nothing romantic about Driscoll and
Stormont, and it looked as if they shared her belief that the lode could
be found. Scott, too, thought it possible, and his judgment was often
sound. Thirlwell had imagined the lode an illusion of Strange's, but his
disbelief was giving way.

Then he forgot the others and thought about Agatha. In some ways she was
like Strange, but she was made of finer and stronger stuff. She had his
patience, but her brain was keener, and her resolution was backed by
moral force. Moreover, she was a very charming girl and Thirlwell
admitted that he looked forward with eagerness to their journey. She
would come in summer, when the rivers and lakes were open and the woods
were filled with resinous smells. The sun was hot in the North then, the
days were often calm, and there was a wonderful bracing freshness when
the lingering twilight glimmered behind the pines.

It would be strangely pleasant to listen to the girl's soft voice while
the canoes glided smoothly across sparkling lakes, and perhaps to tell
her stories of the wilds when the smoke of the camp-fire drifted by and
the cry of the loon came out of the shadows. For all that, there was not
much risk of his falling in love with her. He was not a sentimentalist,
and she had told him that her vocation was science. Her journey was a
duty, and when the duty was carried out she would concentrate on her
studies, and as she had talent presently make her mark. He did not think
she would find the lode, but when she was persuaded it could not be
found he would no longer be useful and they would go their different
ways. Well, he supposed he must acquiesce. He was a poor engineer, and
such happiness as marriage could offer was not for him.

Then he glanced at his watch and got up with an impatient shrug. He had
forgotten his work while he thought about the girl, and there was much
to be done. For one thing, he had come up to see if the smith had
tempered some boring tools; and then he must send the _Metis_
river-jacks to float a raft of props down to the mine. Pulling himself
together, he set about the work with characteristic energy, but as he
walked through the murmuring woods he unconsciously began to sing a
romantic ballad he had learned when a boy. Presently, however, he
stopped and smiled. It looked as if he were getting sentimental, and one
must guard against that kind of thing.

CHAPTER XVII

DRUMMOND OFFERS HELP

It was a calm eveni