he was sitting near the fire, which burned upon the open hearth, when
he was shown into a daintily-furnished room. After a swift glance at
him she rose and followed the maid to the door.

"I cannot receive anybody else just now," she said.

Then she came back and sat down not far from him, feeling that there
was a crisis on hand, for, though the man's manner was quiet, there
was trouble in his face.

"You have something to tell me. About your meeting, perhaps?"

"Yes," said Weston. "I don't, however, wish to trouble you much about
the meeting. I merely want to thank you for your sympathy before I go
away. You see, I'm going west to-morrow."

"Will you be long away?"

"Yes," said Weston, with a strained quietness that jarred on her. "In
fact, it's scarcely probable that I shall come back here at all. The
game's up. My directors have lost their nerve. The Grenfell
Consolidated must go down in the next few months."

It was evident to Ida that whatever could be done must be done by her,
or the man would go away again without a word, and this time he would,
as he had said, not come back at all. For a moment or two she sat very
still.

"Ah," she murmured, "I needn't tell you that I'm sorry."

"No," said Weston, simply. "I know you are."

Then there was, for a minute or two, a silence that both found almost
intolerable and that seemed emphasized by the snapping of the fire.
There was before the girl a task from which she shrank, but it was
clear to her that, since she could not let him go, one of them must
speak.

"What are you going to do in the west?" she asked.

"Push on the heading until we have to let the mine go."

"And then?"

Weston spread out his hands.

"I don't know. Act as somebody's camp-packer. Shovel on the railroads.
Work on the ranches."

It was very evident to Ida that his quietness was the result of a
strenuous effort. The barrier of reticence between them was very frail
just then, and she meant to break it down. She leaned forward in her
chair with her eyes fixed on him, and now the signs of tension in his
face grew plainer.

"You speak as if that would be easy for you," she said.

Weston shut his eyes to one aspect of the question. He had not the
courage to face it, and he confined himself to the more prosaic one.

"As a matter of fact, I'm afraid it won't be," he admitted. "The life
I've led here, and the few weeks I spent at Kinnaird's camp, have
rather spoiled me for the bush. S