nd as he waited for
her to speak, a fit of passion shook him. It betrayed itself only by
the sudden hardening of his face.

"It is the first time I have surprised you idle. You were dreaming,"
she said.

Winston smiled a trifle mirthlessly. "I was, but I am afraid the
fulfillment of the dreams is not for me. One is apt to be pulled up
suddenly when he ventures overfar."

"We are inquisitive, you know," said Maud Barrington; "can't you tell
me what they were?"

Winston did not know what impulse swayed him, and afterwards blamed
himself for complying, but the girl's interest compelled him, and he
showed her a little of what was in his heart.

"I fancied I saw Silverdale gorging the elevators with the choicest
wheat," he said. "A new bridge flung level across the ravine where the
wagons go down half-loaded to the creek; a dam turning the hollow into
a lake, and big turbines driving our own flouring mill. Then there
were herds of cattle fattening on the strippings of the grain that
wasteful people burn, our products clamored for, east in the old
country and west in British Columbia--and for a back-ground, prosperity
and power, even if it was paid for with half the traditions of
Silverdale. Still, you see it may all be due to the effect of the
fierce sunshine on an idle man's fancy."

Maud Barrington regarded him steadily, and the smile died out of her
eyes. "But," she said slowly, "is all that quite beyond realization.
Could you not bring it about?"

Winston saw her quiet confidence and something of her pride. There was
no avarice in this woman, but the slight dilation of the nostrils and
the glow in her eyes told of ambition, and for a moment his soul was
not his own.

"I could," he said, and Maud Barrington, who watched the swift
straightening of his shoulders and lifting of his head, felt that he
spoke no more than the truth. Then with a sudden access of bitterness,
"But I never will."

"Why?" she asked, "Have you grown tired of Silverdale, or has what you
pictured no charm for you?"

Winston leaned, as it were wearily, against the wheel of the mower. "I
wonder if you could understand what my life has been. The crushing
poverty that rendered every effort useless from the beginning, the
wounds that come from using imperfect tools, and the numb hopelessness
that follows repeated failure. They are tolerably hard to bear alone,
but it is more difficult to make the best of them when the poorly-fed