only his own gloomy thoughts for company.
The varied night sounds of the city smote on his unaccustomed ear.
The long hall of the hotel echoed the passing of many feet; doors
slammed at intervals, and once a raucous voice called loudly for
"Towels for '53'"; from the room next his came the sound of talking
and laughter; farther down the hall a young baby cried dismally.
Through the babel of voices came the regular pink-pank of a banjo in
the parlour below. Outside, the wind raged against the frosted
windows, train-bells rang and whistles blew all night long, and the
pounding of horses' feet on the pavement never ceased--there seemed
to be one long procession of heavy drays passing down the street.

In the quiet of his own house on Plover Creek Arthur had almost
forgotten the outside world that never sleeps--the rushing, careless,
inexorable world, that cannot be stayed or entreated. He had lived
his life in the country, and he loved its silent places, the kindly
silences of the country nights that lie so soothingly on the heart
and brain. To-night, the roar of the Brandon street was full of evil
significance, for this man, this interloper, whom his soul hated so
bitterly, was part of the great uncaring throng that surged past;
this rushing, jostling, aggressive life was what he stood for, this
man who had stolen from him his heart's dearest treasure.

All night long Arthur lay staring into the darkness, trying to, fight
out the greatest battle of his life; on one side Thursa and the
memory of her kisses on his cheek, and on the other side honour and
honesty, and all the traditions of his house; sometimes telling
himself sternly that there was but one course open to him, and then,
suddenly overcome by his love for her, crying out bitterly that he
would never, never give her up. The pitch-black night seemed
interminable to him, but dawn came at last, deep blue behind the
frost-ferns on the window, slowly fading to pale azure, then suddenly
changing to rosiest pink as the sun rolled up over the sandhills of
the Assiniboine and sent his cheerful rays over an untroubled white
world.

At half-past eight Arthur was walking the street. No one would
imagine, to look at the quietly dressed young Englishman, that he was
going through a severe mental struggle. Without any difficulty he
found the store for which he was looking. The words on the sign, "J.
C. Smeaton & Co., Dry Goods," in black and gold, seemed charged with
open