ke, take
the horse to the stable. Are my sympathies needed, Halliday--any of my
new friends over yonder dead?"

Halliday stared at him blankly. "Haven't you read the letter I sent
you? Do you get no English papers?" he questioned.

"No, to both. I fancy very few people over yonder trouble themselves
as to whether I'm living. How did you address your letter?"

"Orchard City, or was it Orchardville? Mrs. Leslie told me the name of
the postoffice, and I looked it up on a map."

Geoffrey thrust his guest into a chair.

"That explains it. This is Orchard Valley; the other place is away
across the province, a forlorn hamlet, and some ox-driving postmaster
has no doubt returned your letter. Do you bring bad news? Don't keep
me in suspense."

"Anthony Thurston's dead. Died in your old place, partly the result of
a gun accident," answered Halliday, and Geoffrey sat silent for a
moment.

"I'm sorry--yes, sincerely," he said at last. "I can say it freely,
because, as I daresay you know, I disappointed him, and can in no way
benefit by his death. In fact, he had the power to refuse me what was
morally my right, and no doubt he exercised it. Still, now it's too
late, I feel ashamed that I never tried to patch up the quarrel. Poor
old Anthony!"

Halliday smiled. "You are a better fellow than you often lead folks to
suppose, Geoffrey--and I quite believe you. Such regrets are, however,
generally useless, are they not? In this case especially so, for
Anthony Thurston forgot the quarrel before he died, and sent you his
very good wishes. I see I have a surprise in store. You are a
beneficiary. He has bequeathed you considerably more than your moral
share in the property."

Thurston strode up and down the shanty before he halted.

"I'm glad that, though perhaps I deserved it, he didn't carry the
bitterness into the grave with him," he declared with earnestness. "We
were too much like each other to get on well, but there was a time when
he was a good friend to me. It's no use pretending I'm not pleased at
what you tell me--it means a great deal to me. But you must be tired
and hungry, and I want to talk by the hour to you."

Halliday did full justice to the meal which the camp cook produced, and
afterwards the two men sat talking until the short winter afternoon had
drawn to a close and the first stars were blinking down on untrodden
snows. Answering a question Halliday said:

"Your share--I'll show