believes what he has preached. When I first started to commiserate, he stopped me, saying: ‘Our Father never takes away from us anything that seems good, without giving us something much better in its place. He will have other work for me to do, so long as he wishes me to remain on earth. Or perhaps I need to learn more about patient waiting. He will show me what I have to do in His time. My only anxiety is lest I should become a burden to others. But even that anxiety He can and will deal with. I’m sure of that.’ ”

“He makes me think of my mother,” Hesper said. She so seldom spoke of her mother to outsiders, but somehow it seemed the natural thing to talk to Roger about her. “She was what the Conventioners would call ‘a believer.’ ”

“How splendid for you!” he said. “What a lot one does owe to such a mother! I do feel so sorry for young people to-day, if their parents believe nothing. What chance have they, with no sign of safe anchorage anywhere? Is it any wonder that they rush around, experimenting with every new fad and cult and unwholesome experience, in the hope of finding solid ground somewhere? How you must miss your mother! I know that I have missed mine all through life.”

“The Dean reminds me of her in many ways. She often liked me to read some lines to her by a Miss Havergal. You wouldn’t know them, of course,” she added apologetically, “but she was a Victorian writer who had rather a vogue in her day, I fancy. I forget exactly how the lines go; but the spirit of them is just what the Dean said—something like this:

“I can’t quote it exactly, but she liked me to read it again and again. And she said she had always found it true. But— I can’t say I understand these things as mother did, or as the Dean does.”

Before Roger could reply, they were interrupted by a voice calling: “Miss Pew! Miss Pew! Roger, is Miss Pew there?”

They turned back quickly, and hurried down hill, to find Netta hunting for them. For a moment Hesper feared bad news—had something happened to the Dean?

But Netta’s face was all smiles and laughter.

“Great excitement, Miss Pew!” Netta burst out. “A new guest has arrived, weeping and wailing and wringing her hands! Has lost a husband! Is sure someone has him hidden in their suit-case here. I guess it’s you! I suspected the first moment I saw you, that you had an inky past; but I never imagined anything so hectic as a kidnapped husband.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Roger asked.

“I’ve told you; a new guest. I met her prowling about the grounds when I left you.”

“We ought not to have let her go back alone——” Hesper said anxiously to Roger.

“Rubbish!” said Netta. “I had the time of my life. She poured out her tale of mystery straight away; asked the names of the men who were staying here, and was delightfully incoherent, excepting that she was sure one of us had stolen her husband! I got her into Mrs. Thorpe’s hands as quickly as possible. She’s giving her details now. And Mrs. Thorpe wants you, Miss Pew. Do you think anyone really has secreted her husband here? She’s so certain—positive—one of us has! It isn’t me!”

“I expect she’s looking for someone who attended the Convention, and you’ve got it all mixed up with one of Miss Ekström’s Swedish recipes,” said Roger.

“No I haven’t. I asked her if he had come to the Convention, and she said: ‘What Convention?’ I told her it was a Convention for the deepening of the religious life. And she said: ‘Good Heavens! No! He isn’t that sort!’ So you see!”

“I don’t see! But we’ll hope she finds him in due course—that is, if he’s worth finding! He doesn’t sound very bright,” said Roger.

“Between you and me, Miss Pew, and strictly out of earshot of the Dean and Roger, I don’t blame him if he has eloped with someone else, now that I’ve seen his wife. She looks just the sort that would inspire elopes in husbands. Wouldn’t you love it if, when he turned up at supper, he was unexpectedly confronted with an irate spouse!”

“I’d sooner be confronted with something to eat,” said Hesper. “But, look here, Netta, if I were you, I’d say nothing about this to the guests at present. You don’t know what may be involved, and it might complicate things if the whole place got talking.”

“You may rely on me, darling, not to say a word, if you want to keep him dark. But you’ll let me see him, won’t you?”

Hesper had no chance to say more, for they had reached the ranch, and Mabel herself came out and beckoned them to her private entrance.

“You never do know what will turn up at our place,” Mabel said, as she led them into her sitting room.

“Netta tells us a semi-lunatic has arrived on the hunt for a missing husband.”

Mabel nodded. “And who do you think it is?—Mrs. Charles Slimmer!”

“Oh yes! She’s Mrs. Slimmer right enough. Rattled visiting cards and passport before me”—in answer to their incredulous exclamations. “But she is convinced that Charles is hereabouts, with someone from the office—— No! not you!! She vows he is with a Miss Foxcroft. Now what do you make of that? I haven’t let Patty know yet; I wanted to consult you first. I told Mrs. Slimmer you were here, and she seemed really relieved to hear it. But she is terribly hysterical.”

“Shall I go in and see her?”

“Do you mind? I wish you would, for I can’t do anything with her, she’s so overwrought.”

“I’ll be around if you need anything,” said Roger, as Mabel went back to her difficult visitor, taking Hesper with her. Mrs. Slimmer was pouring out her woes to Miss Ekström, who was temporarily in charge.

Hesper greeted her in a quiet business-like manner; and asked her to tell her exactly what was wrong.

She would scarcely have recognised this worn, agitated woman as the haughty bride of the previous year. Her face was swollen and red with crying. She had taken no pains with her dress. Her complexion, now that it was no longer made up, showed all the disadvantages and spoiling effects of persistent “beauty treatment.” Altogether she was a most pitifully unattractive object.

“Oh, Miss Pew, can you help me? You were always so clever. Do help me. I’ll make it worth your while”—and between sobs and snuffles, with outbreaks of violent weeping, Hesper heard the same story once again: the fickle Charles had left his wife and had gone off with a Miss Foxcroft, and she knew Miss Foxcroft was staying here, hence Charles was here too. She didn’t care a hang where Miss Foxcroft was, but she wanted Charles . . . That was the sum total of it all.

“I feel sure you are mistaken, Mrs. Slimmer,” Hesper told her. “You are quite right in thinking that Miss Foxcroft is here; she is; and she has been here for some little while. But we have neither seen nor heard anything of Mr. Slimmer, and he couldn’t possibly be here without our knowing. You see, Mrs. Thorpe was on the office staff before her marriage; she knows Mr. Slimmer; so do I. It would be impossible for him to be anywhere in the district without our knowledge. We should be certain to have come across him one way or another.”

“You’re all deceiving me,” she nearly shrieked. “And you’re in league with that hussy. I know! Everyone tells me lies! I did think I should get the truth from you; but you’re shielding that hussy and keeping her away from me on purpose to spite me.”

“You must try to keep calmer, Mrs. Slimmer,” Hesper said, “if we are to help you. Miss Foxcroft will be here directly. We’ve sent for her, and you can question her yourself.” Hesper was really puzzled by the affair. At that moment Patty appeared.

She glared at Mrs. Slimmer; and Mrs. Slimmer glared at her. Then the distraught woman burst out:

“You’re not Miss Bowman!”

“No, I’m not!” Patty snorted. “I’m Miss Foxcroft.”

“Miss Bowman?” Hesper repeated in surprise. “But you said you wanted Miss Foxcroft!” Privately she wondered if Mrs. Slimmer had lost her reason; and Mabel, standing silently by, looked as though she were thinking the same thing.

“I know I said Foxcroft. But I thought it was the name that Bowman woman was using,” and she started to sob again.

Hesper spoke quietly but very firmly to her, just as she would to a girl in her office who might have given way to hysterics. “You must pull yourself together, Mrs. Slimmer, and stop crying at once, or I shall not be able to help you. If you can control yourself and tell us exactly what has actually happened, we can assist you; and if Mr. Slimmer is in Canada, it ought not to be difficult to find him. Now, begin at the beginning, and tell me anything that you think will help us to trace him.”

She did, and went back to several beginnings. Sometimes she started with the way she and Charles had always adored each other, and how happy they had been till that hussy——. Sometimes she made it quite clear that from the first there had been a good deal of self-expression on both sides, in the Slimmer ménage! But in the end, by piecing her story together, the one fact appeared: Charles had left her and gone off with Miss Bowman (“that slink-faced mermaid,” as Mr. Phelps had called her). There seemed no doubt about the accuracy of this part of the affair. Knowing Miss Bowman, and knowing Charles—also knowing Mrs. Slimmer!—Hesper saw no reason to question it either.

It wasn’t easy to follow Agatha’s recital; she rambled so. But she told how she had tracked them as far as Quebec; only there she lost touch with their movements. Someone had told her that a Miss Foxcroft, who used to be in the employ of Messrs. Slimmer, Slapp & Co., had been there a short while before, and had gone on from there to Thorpe’s Ledge. Instantly the distracted woman had jumped to the conclusion that this must be Miss Bowman, under an alias—with Charles somewhere near.

Her disappointment at finding herself up against a blank wall—when she had felt so certain of running her quarry to earth in this out-of-the-world spot—was pathetic. She became so excited and talked so wildly about ending things now, once and for all, and then perhaps Charles would see what he had done, and would have time to regret it—that Hesper whispered to Mabel, and suggested that Dr. Alice, the wife of the missionary, should be called in professionally.

The doctor was indoors and she came at once.

After a little talk, she said: “I can see you haven’t had any food since no one knows when. You must have some milk now, and go to sleep for a few hours. Meanwhile we will all set to work and find the missing husband. They do get mislaid sometimes. My husband didn’t turn up for three weeks once, after he was due from a tour in the most northern part of his parish. He had been caught in a terrible storm, and had to stay with the Indian trappers till it gave over. If you’ll get me a glass of milk, Mrs. Thorpe, I’ll come with you and see that it is the right temperature. Miss Pew will stay with the patient.”

