t time since Robb's arrival. She looked
up suddenly, and, though she tried hard to speak conversationally,
there was a slightly eager ring in her voice.

"When is George Iredale going to leave the ranch?"

Robb turned to her at once.

"Can't say. Not yet, I should think. He seems to have made no
preparations. Besides, I've got to see him again in a day or two."

"Then you will stay out here?" asked Alice eagerly.

"Well, no." Robb shook his head with a comical expression of chagrin.
"Can't be done, I'm afraid. But I'll come over here when I'm in the
neighbourhood, if possible." Then to Mrs. Malling, "May I?"

"Why, certainly," said the farm-wife, with characteristic heartiness.
"If you come to this district without so much as a look in here, well,
you can just pass right along for the future."

When the meal was over the old lady rose from the table.

"Alice," said she, "you stay right here. Sarah and I'll clear away.
Prudence, my girl, just lie down and get your rest. Maybe you'll feel
better later on. Come along, Sarah; the young folks can get on
comfortably without us for once."

Prudence made no attempt to do as her mother suggested. She moved
about the room, helping with the work. Then the two old ladies
adjourned to the kitchen. Robb and Alice had moved over to the
well-worn sofa at the far end of the room, and Prudence took up her
position at the open window. She seemed to have no thought of leaving
the lovers together; in fact, it seemed as though she had forgotten
their existence altogether. She stood staring out over the little
front garden with hard, unmeaning eyes. From her expression it is
doubtful if she saw what her eyes looked upon. Her thoughts were of
other matters that concerned only herself and another.

The low tones of the lovers sounded monotonously through the room.
They, too, were now wrapt in their own concerns, and had forgotten the
presence of the girl at the window. They had so much to say and so
little time in which to say it; for Robb had to make Ainsley that
night.

The cool August evening was drawing on. The threshing gang was
returning from the fields, and the purple haze of sundown was rising
above the eastern horizon; Prudence did not move. Her hands were
clasped before her; her pale face might have been of carved stone.
There was only the faintest sign of life about her, and that was the
steady rise and fall of her bosom.

A cool breeze rustled in through the open wind