ch his
thoughts and desires moved, which had more than once communicated its
passion to her; a touch of poetry, of melancholy, of greatness even--all
this she had gradually perceived. Winnipeg and the prairie journey had
developed him thus before her.

So much for the second stage in her knowledge of him. There was a third;
she was in the midst of it. Her face flooded with colour against her
will. "Out of the strong shall come forth sweetness." The words rushed
into her mind. She hoped, as one who wished him well, that he would
marry soon and happily. And the woman who married him would find it no
tame future.

Suddenly Delaine's warnings occurred to her. She laughed, a little
hysterically.

Could anyone have shown himself more helpless, useless, incompetent,
than Arthur Delaine since the accident? Yet he was still on the spot.
She realised, indeed, that it was hardly possible for their old friend
to desert them under the circumstances. But he merely represented an
additional burden.

A knock at the sitting-room door disturbed her. Anderson appeared.

"I am off to Banff, Lady Merton," he said from the threshold. "I think I
have all your commissions. Is your letter ready?"

She sealed it and gave it to him. Then she looked up at him; and for the
first time he saw her tremulous and shaken; not for her brother, but
for himself.

"I don't know how to thank you." She offered her hand; and one of those
beautiful looks--generous, friendly, sincere--of which she had
the secret.

He, too, flushed, his eyes held a moment by hers. Then he, somewhat
brusquely, disengaged himself.

"Why, I did nothing! He was in no danger; the guide would have had him
out in a twinkle. I wish"--he frowned--"you wouldn't look so done
up over it."

"Oh! I am all right."

"I brought you a book this morning. Mercifully I left it in the
drawing-room, so it hasn't been in the lake."

He drew it from his pocket. It was a French novel she had expressed a
wish to read.

She exclaimed,

"How did you get it?"

"I found Mariette had it with him. He sends it me from Vancouver. Will
you promise to read it--and rest?"

He drew a sofa towards the window. The June sunset was blazing on the
glacier without. Would he next offer to put a shawl over her, and tuck
her up? She retreated hastily to the writing-table, one hand upon it. He
saw the lines of her gray dress, her small neck and head; the Quakerish
smoothness of her brown hair, against the