Miss Foxcroft, finding no attention paid to herself, had gone off. She had no yearning to play the part of an attendant in a sanatorium for the mentally afflicted, she said. And there was no prospect of Mrs. Slimmer needing Talks on Authorship! So why stay and even pretend to be civil?

Hesper, trying to keep the patient’s mind on hopeful aspects of the case, said: “You must remember, too, that Mr. Slimmer is sure to turn up again in London, before long, on account of the business. He can’t leave that for any length of time; sooner or later, you will find him there.”

But, to her dismay, this only raised a fresh outburst. “Oh! but he’s sold the business,” she said, deluged in more tears.

“What? Sold everything right out?” said Hesper, in amazement.

“Yes! And I’d put any amount of my own money in it. I knew nothing about the sale. I only found out by chance that he’d sold the whole concern, and made off with the money. Of course that woman put him up to it.”

This was surprising news to Hesper—but how typical of the man! It was no use attempting to discuss it now, though she would have liked a few more details. Dr. Alice had returned with a glass of milk, which she induced the patient to drink.

“And now we are going to put you to bed,” the doctor said briskly. “You must get some sleep, as, if we get news of your husband, you may need your strength for a journey to-morrow.”

“Where to?” Agatha asked eagerly.

“To anywhere that he is. We’ve no idea yet; but Mr. Thorpe and others are making all the inquiries they can; and as soon as there is any news, we shall want you bright and strong to go to him. You don’t want to be a wreck when you meet. Appearances do count for something where we women are concerned, don’t they?”

“I wouldn’t mind lying down,” Mrs. Slimmer conceded; “on this sofa will do. But I’m not going to sleep. If I do, Miss Pew will disappear, I know she will, and then I shall be helpless and stranded. I feel safe while she is near me.”

The sedative which Dr. Alice had added to the milk was already taking effect. Hesper assured her she would stay with her, and she would find her there when she woke. They made her comfortable on the couch. Hesper even held her hand, to give her an added sense of security, and to help calm her.

“Don’t leave me, Miss Pew. Don’t leave me,” were her last coherent words, as her eyes were closing.

“She’ll sleep now for an hour or two, if not more,” Dr. Alice said. “She evidently hasn’t had any proper sleep for days, if not for weeks. Now I want you and Mrs. Thorpe to have some supper; you’ve had none yet, I hear. Then Mrs. Thorpe must go to bed. Of course I shall stay in charge of the poor lady all night. The sad part of it is”—looking at the sleeping form—“we can patch up her body, but she needs more than a doctor can do to get back to happiness. I hope she won’t be disappointed when she catches up with her husband eventually. It is so terrible to be disillusioned, when it’s one’s nearest and dearest. . . . Now have your supper and get some sleep yourself. I’ll call you when I think there is a likelihood of her waking.”

“No, I am staying with you. We’ll have supper and then I’ll get Mrs. Thorpe to go to bed. She’ll be ill if she has night worry, as well as all her day duties to attend to.”

“Can Sir Roger speak to you?” Miss Ekström asked, as Mabel and Hesper were sitting down to their belated suppers.

When he came in, he looked as though he had news.

“Can you tell me Slimmer’s full initials?” he began.

“C.S.R.S.” they both repeated in chorus. “Why? Have you found him in hiding here?”

“No. But I may be on his track. I’ve been taking the wireless news bulletin. There has been a big railway accident in the States. Some train en route for Arizona. They gave a list of the saved, so far as they had the names—no one there I knew. They can’t give a list of the killed, as there is great confusion, apparently, owing to fire. But among those who are injured is a man they have not yet identified, with initials C.S.R.S. worked on the pocket of his night suit. The accident occurred early this morning, while people were in their sleeping berths. This man is an Englishman, and they think he is a Mr. Smith, of London, who was travelling to Arizona with Mrs. Smith. But he is unconscious at present in the Cresswell Hospital, and apparently most of the passengers’ baggage is lost in the general holocaust. I’m going to ’phone the Cresswell at once, and get his description.”

“What about Mrs. Smith?” Mabel asked.

“No mention of her. They say they haven’t been able to identify everyone as yet.” And he left them, to continue his investigations.

“That’s Charles! Mark my words,” said Mabel. “You remember what you told me Miss Bowman said: ‘If anyone does me an injury, sooner or later I strike back; and when I strike, I strike hard.’ As she couldn’t manage to strike Sir John King, when he discarded her, she has struck at the daughter. And struck hard. That type would!”

After considerable delay, Roger got through to the hospital. Everyone seemed to be ringing them up to make inquiries about people who were in the train. The authorities gave him a description of the injured man. It certainly sounded like Charles. He was still unconscious; they couldn’t say anything yet about the likelihood of his recovery. There were complications. (“More than you know!” Roger thought to himself. “If his conscience is as uneasy as it ought to be, he’ll remain unconscious!”) The hospital added that it would be well for his wife to come as soon as possible. And they promised to report progress.

Hesper rejoined Dr. Alice. Mabel agreed to go to bed, since it was evident she could do nothing if she remained up. Roger reminded her that both she and Jack had heavy responsibilities toward their crowd of guests. It wasn’t reasonable that one stray arrival should monopolise their time and physical strength as Mrs. Slimmer had been doing. He intended to stay up himself and keep in touch with the hospital. He would call them if they were needed.

As Mabel said good-night to him, she added: “It’s just as well I’m not needed in there, for I don’t mind telling you that when I see that woman clinging to Hesper, holding her hand, and using her as a prop and stay now that she finds she needs one, my fingers fairly itch to give her a shaking, with a thoroughly good spanking thrown in gratis. Think how those wretches—the whole lot of them—have ruined that girl’s life, and then——”

“It’s anything but ruined! She’s only just beginning to live,” said Roger happily, as he hurried away to answer a ’phone call—from the police this time, who reported that so far they had not been able to trace either of the parties described by Sir Roger Rosscombe (his famous name was undeniably an asset at times!), but he might rest assured they were leaving no stone unturned, etc. And they had a clue which they were investigating. And so forth.

Dr. Alice and Hesper talked quietly together during their watch near the sleeping woman. Hesper learnt much that night of the unchronicled heroism of the men and women who, impelled by a desire to serve Christ, go away to the world’s desolate outposts, in order to care for those who live there and have but little chance of any other sort of help.

Not that Dr. Alice ever intended to make an epic of it. She merely talked of her everyday work—the work that was nearest her heart. But somehow it made the breathless struggle of the city to make money, and yet more money, seem ignoble and petty and selfish.

Of course one needed money. Dr. Alice could have spent bushels of it on her hospital, for instance; and she would have worked her hardest at money-making too, if she had the chance, in order to get the hospital of which she was always dreaming. But that was so different from making cash itself one’s object in life, and the end-all of work.

It was a big subject—too big for Hesper to tackle at the moment. And, in her own case, she needed to make money in order to live—and would have to set about it fairly soon, too.

But if ever she made more than she required for her simple needs, it should go to Dr. Alice towards her hospital. She had quite made up her mind on that score!

“I think we ought to have some tea now. It doesn’t do to go without food too long when one is sitting up at night.” Dr. Alice looked at the time, and studied her patient again. She was sleeping easily now. “I expect you know where the paraphernalia is better than I do. Or would you prefer coffee?”

“Tea, I think, don’t you? It’s more refreshing.” And Hesper went off to the kitchen.

But Sir Roger had forestalled her. “I was coming to ask if it wasn’t time you had something,” he said. “Kettle’s boiling, and there are some sandwiches.”

“I’ll tell Dr. Alice at once.”

“No. Don’t go for a minute. I want to tell you that I’ve had word that Charles (if he is Charles) has regained consciousness; but he can’t talk yet. Now, look here, I’ve been finding out about trains and routes—it’s rather a long, cross-country journey, and a very awkward one. I wonder if she’ll be fit to take it alone?”

“No, I’m sure she won’t. I’m going with her. That poor thing isn’t much more capable than a baby of looking after herself at present. But she’ll soon pick up, once she finds him.”

“You are going with her? Oh, my dear! I knew you were an angel of goodness, but I never realised how forgiving you could be!”

“Forgiving?” she flushed with pleasure at his praise. “Oh, I see what you mean. I had forgotten that I wasn’t pleased with her husband. I was only thinking of her unhappiness, and how I should feel if it were my case. It must be so terrible for a wife to make such a discovery. I think she is brave to try and find him. I should have broken down completely with grief.”

“I hope you will never know any such sorrow,” he said, and he raised her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it.

(An owl flapped past the window, but was gone again in a flash.)

“I must take in the tea,” she said, hurriedly. Conversation was becoming too personal and intimate for three a.m., with a sick person on her hands, and a doctor in attendance. “And when Mrs. Slimmer wakes, if Dr. Alice thinks she is equal to it, we’ll find out if she would like to start by that ten o’clock train. I shall be quite ready if she is.”

Dr. Alice said how nice the sandwiches were; what a fine man Sir Roger was; such a privilege to meet him. But Hesper was thinking over each look and act and word. And then it crossed her mind to wonder how he knew anything about her grievance against Charles Slimmer. To the outside world at large, she had left because she was ill. Had Mabel been telling him the facts? Hardly! It wasn’t Mabel’s way to repeat confidences. Was it Patty? Probably she had talked!

