sented the wealth
and fashion of the Western Canadian ranching world. Intellectually, too,
there was no more fault to find here than is usual in a ballroom in the
West End of London.

It was the annual ball of the Polo Club, and that was a social function
of the first water--in the eyes of the Calford world.

"My dear Mrs. Abbot, it is a matter which is quite out of my province,"
said John Allandale, in answer to a remark from his companion. He was
leaning over the cushioned back of the Chesterfield upon which an old
lady was seated, and gazing smilingly over at a group of young people
standing at the opposite end of the room. "Jacky is one of those young
ladies whose strength of character carries her beyond the control of
mere man. Yes, I know what you would say," as Mrs. Abbot glanced up into
his face with a look of mildly-expressed wonder; "it is true I am her
uncle and guardian, but, nevertheless, I should no more dream of
interfering with her--what shall we say?--love affairs, than suggest
her incapacity to 'boss' a 'round up' worked by a crowd of Mexican
greasers."

"Then all I can say is that your niece is a very unfortunate girl,"
replied the old lady, acidly. "How old is she?"

"Twenty-two."

John Allandale, or "Poker" John as he was more familiarly called by all
who knew him, was still looking over at the group, but an expression had
suddenly crept into his eyes which might, in a less robust-looking man,
have been taken for disquiet--even fear. His companion's words had
brought home to him a partial realization of a responsibility which was
his.

"Twenty-two," she repeated, "and not a relative living except a
good-hearted but thoroughly irresponsible uncle. That child is to be
pitied, John."

The old man sighed. He took no umbrage at his companion's
brusquely-expressed estimation of himself. He was still watching the
group at the other end of the room. His face was clouded, and a keen
observer might have detected a curious twitching of his bronzed right
cheek, just beneath the eye. His eyes followed the movement of a
beautiful girl surrounded by a cluster of men, immaculately dressed,
bronzed--and, for the most part, wholesome-looking. She was dark, almost
Eastern in her type of features. Her hair was black with the blackness
of the raven's wing, and coiled in an ample knot low upon her neck. Her
features, although Eastern, had scarcely the regularity one expects in
such a type, whilst her eyes quash