nothing which resembled the panorama that
unrolled itself before her as the great mountain locomotives sped on
through the primeval wilderness, and the wild beauty of it left a
deeper mark on her because her Canadian journey had been more or less a
disappointment.

Alice Deringham had tasted of the best that England had to offer in the
shape of sport and scenery, art and music, and had grown a little tired
of it all; while, when her father had announced his intention of
crossing the Canadian Dominion, partly on an affair of business and
partly for the benefit of his health, she had gladly accompanied him in
the hope of seeing something new. Deringham was a promoter and
director of English companies, but his daughter having the fine disdain
for anything connected with finance which occasionally characterizes
those who have never felt the lack of money, asked him a few questions
concerning one object of his journey. She only knew that the Carnaby
estate, which would in the usual course have reverted to her, had been
unexpectedly willed to the son of a man its late owner had
disinherited, on conditions. The man, it appeared, was dead, and
Deringham desired to see whether any understanding or compromise could
be arrived at with the one son he had left behind in Western Canada.

To become the mistress of Carnaby Hall would have pleased Alice
Deringham, but, as she had already realized there was no great hope of
that, she had prepared to enjoy her Canadian journey. It had, however,
fallen short of her expectations. Ontario reminded her of southern
Scotland, and there was nothing to impress one who had seen the
Highlands when the cars ran into the confusion of rock and forest, lake
and river, along the Superior shore. Winnipeg in no way appealed to
her, and she grew weary as they swept out past straggling wooden towns
into the grass lands of the West.

The towns rose stark from the prairie in unsoftened ugliness, and there
was nothing to stir the imagination in the great waste of sun-bleached
grass. Day by day, while the dust whirled by them, and the gaunt
telegraph posts came up out of the far horizon and sank into the east,
they raced across the wide levels. The red dawns burned behind them,
the sunsets flamed ahead, and still there was only dust and grass,
chequered here and there with bands of stubble, while driving grit and
ugliness were the salient features of the little stations they stopped
at.

Miss Deri