Well—it didn’t really matter now, one way or the other. She knew in her own heart that she was happy. And the injustice of her treatment was ceasing to rankle as it used. She hadn’t even thought about being forgiving. Still, the Dean had said it was necessary to forgive those who had wronged us. Possibly this opportunity had been given her on purpose.

Dr. Alice insisted on Hesper getting some sleep. “If you are going with Mrs. Slimmer, you may have a trying time for the next few days. You need to lay in a store of strength now, for you aren’t exactly a Samson yourself, you know. If she stirs, I’ll wake you.”

Hesper settled herself in an easy chair, but she seemed only to have closed her eyes when a touch woke her. It was broad daylight.

“I think Mrs. Slimmer will wake soon,” Dr. Alice said, “and you wanted to be with her. It is so fortunate for her that she should have run against a dear friend out here. How thankful she must have been to see you!”

Hesper wondered what Dr. Alice would think if she knew the nature of their dear friendship!

In a few minutes the patient opened her eyes. She was a trifle dazed after the opiate, but soon came to herself when she saw Hesper.

“Have you found him?” was her first question.

“I think so. But we must get a few details from you to corroborate. Do you remember if Mr. Slimmer had any initials worked on his night suit?”

“Yes, large ones, C.S.R.S. on the breast pocket. I worked them myself in blue to match the stripes; and when he first saw them, he said,” etc.

That settled it then. The only thing now was to get her to him. No little task! Half a continent lay between the two!

“While you are having some breakfast, we can talk about it. The doctor won’t let me talk unless you are eating.”

Gently she told a few of the essential facts. He had been injured in a train accident, was in hospital. But quite conscious. . . . Oh, yes, they had said he was getting on nicely. They were expecting her. Did she feel equal to starting this morning? It was a long journey.

Of course she did! But she certainly wasn’t going to spend several days in getting there. Where was the nearest aerodrome? She must have the fastest machine that could be got, and the most expert pilot.

Hesper was amazed at the change in her. She became alert, and seemed quite capable of going alone. But Dr. Alice warned Hesper that this might be but a momentary spurt with another collapse to follow. Her nerves were all to pieces. They must do their best, however, to keep her in this present mood, and food would help the business.

Hesper hurried to Roger to tell him of this decision to go by air.

“I had thought of that,” he said. “It’s by far the easiest as well as the quickest way, of course; but I wasn’t sure if she would stand it. I have already got all the details, however, in case she would agree to go that way; and I’ve said I would let the aerodrome know as soon as she decides. In that case she can start whenever she is equal to it.”

She was equal to it very soon! And fortunately there was no need to consider expense. Nothing mattered so long as she could find Charles.

She was not an attractive woman, either in looks or personality. Her one redeeming quality was her love for her worthless husband, who had so obviously married her for her money, and then tricked her out of all he could.

“And yet, she has lost far more than I have,” Hesper thought to herself. “I shall get another post; she will never regain his affection, for there never was any to regain! He loves no one but himself. . . .”

She felt genuinely sorry for this woman, and anxious to help her. Though it is doubtful if Mrs. Slimmer would have appreciated this, even if she had been able to comprehend it. She had no comprehension of kindness that was entirely disinterested. Everything in her estimation was a question of £. s. d.

She was glad of Hesper’s company, however, as she had no maid. She said so plainly. Also she settled her bill with Mabel, without a quibble—which was unusual for her; she was apt to be particular that the odd farthings should not be an overcharge. At a hint from Mabel, who wasn’t in the least bit awed by Mrs. Slimmer’s wealth, she even gave a cheque to Dr. Alice towards her hospital. And when she found that Sir Roger was coming in the car with them, to see them safely to the aerodrome, she revived still more. It was remarkable to see how soon the pitiful object of the previous night had become restored to something sane and reasonable—that is to say, as reasonable as Agatha ever would be.

To Hesper, it was quite a study to see how she changed—improved, if you will—with every hundred miles of the journey. She knew her husband was ill, but at least she was going to him.

“His devoted wife hurried to his bedside by air”—she could see it paragraphed in the papers. It restored her self-respect, and gave her a feeling of personal distinction—as well as renewed her proprietorship. What need to bother about that hussy now! If even Miss Bowman were in the hospital, she wouldn’t be in his ward. And she had no intention of ever letting Charles out of her sight again! She was quite decided on that point.

Hesper was thankful to see her so much better, and though connected conversation was not possible en route, owing to the noise of the engines, Mrs. Slimmer’s brain had been at work. By the time they reached Cresswell, it appeared that Mrs. Slimmer had known perfectly well that her husband had a business appointment in Arizona, and had only been prevented from going with him by an important engagement in Canada.

So that was all right. And by tacit consent, they neither of them had ever heard of Miss Bowman—apparently.

Hesper waited in the hotel while Mrs. Slimmer visited the hospital. She was received with due éclat (Sir Roger had attended to that), and was taken to see her husband. But as he was asleep—progressing favourably, they told her—she had to be satisfied with this brief glimpse of him, for the time being.

She returned to the hotel in splendid spirits. As he was out of danger now, it might not be an entire misfortune that he couldn’t move on, or escape her at present. And now, she must pay this young woman who had come with her (not that she had really needed her; but still, it looked well to have her!) and send her back home. She didn’t desire that Charles should come within the influence of good looks more than could be helped!

She counted out Hesper’s return fare, in a most business-like manner, suggesting that she had better return by rail, as it would be cheaper than by air. Then she added a very paltry sum. “A little for yourself,” she said with becoming graciousness.

Hesper took the money for her fare—Mrs. Slimmer was entitled to pay this big item. But the honorarium she declined with thanks, saying she was only too glad if she had been of any assistance, and hoped Mr. Slimmer would soon be on his feet again.

Mrs. Slimmer put “the little extra” back in her bag again with alacrity, saying: “I’m very much obliged to you for the help you’ve given me. I’m always so stranded if I haven’t my maid. She left me just before I sailed. And one doesn’t always come across anyone as handy as you are, when travelling.”

Hesper hurried her leave-taking. She wasn’t certain but what Mrs. Slimmer might offer her the vacant post!

Undoubtedly, Agatha was herself again!

It was a long journey across the States, from south to north, and back into Canada again. But never tedious to the girl whose long training had taught her to take the keenest interest in different places and people, and different national characteristics. She absorbed all sorts of impressions and fresh ideas as they went along.

Yet, she was aware all the time that she was primarily anxious to get back to the cabin; and that, always superimposed upon her other thoughts was—Roger.

While she sat through the long stretches of hours, apparently watching the landscape sliding past, or when her eyes wearied of this, reading or holding a book in her hand, she was really going over every word, and act, and look of his; the expression she had surprised in his eyes when he suddenly kissed her hand; the last lingering clasp and the words which had meant so little to outsiders but so much to her, when he had said good-bye at the aerodrome; and, above all, the certainty of his love, which had been revealed in so many ways. What need to say much when both knew!

Then there were his friends. How good it had been to meet the Deanery party. She had said good-bye to them as they were leaving next day, but had accepted an invitation to visit them in England when she returned. Mrs. Dean was so unselfish and sympathetic and restful—a gentlewoman in every sense. And Netta—his goddaughter!—what a splendid thing for a girl to have such a wise adviser to turn to, when she wanted to talk things over with someone outside her family. She loved Netta already, and she knew Netta liked her.

There was the Dean—he had said the Dean had been a father to him since his Varsity days. She thought very tenderly of him. They were crossing an interminable prairie, but she saw nothing of the sage bush or the sandy soil. She was seeing a landscape flanked with mountains and threaded with rushing streams, with a calm figure standing on a rugged path, straining his eyes to get a last impression of a scene he knew he would never be able to see again.

She remembered their talk that day. She had thought a good deal about it since.

But she seemed to have moved quickly since then. To-day, the Christian life appeared so crystal clear and straightforward. She wondered that she had ever thought it otherwise. She had prayed, the night after their talk. And God had answered her prayer. He had given her a marvellous opportunity to clean the slate and wipe out her hatred of Slimmer and Agatha and Miss Bowman. They had become dim shadows of some past and done-with nightmare. She cared nothing for them, one way or the other now. Roger was all that mattered; and he too had been sent her in answer to that prayer. It was after that talk with the Dean that he had made it so unmistakably clear how he cared for her.

How easy it was to be a Christian! She hadn’t realised it could be so simple. People talk constantly about trials and afflictions, she had thought it would be little but trials and afflictions for her. Like the poor Dean, for instance. Or her own dear mother. Whereas—there was Roger! Roger! Roger! The wheels of the train said it all the time. He would be waiting for her so eagerly at the far end of this railway line. Well, not at the station. She had said she was uncertain how she would return. But he would be at the ranch. His last words to her were: “The journey will seem far longer to me than it will to you, dear.”

She hadn’t yet thanked God for His kindness in answering her prayer. She had been so rushed ever since. But the Dean said one could pray anywhere and at any moment. She could pray now, of course, as she sat there in this train.

She went straight to the cabin on her return. Patty was out, so the place was very peaceful. Excepting in the garden, where Bessie’s five offspring were all happily and very actively engaged in digging out elephants or any other wild animals they could think of, from under the stones in the rock garden! Sedums were being routed out, saxifraga lay in bits about the paths, and it was sheer chaos! And to think how she had guarded that garden, and kept the puppies from trespassing by fixing up that temporary wire-netting barrier. Patty had evidently left the little gate open. It did seem a pity!

