ould look out from the trim
garden across the blue inlet towards the ranges' snow. To-day one
would in all probability look for that dwelling in vain, and find only
stores or great stone buildings, for as the silent men with the axes
push the lonely clearings farther back into the forest the Western
cities grow, and those who dwell in them increase in riches, which is
not usually the case with the axeman who goes on farther into the bush
again.

Still, one moonlight evening, when Alton waited upon its verandah,
cigar in hand, the house stood upon the hillside, picturesque with its
painted scroll-work, green shutters, colonnades of cedar pillars, and
broad verandahs. Its owner was an Englishman who had prospered in the
Dominion, and combined the kindliness he still retained for his
countrymen with the lavish hospitality of the West. He knew Alton by
reputation, and having business with him had made him free of his house
when he inquired for Deringham, who was his guest, during the former's
absence in the State of Washington. That was how Alton came to be
waiting for dinner in company with a young naval officer. Deringham
and his daughter had returned during the day, but they had driven
somewhere with their hostess and not come back as yet.

Alton had seen Commander Thorne for the first time that day, but some
friendships are made rapidly and without an effort, and he was already
sensible of a regard for his companion. He was a quiet and unobtrusive
Englishman, with the steadiness of gaze and decisiveness of speech
which characterized those who command at sea, and had discovered that
he had, notwithstanding the difference in their vocations, much in
common with rancher Alton.

"Yes," he said. "It is very good of you, and if we stay at Esquimault
I will come up and spend a day or two among the deer. Atkinson told us
what a good time he had with you, but we were a trifle astonished to
see the fine wapiti head he brought back with him."

There was a faint twinkle in the speaker's eyes which Alton understood,
for Atkinson, who was not an adept at trailing deer, had shot more than
a wapiti. Still, he was not the man to allude to the misadventures of
his guest.

"He killed it neatly--a good hundred yards, and in the fern," he said.

"Well," said Thorne with a little laugh, "you were with him, and know
best. You had, however, a tolerably mixed bag on that occasion?"

Alton checked a smile. "A wapiti, a wood de