Well—she must tackle the wreckage presently. No need to call the little rascals off! They had rushed at her at full charge, overjoyed to see her again. And leapt about her with such sincere affection, that it did her good to see them. She hadn’t the heart to be severe.

“Yet I know I ought to be firm with them and train them! Roger said I ought.”

It was more important now, however, to report her return, and let them know at the ranch that all was well.

It was Mabel’s busiest time in the morning. It would be better not to go up there yet and get in her way. So she ’phoned through and told of her safe arrival, with only the briefest of details.

“What about Mrs. Smith?” Mabel asked. With true wifely spirit, she was more keen to hear that iniquity in the shape of “that hussy” got its deserts, than to know that virtue, in the form of Mrs. Slimmer, had been rewarded.

“I heard nothing, and asked nothing. I didn’t even stop to study lists of names or read accounts of the passengers. If there is anything more to be told—they must argue it between them.”

“And they will!” said Mabel grimly. “But you are a brick to have got her there like that. Come up this afternoon. I’ve kept your letters here till I knew you were back. I’ll send them along now.”

Hesper wondered who would bring the letters. She had a wild hope that it might be Roger—though he had never been to the cabin but that once at Patty’s invitation, and when he came with Mrs. Dean—that is so far as she knew. She herself had never seen him there.

The letters arrived almost immediately, brought by one of the helpers.

She consoled herself with the thought that he would know she had got back, however, and would be certain to be at the ranch when she went there in the afternoon, even if he were out now.

She sat down to read her letters, thankful to be alone and free from questionings while she read them.

The first was a long screed from Mr. Phelps, the Trade Manager.

“I conclude you have heard of the Merry-go-round we’ve had here,” he wrote, “and about the change of ownership?” (“I should wonder what he’s talking about, if we hadn’t been blessed with Mrs. Slimmer’s visit,” Hesper thought to herself.) “We have been bought up by one of those wealthy magnates who doesn’t know what to do with his money. I daresay it is as sound as any other investment at the moment. And he is keeping the staff en bloc, so there is no trouble there. I am writing especially now to ask if you will return to the General Managership?

“It is like this: I was appointed Managing Director, President, Chairman, Chief Boss, and all the rest of it. But I’m not suited to the part. This affair of Charles and the slink-faced Mermaid has naturally set the ladies of the offices longing to graduate as film stars and be cast for vamp parts, till I tremble every time a girl looks my way, lest she is going to run off with me for practice. Though Ma says I need not worry, as she wouldn’t allow it for a moment.

“Anyhow, we need you here to take hold and pull us into shape, and haul us uphill again. Come as quickly as you can, as I shouldn’t like you to find my place vacant when you arrive.

“We’ve cleared out no end of ‘duds’ that Charles had accumulated since he took command. You know the things! But the bindings seemed too good to pulp. So I sent a lot home. But do you think I got any thanks? Not a syllable! No one would look at them. The housemaid is leaving to be married. Ma thought perhaps she would like those reprints Charles fooled so much over—you remember—

“Now wouldn’t you have thought they would have been nice to lay on the parlour sofa, and improving reading for the young man? But the housemaid was most unappreciative. Said she wouldn’t have cook live with them anywhere, not if it were Queen Mary’s Windsor Castle. She’s had enough of cooks to last her a lifetime. Besides, they were going to live on tins and Trocadero.

“So these volumes had no better luck than the other 47 copies here.

“And there was that 31/6 2 Vols.:

“Ma had them put with some more bric-a-brac, for the dustman. But he wouldn’t touch them. Said his Union didn’t allow him to handle coffins.

“They explained to him that these were old tombs—ever so old. He said he could believe that. No one ever gave him anything but antiques; and didn’t even pass them on till they were pretty high! But he daren’t touch these, all the same. So they were left on our hands.

“Then another lot I had to get rid of was those hideous daubs Charles called pictures, and had framed for his room. You remember? The new Boss doesn’t seem to fancy them! Neither did they at home. Ma was right down ill when she saw them, and she told me later that cook gave notice to leave the minute they were unpacked—said she’d always lived with respectable pictures so far, and wasn’t going to take the downward road to perdition at her time of life!

“At last, after a few more fruitless attempts to improve the minds of the natives, Ma had a big bonfire made of all I’d sent home. It left a huge heap of blackish-greyish ash, as you can guess. Then her fertile brain had that piled up in a corner outside, and made into a rock garden. She says I am to tell you that the plants are some of the most intelligent looking she has ever had: it evidently pays to bring them up on good literature!

“P.S.—I almost forgot her special message of thanks for the Iceland Poppy seeds you sent her from Lake Louise. She says it shows a very nice feeling on the part of Canadian flowers to come and see us, as we can’t trot across to see them.”

Hesper sat thinking for a little while, with this letter in her hand, before she opened the others. How strange that things should turn out in this way! What had she better do about it? On the one hand she would like to be back in her old post. She had loved the work—yes, she had loved it in the past, she was sure of that. And probably she would be able to make still more of a success of it now, after rubbing shoulders with so many different types of people, and having seen so much more of the world itself. Her new experience had enlarged her outlook, perhaps even shifted her viewpoint. But was she really so very anxious to return to the work now she had been definitely cut off from it?

She must talk it over with Roger! And then she smiled to herself—of course, the very last thing she could do would be to talk it over with Roger! He would think she had some ulterior motive. She must leave it for the moment and decide later.

She opened the second letter. It was from Enoch Old. From an address in Toronto.

After the usual preliminaries, and thanking her for the letter she had written him some little time previously, he continued:

“You were kind enough to say you would like to meet me. I assure you it would be a pleasure to me. I am giving a lecture to the students at the University on the 9th. Would it be too far for you to come here to see me, as I cannot get to Little Plantings this time. I have to go straight to London from here on important business. I know the journey from Thorpe’s Ledge to Toronto would seem a big undertaking in England; but perhaps you have become acclimatised to our Canadian habit of regarding immensity of space as a necessity, and nothing more than breathing room! In that case, you will think nothing of the little trip.

“Mrs. McKinnock, the wife of Professor McKinnock, with whom I am staying, is a relative of mine. She is most anxious to entertain you for as long as you can stay, and is writing to you.

“One point I must mention. When you find how far short I fall of the high opinion you tell me you have of me—will you forgive me? I am a very imperfect specimen, perpetually making mistakes; merely one of the millions of human beings who long to follow the Great Teacher, yet constantly slip by the way.

“But however much you are disappointed in me please say to yourself: ‘At least he means well!’ I do! And especially so far as you yourself are concerned.

“Yours truly,

“Enoch Old.”

Again Hesper sat and thought pleasant thoughts. How things were moving to-day! It reminded her of the sudden way summer had rushed along, almost on the heels of the winter, once the snow had gone.

“It certainly is summer time for me now! Of course I shall go. I must talk it over with Roger. I can talk this over with him! I might even be able to persuade him to go too. I’m sure he would get on with Mr. Old if they met, although he likes to poke fun at my infatuation, as he calls it. But, on second thoughts, it wouldn’t do to ask him to go. And if I’m to stay at Mrs.—who was it?—McKinnock, she isn’t inviting us both. Oh, well! I’ll decide that presently, too. Who is this letter from? A Toronto postmark. Then it’s from the Mrs. McKinnock. I expect . . .”

It was. She was very cordial indeed. With true Canadian hospitality, she pressed Hesper to come as soon as she could, and stay as long as she liked. “And if you find Enoch at all wearing, I’ll take you off and show you the sights. Of course, I think he’s a dear saint, but then he’s my half-brother, and I know how good his heart is. But if you should find his goodness a bit trying, we’ve lots to look at here. We’ve the biggest hotel, etc. . . . the highest tower . . . the largest store. . . .” The letter developed into an animated guide book.

“Just as though I care a rap about large buildings,” said Hesper, “after seeing these mountains. But she sounds very cordial.”

As Patty hadn’t appeared, Hesper looked for something to eat. There was very little in the larder. “She’s evidently scrounging on Mabel till I should return,” Hesper concluded, as she made herself some tea. “I’ll go up early to the ranch. Mabel will like to hear details.”

Before she had left the cabin, however, Patty came in. The moment Hesper saw her she knew something had upset her. Instead of offering even a perfunctory welcome, she looked most vindictive, and almost annoyed at her return.

“So you’re back!” began Patty. “And of course you’ve made a nice haul out of those Slimmers. You always had a real gift for landing on your feet. Though I’m not so sure that you have this time”—and she laughed a most unpleasant laugh.

Hesper was amazed. “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve made nothing out of the Slimmers. Had no intention of doing so. But if I had, I don’t see what——”

She checked herself. She would not lose her temper over Patty. She had resolved this so often, yet over and over again she had let herself be aggravated by her, and got nothing but a bad headache as a result.

She would say nothing more, but go up to the ranch as soon as possible. Why should she allow the petty gnat-stings of a woman like Patty to irritate her. “My temper will be in a permanent rash very soon if I let these trifles annoy me,” she thought. And prepared to go out of the room.

But Patty didn’t intend to be deprived of the opportunity to unburden herself of much that had been accumulating in her brain since Hesper left.

In the first place she was beside herself with vexation when she found the trend things were taking, after she had walked out and left Hesper in full possession of Mrs. Slimmer. If only she had known that Charles was going to turn up as he did; that Mrs. Slimmer was going to fly after him; that Hesper was going with her—why Patty would have been in the Slimmer foreground, not only then but for ever after! She would have taken very good care that Mrs. Slimmer had no chance to forget how she, Patty, had come to the rescue.

It was galling to Patty to know that she had let such wealth slip past her, when she might have extended a hand and helped herself generously! As Hesper had probably done. She would have been every sort of a fool not to, of course!

But that wasn’t all. A person much more obtuse than Patty would easily have realised that she was not so popular as Hesper, not by any manner of means. People talked about Hesper; her quiet self-effacement was an asset in the eyes of right-thinking people like Dr. Alice, the Deans, and others, who had no hesitation in saying so. Patty’s blatancy and superficial smartness didn’t impose on such men and women. They knew the world too well. Hesper’s care for Mrs. Slimmer had been talked about by Mabel, Dr. Alice and Sir Roger. And Mabel had not hesitated to hint that Hesper had no obligation to love either of the Slimmers—though she gave no reason. Hesper was the heroine of the moment. Visitors who were leaving wrote little notes of farewell, enclosing addresses, and hoping she would look them up if anywhere near. Mabel had quite a nice little budget for her; whereas nobody had expressed the slightest desire to have Patty call. On the contrary, some had privately remarked to Mabel that they hoped they would never see her again! Perhaps it wasn’t so surprising that Patty was eaten up with jealousy.

There were other matters also which had not gone as she had hoped. And for this she blamed Hesper too.

Seeing Hesper preparing to leave her, she determined to have her say, while she was within earshot.

“And, of course, you know that your dear friend has gone; cleared out, escaped when he had the chance at last to get away!”

“My dear friend?” Hesper looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean? I don’t understand you.”

“Surely Roger told you he was going?” she said mockingly, and she smiled maliciously, as she saw it was news to the other. “Dear me! It really looks as though there was some truth in what everyone was saying, and that he was so pursued that he had to disappear the moment he had the chance to do so without your knowing, to avoid your chasing after him.”

Hesper went white with fury. She had never felt so near murder in her life before. But she knew this woman’s tongue and its vile possibilities. She had heard her vicious comments on other innocent people in the past. Besides, if Roger had left, as she said, he had gone to be a help to the Dean. He would write her, she was sure of that! Why listen to this woman’s ravings?

“I am not concerned with Sir Roger’s comings or goings. But I shall not stay and listen any longer to your disgusting insinuations, for which there is no foundation.”

“Oh, isn’t there? I suppose you didn’t stay up all night with him kissing you, in the living room, while Dr. Alice remained with that woman! She told me herself that Roger was there all night. Everyone was full of it after you left.”

Hesper staggered out of the room. She must go to Mabel at once. She would know the truth. And she would ask to be allowed to sleep at the ranch, now that the crush of the Convention was over. She couldn’t spend another hour in Patty’s company.

She remembered now that when she was getting the tea that night, she thought she saw a movement outside a window. But it was gone instantly, and she had concluded it was a night bird flying past. Evidently someone had been eavesdropping—most probably Patty herself! No one else would have descended so low.

Hesper stood still for a moment when she got outside. She felt dazed. She decided she would not go at once to the ranch. She felt she must cool down and recover something of sanity, before she saw Mabel. She walked up to the Family Album. The exercise and the air helped to quiet the tempest that had been raging within her. Every step of the way held some memory of Roger, and with each reminder she assured herself that she had been foolish to take any notice of Patty’s vulgarity, horrible though it was. Of course it was only natural that he would accompany the Dean as far as he could—all the way home even, or to their next halting place, wherever that might be. But he was certain to write, once he knew that she was back. And what would be easier than a meeting in London?

When she eventually reached the ranch, her old poise had returned—outwardly at any rate; she was able to talk to Mabel quite calmly, telling her what scanty news there was concerning the Slimmers, and hearing details of departures and arrivals at the ranch.

But beyond the bare mention of Rosscombe’s name, as one of those who had left, no other reference was made to him.

Hesper couldn’t ask! Evidently Mabel had no knowledge of the close friendship that had sprung up between the two, or she wouldn’t have referred to his leaving in so bald and casual a manner. It must remain at that—for the present. Though this did not alter Hesper’s determination to keep clear of Patty.

In reply to her inquiry as to whether Mabel could put her up at the ranch, as she simply couldn’t live under the same roof with Patty any longer, Mabel burst out:

“My dear girl, how you’ve stood her all this time passes my comprehension. I said to—to Jack only the other day: you must have the patience of Job’s wife, ever to have stuck it as you have. Of course you must stop here, and she shall be moved on! . . . Oh, yes, we’ll manage it—er—Jack will see to that, for I’m not going to have her there in full possession of Mr. Old’s belongings. I am responsible for his place when he isn’t there.”

“But if he has given her permission to stay there, what could you do?”

“The very first thing I shall do is to request her to produce that permission—which I’m fairly certain she won’t be able to do. But don’t you worry. Go down and collect your things. Someone can go with you, or you can leave them all ready to be brought up here. And that’s all you need trouble about.”

“It will only be for a night or two, because I’m probably going back to London.” And Hesper told of Mr. Phelps’ letter; also of the invitation from Enoch Old.

Mabel wasn’t particularly enthusiastic over the idea of Hesper returning to the Slimmer establishment, even if it had changed hands. The doctor had said she needed six months complete holiday, and she had hardly had half that in Canada yet. She must not dream of taking up work again at present. And plenty more to the same effect.

Hesper felt warmly grateful to her for showing so much personal interest in her well-being. And, truth to tell, she certainly didn’t want to leave till she had heard from Roger. But there was Enoch Old’s invitation. Mabel was delighted to hear of this.

“Of course you must go. You will be sure to like him, and you’ve wanted to meet him. I’ve told him already what a devoted admirer of his books you are. Why not ring him up now and say you are coming? I always like it if I can chat with a person before I see them; it takes the raw edge off the meeting, and one feels like old friends straight away.”

It was a good suggestion.

But when she got through Mr. Old was engaged, and unable to speak to her; but Mrs. McKinnock was cordiality itself. She couldn’t have sounded more friendly if Hesper had been a personal acquaintance of her own.

“That’s all right,” said Mabel, when she heard of their conversation. “Now go down at once and collect what you can of your goods and chattels; then come back here. Otherwise I know what it will be—you’ll feel it’s your Christian duty to go on cherishing the Foxcroft, turning the other cheek so long as you’ve got one left to turn, and feeding her into the bargain. But—er—Jack says we’re not, I mean I’m not to allow it to go on any longer. So if you’re not back by supper-time, I shall come and fetch you.”

Nothing loath, Hesper returned to the cabin, and started packing with vigour.

When Patty saw these signs of a definite removal, she was surprised and perturbed. She had understood that Hesper was remaining till the autumn at the cabin. If she cleared out now, it would upset Patty’s plans for free lodging (and as much free board as she could wangle) for the next few months. Evidently Hesper was shifting her belongings to the ranch.

Still, Patty could invariably see daylight somewhere, when her own finances were involved, and at the moment she consoled herself with the thought that Hesper was only going away now in a temporary fit of pique, and as a gesture of annoyance. She would be back again at the cabin before long. Patty resolved to sit tight and wait events. But she was more than surprised when she saw Hesper label one trunk “Not wanted on the voyage.”

“I suppose you are thinking of returning to London,” she said, by way of discovering Hesper’s plans.

“Yes, I am going home immediately,” she replied as briefly as possible to Patty’s overtures in the way of conversation.

Patty thought for a moment. This news was distinctly disturbing. She had her own reasons for wanting money to get home as soon as enough was forthcoming. She had been spending rather lavishly since her arrival, on advertising, on riding lessons, outings and cars, etc. It gave her the appearance of opulent success to prospective clients. The money she had taken in fees so far had gone already.

Hesper herself had marvelled to see the way she was spending in certain directions, when she owed so much in others. But Patty had been counting on Hesper remaining as a meek cow to be milked for weeks, or even months, ahead. To have the said cow suddenly take herself off like this was awkward. Decidedly awkward! It must be stopped somehow. She must now play her trump card which she had been holding in reserve for emergencies.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t bother to chase after Roger any longer,” she said, very clearly and deliberately. “I hadn’t intended to tell you, but I think I ought to do so, in order to save you a fruitless journey. It is useless for you to follow him, as he is my husband!”

She paused slightly, to give time for this to soak in. She noted the startled look on her companion’s face, and the trembling, fumbling way she tried to go on with her packing.

“Yes,” she continued, with calm emphasis, “Roger is married to me. So, you see, if you do take an aeroplane and race after him, now that the Slimmers have supplied you with cash, and shown you how to do it, you won’t find quite the welcome which we will hope awaited Mrs. Slimmer, even though you are so experienced now in tracking escaping men who don’t desire to be tracked. I can understand that you are surprised; but then, so was Roger at the way you haunted him.”

Hesper could not speak. She felt that words would not shape themselves.

“We were married in Paris some little while ago,” Patty continued, enjoying herself immensely as she noticed Hesper’s petrified look of amazement. “But the wedding has to be kept secret at present—an absolute secret—as there has been some little hitch about the divorce of his first wife—oh, there is a divorced wife, too—an American—in the background; he isn’t the Parsifal you have been so fondly picturing. Only the divorce that was legal in one of the States isn’t legal here or in France. Until things are settled about her, one has to be very careful not to complicate matters. No one knows as yet. I’m only telling you now as a friend. I’ve hated to see you straining to catch bubbles as you’ve been doing, and I’m trying to spare you further trouble—though I don’t expect to be thanked for it.” This with the martyr-like air of one who has faithfully done her duty, though at infinite pain to herself. “But it is all being finally sealed and settled this week. That is partly why Roger is away now.”

When Hesper managed to speak, her voice sounded to herself curiously unlike her own. It seemed a flat, far-away, lifeless voice, belonging to some other person. But she managed to say:

“If he is your husband, I’m astonished that he allows you to be dependent on other people for the very food you eat.”

“I knew you would fling the little bit of hospitality I’ve had here, in my face. I said so to him. Let me tell you this, he has provided me with money, but I’ve been spending rather rashly, knowing there was his good income to draw upon. Only, until the other affair is finally settled, he can’t allow me any more. The Courts might get wind of it. But, as Roger said, I have been staying here to protect your good name, and to try and silence the talk that has been going round about you—therefore the very least you could do was to make yourself responsible for my board, seeing that I was being responsible for your morals! Take my advice—I’ve knocked about the world a good deal more than you have in the past, whatever you may have to do in the future—stay quietly here till the scandal has blown over. Very soon an entirely new set of people will be at the ranch, and, excepting among the staff here, the gossip will cease.”

Hesper was past replying. Her heart, never quite strong since her long illness, warned her that she must keep quiet. She turned round and went out of the room. And for the second time that day she felt as though someone had dealt her a blow. She had rallied from the first. But this time she knew she was completely stunned.

Mabel was out when Hesper finally trailed into the ranch. Gone to see a sick friend thirty miles away. Wouldn’t be back till late.

“You do look done up, Miss Pew! Let me get you something at once,” Britta Ekström said anxiously, as she looked at her white, drawn face, and the weary eyes with dark rings under them. “That journey was too much for you, after the strain of sitting up all night with Mrs. Slimmer. Why don’t you get right into bed now and let me bring your supper to you there? Your room is all ready.” She was afraid Miss Pew was in for an illness, by the look of her.

“And Mrs. Thorpe tells me you are going on to Toronto to-morrow! You ought to get a good night’s rest, or you’ll break down. It’s a long journey to come so soon after the other one.”

Hesper smiled wanly. Britta was so very kind. But what would it matter if she did break down? Who would care? And what was the use of struggling on with everyday life when it all amounted to nothing any better than this? But she was thankful for the quiet of the room, and tried to eat to satisfy the very anxious Britta. She was almost glad that Mabel was out, for she didn’t feel like talking just yet, not to anybody.

She said she would go to bed now; would Miss Ekström say good-night to Mrs. Thorpe for her?

It was a relief when her door was closed at last and she was free to think—for think she must!

Yet the more she tried to sort things out and find some solution of the problems that were almost overwhelming her, the more impossible it seemed to think coherently. One thing, and one only seemed to hammer itself insistently on her brain—Roger was gone for ever. So far as she was concerned he was dead. She had lost everything she wanted; everything she had hoped for.

She had not realised before the depth of her feeling for him, nor recognised how completely he had dominated her thoughts. The fact of his being married to Patty—a woman who could never appreciate his highest qualities—was almost forgotten in her major grief that she herself had lost him, and he was all that she desired on earth.

For a few minutes she did wonder whether it was Patty whom he was divorcing! No one could have blamed him, if so. And Patty was such a consummate liar, she might perhaps have twisted the story to save her own face. But next moment Hesper knew this couldn’t be. If he were divorcing Patty, of course he would not have been near her, at the ranch. Wouldn’t it complicate the other divorce, his being there? Oh, what did it matter! She could not disentangle things. All she knew was—she had lost him for ever.

Then she went over every tiniest detail of their friendship, all he had said, all he had implied. She had to admit that he had never said a word that he was not perfectly at liberty to say. He had kissed her hand, certainly; but what of that? In Hungary, if she bought only a box of pins, the shopkeeper would say, courteously, at parting: “I kiss your hand”—nothing more than a chivalrous everyday phrase used at parting. He had been friendly certainly; he had been with her a great deal. But then, they had business interests in common; it was only natural that they had gravitated towards each other. No blame could attach to him for any of this.

Yet, something insisted in her heart that he loved her, even as she loved him. She had sensed it as certainly as one senses the coming of spring.

Probably his knowing this had caused him to leave. It was honourable of him to go right away when he realised that nothing but trouble could result if he stayed. She revered him for his strength of character. But she wanted him all the same. Nothing could obliterate that fact. No amount of extenuation or sound reasoning could fill the awful blank in her life.

Some moments she felt desperate, as though she must find him and tell him how much he was to her. Then she was horrified at her own weakness.

The house was silent at last. Everyone was asleep. She took her long chair out on to the veranda. She felt she must get out into the very heart of the night somehow or she would suffocate indoors.

There was no moon, but the stars were wonderful. The warm summer night seemed almost to throb with their light. It was easier to think out here. As she lay back in the chair, looking up at the myriad scattered over the heavens, she lost count of the world about her and appeared to be floating along with the rest up there—only a tiny atom certainly, but an atom with power also to wander about those great untravelled spaces.

And as she continued to gaze up at them, she felt that they were alive—not mere specks of light dotted over the dark vault of heaven. They moved—or they seemed to (even though, astronomically, she knew that it was the earth that moved)—they scintillated and their light pulsated with a vitality that was amazing the more one watched it.

She was surprised when she recalled the fact that she never remembered really to have looked at the stars since she was a child. And then it was not as she was studying them now. She saw them occasionally, but not often; when she did, it was merely a glance in passing; she had never looked carefully at them as now.

In town, of course, it was out of the question on account of the artificial lighting. At the seaside, too, the lights on the parade just as effectively diverted the eyes from any starlight there might be. When she had been in the country, which was not often, she was always “doing something” indoors in the evening. It had never occurred to her to give any time to looking at the sky.

How stupendous it was to know that she herself was merely one among millions of other people, on one among millions of other stars! And yet her life was as important, as vital to herself as though she were the one and only planet in the heavens!

How could this be?

Who had so arranged it all?

It was a star that led men first to Christ. And the stars that night led Hesper’s thoughts to God, for they brought her a sudden, overwhelming conviction of His power. The majestic design of the heavens became a wonderment to her: the order, the rhythm of the movements, the balance of their placing—all these matters came before her with a force that was nothing short of a revelation.

Yet, wherever she looked, there was the same awful loneliness. Back came the old heartbroken cry: why was such a man brought into her life, if only to be snatched away again? Wouldn’t it have been happier never to have met him? But her heart cried out No! She would endure the present suffering rather than have missed the past happiness . . .

The Dean had said such friendship should enrich one’s life. And Roger had enriched hers—but that was past. Life was empty now. She could not face the future without him. She simply could not . . .

What was it the Dean said about going into the wilderness? She was certainly there now—with no chance of escape. He also was going into the wilderness; yet he was facing his trial with his head held high and courage undimmed. Why couldn’t she? . . .

And only yesterday she was telling the Almighty how pleased she was with Him—almost patronising Him in fact, because she thought He had answered her prayer! Why, she had not even touched the hem of His garment! How pathetic it all was. How impossible to get a right view of anything.

And there was no one whose advice she could ask and no one—not even Mabel—to whom she could open her tired heart and unburden her weary desolate soul. The Dean had told her to go straight to her Bible for help and guidance. Of course, that was the right and correct thing for a clergyman to say. It was expected of him. And he was a good man undoubtedly. But what about other people not clergymen? What would they say or do?

A sentence in one of Enoch Old’s books came to her mind.

“Don’t wait till all else fails you, before you turn to the Bible. Go to it first of all—then you are certain to have it with you in the last extremity. And don’t merely take other people’s word for it. Go to the Bible and find things out for yourself. There is no other way.”

Strange how forcibly the words came back to her.

Had she ever tried to find out for herself, or had she been taking—but not believing—other people’s word for it?

Was it possible there was more in it than she knew?

She fancied she had a Bible somewhere, packed away in her flat. She didn’t know where. She certainly hadn’t seen it for years. Then she remembered that there was most likely one in her bedroom here. Mabel had put an old-fashioned hanging bookshelf in every room, filling each with an assortment that made Hesper positively hoot aloud in derision (though she looked carefully to see if any were first editions) when she had read some of the titles: Self-Help; Queechy; David Copperfield; A Child’s Guide to Knowledge; East Lynne; The Lamplighter; Pilgrim’s Progress; Longfellow; How to be Happy though Married; Black Beauty; The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain; and similar books of past generations.

It was surprising, Mabel had told her in response to her hoots, how many visitors had been delighted to re-discover some long-lost-sight-of relic of childhood on the bookshelves.

The books varied according as Mabel had been able to lay her hands on old-time favourites; but whatever else was there, in every room there was a Bible.

Hesper had said flippantly: “You know you ought to have Foxe’s Book of Martyrs to complete the right atmosphere. I don’t see that exhilarating treasure anywhere.”

Mabel had replied gravely: “Some who come here have had suffering enough of their own. And for some the martyrdom is life-long. They don’t need to read about any others.”

Hesper thought of those words now. She could see nothing but a life of suffering ahead of her. Time might subdue it; but it would never efface it. Her love was not the uncertain first love-gleam of a young girl. It was the one great and absorbing passion of her womanhood. It could never be obliterated; never fulfilled through another lover; no one could ever be the same to her that Roger was.

Though she had never anticipated doing so, she now found herself looking for the Bible on the shelves. She took it down, more in obedience to the Dean and Enoch Old, than with any hope of finding help for herself therein. The human heart is always individual in its sorrow; sure that no one else has ever trudged the same weary road; certain that there is no cure for its particular heartbreak though there is balm for all others.

One can always see that trouble is sent for some wise purpose—excepting when it is sent to oneself!

“I will open the Bible anywhere, and see what it says.” Hesper could think of no other way to start.

The Book opened at Hosea. “The very last portion I should have thought of!” was her mental comment.

She was not the first person to handle that Bible; someone had been there before her, evidently, for a verse had been marked—by a Conventioner possibly. She had noticed how fond they were of marking and criss-crossing texts. It was the fourteenth verse of the second chapter. She read it:

“Behold, I will allure her, and bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfortably unto her.”

She paused, arrested by the words. She read them again. She was in the wilderness, she knew that. But had she been definitely led there by—who was it speaking? She looked again—“Saith the Lord” were the last words of the previous verse. Then it was the Lord speaking; no matter to whom those words were written. If He were going to speak comfortably to her—how could He do it? She could hear no Voice.

Yet the Still Small Voice spoke to her that night, as she sat out there, in the great solitude of trees and mountains and stars.

She read on to the end of the chapter, with her electric torch to lighten her page. How astonishingly personal some of it seemed!

“I will betroth thee unto me for ever; yea I will betroth thee unto me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in loving kindness, and in mercies. I will even betroth thee unto me in faithfulness”—the very things her heart was craving; just what she needed most of all.

“I will have mercy upon her that had not obtained mercy”—surely that was her case? She had obtained neither mercy nor justice in the past. Yet all these things seemed promised in these verses. No one needed a “door of hope” more than she did, though she had no expectation of ever singing there “as in the days of her youth,” as the verse said.

She sat and thought about it all for hours.

No one can ever say how God works, for no one knows. Not even in his own individual case, can a Christian say exactly how he has been led by Christ; though he knows he has been led. Some people can give the date of their conversion. Yes! they know the day on which they made their decision. But they cannot tell of all that led to it, or of all that led on after it. For God’s ways are not our ways. His methods of dealing with His children are even more mysterious to us than His methods of dealing with Nature around us, the stars above our heads, and the wind that bloweth where it listeth. We only know that His thoughts are not our thoughts.

Hesper could not have told what Power moved her that night. But she found herself pouring out her trouble to an Unseen Silence. In broken whispers, sometimes in thoughts that were never shaped into words, she told the One who had led her into the wilderness that though she did not seem able to believe much yet about anything, she would try to do as He wished. She would regard herself as His, to go wherever He might send her; to do whatever He might place before her. If He would show her the Gap in the Hedge which He wished her to fill—she would stand there, doing her best to carry out His purpose, to the very end.

No nun ever made her vows with more sincerity, and complete surrender to the will of God. No soul ever longed more earnestly to know something—were it ever so little—of the Lord Jesus Christ.

As dawn touched the highest peaks with light, she at last went to bed, knowing she must get some sleep, if she was to start on another journey next day.

She didn’t pretend that she was satisfied with life. She was not. Her heart still ached—the pain of the blow was still acute. But she seemed to have found something to hold to; a plan by which to work; some reason for going on living.

The rest she was willing to leave with God.

It seemed easier now to think of sleep.

It was 4 p.m. when Hesper next opened her eyes. Mabel was standing looking at her.

“Well! There’s nothing like having a nice long nap while you’re about it,” she said laughingly. “Here’s your patient sitting up, Dr. Alice, and I think she’s beginning to recognise me!” she called through the door.

Dr. Alice came in, also smiling.

“Doesn’t she do everything thoroughly that she undertakes?” Mabel went on. “The first day she arrived here, she slept for sixteen hours straight off; and, presuming she went to sleep at 9 p.m. last night and this is 4 o’clock next day—if you give me a bit of paper and a pencil, I’ll tell you how long she has slept this time.”

Dr. Alice was feeling her pulse, rather in fun, it would appear. But they had both been anxious about her, after Britta’s account of how ill she had looked when she arrived.

She said she was A.1 now, and had had a lovely sleep—though she looked only a trifle less worn than yesterday. Her long night’s vigil had exhausted her. It was fortunate that nature had stepped in, and tried to do a little patching up, by giving her this spell of restful sleep.

Of course she was very concerned when she heard the time. She was supposed to leave by the 10 o’clock morning train. They would be expecting her by that.

“Don’t worry,” Mabel consoled her. “I’ve been talking to Mr. Old on the ’phone. . . . We had his number, he had sent it to us. . . . He says there is a quicker train this evening, and it will only make three hours’ difference. You’ll get there for early tea instead of lunch, and still be in time for his lecture—though he says perhaps you will have had more than you want of him by then!”

“I don’t anticipate that,” said Hesper.

“Neither do I,” was Mabel’s reply.

During the long journey, Hesper had time to think and recapture some of the determinations she had made during the night. She felt no desire to retract, or modify, her previous decisions. On the contrary the realities of daylight convinced her more than ever that she would be given some definite work to do; and she meant to work as never before—work her best and her utmost, because this was a task appointed her by God. Man’s estimate of her work would not be her first consideration now. Man’s injustice could not hurt her in the way it had in the past. It was a relief to have something concrete to hold to.

This offer from Mr. Phelps, to return to her old post, undoubtedly seemed the next step she must take. There was plenty of scope there. A couple of months ago, she would have regarded the offer as the greatest happiness that could befall her. Whereas now——

Oh, Roger! Roger! Would the wound ever heal? The pain ever go?

She must pull herself together, however, for there was the long-desired pleasure of meeting Enoch Old awaiting her. She was looking forward to seeing him, certainly; yet it wasn’t so exciting a prospect as it seemed at the time she received his invitation. But then—so much had happened since.

It was so hard to care for anything now. Only, at least she knew why she had been led into the wilderness. That made it easier to bear her trouble.

And one thing she had determined, her love for Roger should be an ennobling influence. The fact that he had come into her life—if only for so short a time—should be an enrichment, as the Dean had said. There was nothing with which they need reproach themselves. There was much that had made for temporary happiness, in addition to an enlargement of interests—which could be a permanent benefit.

It was good to remember that there were men in the world—or at any rate one man—the very antithesis of Charles Slimmer; honourable men still existed; men with moral strength and some ideals; and yet men of the world, not monastic recluses.

She was thinking this, and not of the up-to-dateness of the city of Toronto, when, at long last and after a journey that seemed unending, she drove up to Mrs. McKinnock’s door.

She was received with the greatest kindness by her hostess. Mr. Old was out, but was due in any minute. By the time Hesper had changed her dress and made herself less travel-worn, tea was waiting for her downstairs.

“Enoch is back,” Mrs. McKinnock told her. “I’m going to leave you two to yourselves. You’ll get acquainted quicker than if there is a garrulous third party like myself constantly butting in. It’s only a little after three now, and his lecture isn’t till seven-thirty, so you’ve plenty of time for a real, heart-searching gossip,” and she laughed merrily. “But if you are bored with him, just ring the bell, and I’ll take you out of his reach.”

“If he’s anything like his half-sister, I shall get on with him,” Hesper said to herself, as she waited alone for the author.

The door opened. She looked up with a smile, prepared for the usual formalities of “How are you? I’m so glad to meet you,” etc. But the smile and the words seemed to freeze on her lips. There before her stood Roger Rosscombe!

“Will you forgive me, dear?” he said. “But I could find no other way to see you alone, where I was sure we shouldn’t be interrupted.” He was holding out his hand to her. But Hesper drew herself up, and stepped a pace further away.

“I came here to meet Enoch Old,” she said. “I don’t understand why such a trick as this has been played on me. Isn’t Mr. Old here?”

“I am Enoch Old,” he said quietly.

“You? You are Enoch Old?” she exclaimed incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied, almost sadly it seemed to her. “But, oh, my dear, don’t call it a trick. Please don’t! You know I told you in my last letter that I was afraid you would be disappointed in me. I hated having to keep you in ignorance so long; only it was unavoidable. I could see no other way to arrange matters, though I thought and thought about it.”

Hesper had seated herself on a nearby sofa, for she felt her knees were becoming strangely unsteady. Roger remained standing, but close beside her.

“I want to tell you a few things about myself, so that you may be better able to understand my actions.

“My full name is Enoch Roger Rosscombe Old. My father was Enoch Old. Rosscombe was my mother’s name. My father was a shepherd. We lived in the Highlands. He was a very intelligent man, and very thoughtful. He had a great desire to write. He often told me of this longing, and of the things he wanted to write; only he had neither the time nor the opportunity. He loved the mountains round our home. Mountains make some men think deeply. My father was such a man. We spent long hours together, and I loved them as he did. I used to think, as a child, that he was like David, looking after the flock, and thinking of the Psalms he wished he could write.

“I evidently inherited this same urge, for I wanted to write, and the subjects which had appealed to him were the subjects that called to me. We can never know how much of us is really our parents; but I know that the Enoch Old books I have written are my father’s books. It is entirely due to him that they were written. The thoughts in them that have helped others are what my father taught me. He passed on the work to me, as he was not permitted to do it himself. I regard it as a definite trust. That is why I want to keep out of sight, and give Enoch Old the credit. Can you understand this, dear?”

“Yes, I can understand that part. But other things——” She hardly dared trust herself to talk. She felt so unnerved.

“Let me explain it a little more,” he went on. “I wanted you to use the cabin. I wanted to know you, because I had heard so much about you from different people. Then there was the Dean; I knew how much he needed me—was relying on me, in fact—as he insisted on carrying out his engagements in spite of his fast-failing sight. If I had revealed myself, you would have been convinced that I really wished to be in my own house, and you would have made some excuse to go. Moreover this Enoch Old has to remain in the background. He always has, so far, and he’s going to stay there so long as I can keep him there——”

He was talking very calmly, in order to give her time to recover herself; he knew the revelation of his identity was something of a shock to her. He was distressed himself to see how pale she was. And so aloof and unsmiling.

“—Otherwise people will merely satisfy their curiosity by finding out what is my favourite pudding, and whether I wear plus-fours or a cowboy outfit, and leave it at that. Whereas I want them to read the books that are my father’s books, not study me. I’ve put my best into them, and want to remain outside of them.”

“You told me you had only read one of his books!”

“Think again, dear. You asked me if I had read them. I replied that I had read one of them since I had been there—so I had. I spent all my spare time correcting the proofs of my forthcoming book. I know it was a subterfuge, and meant to put you off my track at the moment—but if I had told you all the facts, and let it be known that I was the author of those books, I should have been mobbed by those would-be novelists, and deluged with their manuscripts, and should have had to fly in self-defence. Whereas—I wanted to stay near you, where I could see you every day. Are you vexed with me for wanting to stay?”

But Hesper ignored this question. What right had he to ask her this when—she nearly choked with suppressed tears. All she said was:

“Did Mabel know?”

“Yes. She and Jack knew. I had a difficult job at the outset, binding them over to secrecy; and watching that they didn’t give me away. But no one else knew—excepting the Dean. He has always known; but no one else.”

Hesper was so unprepared for this unexpected meeting with the man for whom her whole being craved, her one desire was to fling all scruples to the wind, tell him all that was in her heart, and let everything else take its chance. After all, what was Patty to her that she should take her into consideration? If she couldn’t hold her husband—and a woman of her type never would hold a man like Roger for long—why should she, Hesper, hesitate to take what he offered? She wanted him; he wanted her. What was the rest of the world to them? Why should their lives be spoilt and their happiness frustrated, because of her sentimental regard for an out-of-date Puritanism?

Yet something in her recoiled from the idea; something urged her, not merely to keep her own soul clean, but to help him to remain loyal to his ideals. Though the very sound of his voice thrilled her, she dared not look at him, as she felt that she loved him as never before. Only—she could not shake off the consciousness that she was responsible for more than her own soul at this moment.

“But don’t let us talk about books or authors. There’s so much else I want to say,” he continued. “First I’m going to pour you out some tea, if it’s worth drinking now.” He was getting more and more concerned to see how ill and utterly unyielding she looked; so unlike her usual self. And her voice sounded strained and unnatural. He had never seen her like this before. If only she would take a little food——

“No!” she said. “I couldn’t touch anything. Let us finish this conversation once and for all, and then I’ll go. Tell me: why have you asked me to come here, and—and—taken me in like this?” She was on the verge of a collapse. It was cruel, so doubly cruel to torture her like this—to hold the Cup of Trembling to her lips—when she must not, she must not drink!

“I got you to come here, dear, because you said you wanted to meet Enoch Old; but, more than this, I wanted a chance to tell you how I loved you.” He said this very simply and as though stating a fact that must be obvious to anyone. “I never could get five minutes alone with you way back there among the mountains. You were always being snatched away from me! Are you vexed with me for loving you?”

“You have no right to say this to me! You know you have no right! Your wife has told me everything.”

“My wife?”—with a look of surprise—“what wife do you mean?”

“Both of them,” she said, nearly laughing in a strange way with suppressed hysterics.

He looked at her with a very puzzled expression.

“Hesper—there is something that I don’t understand, in what you say.” He still spoke very quietly, but it was plain that he was in deadly earnest. “This is not the time for us to talk in riddles, or beat about the bush.

“You refer to my wife. I have no sort of idea what you mean, but let me clear the ground at least in this direction by saying at once that I haven’t a wife, and never had one. As for ‘both of them,’ the law would only allow me one at a time, and I’ve never had even one! Now, dear, can you tell me what it is you mean, and what has come between us? You are the one woman I want for my wife; you are the one woman I love above every other woman. Can’t you at least take me into your confidence, and let me help you? Something is troubling you, I know.”

He had seated himself on the couch beside her, with his arm round her, he drew her towards him. With her head against his shoulder, it was so easy to talk. At last she was able to speak freely. She told him what Patty had said, all of it, not sparing herself either.

“And did you believe it?” he asked her.

“How could I help it? Didn’t you come to my flat and ask for her, the very first time I ever saw you?”

At this he chuckled in his old way; the first honest laugh they had had since she had arrived.

“To think how I’ve waited and waited for you to ask me why I came and what I wanted; but you never did!”

“It was your business, not mine. I didn’t want to appear to be prying into your affairs. But I wondered all the same.”

“And I wanted to tell you, only I couldn’t, unless you actually asked me. It would have sounded so beastly mean of me if I had volunteered the information that, from the time you sent that confounded woman out to Paris to me with that brick, she has bombarded me for money, on the plea of friendship with you; and I don’t know what else.

“She started the very moment she handed me the brick. Had insisted on seeing me personally; wouldn’t give it to my secretary, as she had had instructions from you to give it into no hand but my own. When she finally saw me, she pitched a sad story about having had her handbag snatched from her in the street, and having no money nor her return ticket. And would I advance a little, which she would refund, of course. Knowing that she was your authorised agent, also wanting to be quit of her as soon as possible, as I wasn’t particularly impressed by her, I told my secretary to let her have some money. And thought no more about it. But she didn’t let it end there. She seemed to keep track of every footstep of mine, for her letters followed me round the globe. Then she wrote from what I now know was your private address, saying that her widowed mother was dying for want of—I forget what, but it was money that she was after, of course. As I happened to be in town, I thought I would look up the widowed mother, and see what her actual need was. Remember, all this time I thought she was a friend of yours, and though you didn’t know me, I knew you. George Slimmer was a friend of mine. Also I know Phelps well. You can imagine my surprise that night when you answered me. Never more astonished in my life than when the postman came up and said: ‘Miss Hesper Pew.’ ”

“—And when I told you it was my thirtieth birthday,” Hesper added. She was feeling a different person now.

His eyes had recovered their old twinkle.

“Now next question, please,” he said, “and we’ll get this part of our conversation over and done with for ever, as soon as we can, as I’ve heaps more I want to say on other subjects.”

“You can’t wonder that I believed what she said, even though I knew she possessed the combined gifts of Ananias and Sapphira. For one thing, you let her have your house; I knew I’d no right to object. But——”

“Only you see I didn’t let her have it! She took it. She told you she had written me, but she never wrote. I went down that afternoon to protect my own property, not wishing to have you inconvenienced, if those poets should have turned hilarious, and smashed anything in their lyrical ecstasies! Anything else?”

“She called you Roger that day, and took the cushion——”

“I know she did, and my desire at that moment was to throw it at her, or else to have a free fight; because I knew it was done to annoy you. Fortunately for the proprieties of the Convention, I had to go across the room and tell Mrs. Dean that her husband wanted her, which gave me time to cool down, and you to get out into the garden, where I followed you, you may remember, or I don’t know what I might have done next. Now, dear, I’m going to ask you a question:

“Supposing I hadn’t been able to explain things, and supposing there wasn’t Mrs. Thorpe and the Dean to vouch for me, would you have been willing to believe my word against Miss Foxcroft’s assertions?”

He lifted her face with one hand and looked questioningly at her.

“Yes,” she said, “I would believe you against the word of anyone and everyone.”

“Then let’s talk about ourselves now,” he said, with a happy sigh of relief.

It seemed only a few minutes later—or at any rate they hadn’t said a hundredth part of the things they wanted to say—when a discreet knock came on the door, and Mrs. McKinnock, in a voice of suppressed laughter and mischief, said through the keyhole:

“I don’t want to interrupt your tea, but it’s a quarter-past-seven, Roger, and your lecture is at half-past. If Miss Pew is at all bored with you, tell her I will take her out of your reach.” And they heard her tripping back to wherever she had come from.

They both looked at their watches. It was a quarter-past-seven. And the tea things had never been touched!

“You must have something to eat before you lecture,” said Hesper anxiously.

“That’s all right,” he said. “But I want to tell you, before I leave you—I’ve bought your wedding present already. It’s waiting for you in London. You will have to pretend you like it—being a wedding present—whether you do or not. But you can take it back to the shop later and change it! I’ve purchased the business known as Slimmer, Slapp & Co. from that scoundrel Charles. I’ve put Phelps at the head temporarily, as General Everything, till further decisions are arrived at. All that is settled, so far, for the Autumn List, is Roger Rosscombe’s new book. But the business, as well as the book and the author, will belong solely and entirely to the girl who was, is, but isn’t-going-to-be-much-longer—Hesper Pew!”

TRANSCRIBER NOTES

Misspelled words and printer errors have been corrected. Where multiple spellings occur, majority use has been employed.

Punctuation has been maintained except where obvious printer errors occur.

[The end of Delicate Fuss , by Flora Klickmann]