The Tall Pines

THE TALL PINES Celine Conway

Bret Winthrop, working on chemical research into forestry in Western Canada, was too absorbed in the ramifications of his work to give much thought to anything else. Marriage was stultifying; he had to have freedom to experiment, no ties that would draw him back to the house at stated times, and certainly no 'little woman' fretting herself silly on the edge of his existence. Life was extraordinarily simple and uncluttered if one excluded women. So he had little use for Loraine Farnley, a pale, slender English girl on a foolishly quixotic mission -- to find her brother's widow and small son. Yet somehow Bret was impelled to help her -- and to go on helping her.

CHAPTER I THE distant peaks were sharp and blue in the morning light, the lake a placid cobalt in its fringe of pines. The air came crisp and sweet with spring, and the birds, intoxicated with the knowledge that the snows were past and that the sun would daily grow warmer, chattered and trilled as they lined their nests in the birches and spruce which sheltered the garden. A garden patched at this moment with the mauve and yellow and magenta of violets, daffodils and primulas. Bret Winthrop, of course, noticed separately none of these beauties. He liked his big house of log walls and stone chimneys, and he had chosen it for the view and the convenience of being able to swim and fish almost from his own back door. But he had grown up in such country and took it for granted. Besides, he was deep in a problem, the tricky business of the chemical analysis of a certain inconsistent substance. To him, the graphs and pages of figures strewn in front of him on the log table at the edge of the garden were alive and tantalizing. Presently he sat back in the canvas chair and listened to the muted, rhythmic thwack of an axe upon wood, and he thought of Ted Muraille, who was a thick-set and swarthy Canuck and as loyal as they come. Winter here might have been depressing but for Ted and his wife, Gaby. They seemed to run the place with no trouble at all at least, Gaby did, while Ted lumberjacked in the foothills and came home most week-ends. He was home for the season now and looking about for fences to repair and walls to paint. Bret stretched and stood up, became aware of the youthfully middleaged woman who was crossing the lawn towards him. Dark, with streaks of grey in the neat hair, she wore a black skirt over her plump hips and a black cardigan over the white cotton blouse. Her English was fluent but accented.

"Bret, did you remember about that girl who wants to see you? I told you on Thursday that she had called and I'd advised her to come here on Sunday morning." "Oh, hell, Gaby," he said, exasperated. "I can't possibly give her a job. We've only two women and both have science degrees." "But she did not say she wanted a job. I said she should write to you at the research station and she insisted that what she wanted to see you about had nothing to do with your work." "What was she like?" The woman shrugged, her face lost a little of its rather formidable good nature. "Just a girl of something over twenty, Plain ... nothing to look at. English, I would say. She mentioned she would come at ten-thirty and it is almost that now." "Is she living down in Sainte Beauve?" A hint of hostility in her tone, Gaby answered, "I asked nothing of her. She was persistent, so I had to tell her you would be here on Sunday morning. That is all." "Well, if she comes I'll have to see her. Don't worry, Gaby," he mockingly gave the woman's shoulder a pat, "she's nothing out of my past. I didn't chip any hearts while I lived in England, and it sounds as if she'd have been too young then, anyway - and hardly the type." Gaby's dark eyes flashed up at him smilingly. Obviously she half adored this big man with the jutting nose and chin and the cynical mouth. "This girl has no emotional troubles," she said. "She is too pale and cold to have much of a heart at all! Will you come in now?"

"I'll be in soon. Don't forget the Mackenzies are coming over for the day." She reminded him, with a pretence of heat, that she had never yet forgotten a single one of his Sunday guests, and went back to the house with a Latin grace, in spite of her plumpness. Bret didn't watch her; he wasn't that interested in Gaby. He went to the log rail and looked down over the lake. He took a cigarette case from the pocket of his tweed shirt, lit up and blew smoke into the clear air. And as most Canadians do once in a while, he thought with pride of this huge country and its vast potentialities, of the tremendous amount of work that was still to be done and of the strength and complex character of its people. At one time he had regretted the urge which had turned him into a scientist, but lately he had become too absorbed in the ramifications of his work to give much thought to anything else. Ranching and forestry were too perennial to satisfy him; marriage was stultifying. He had to have freedom to experiment, no ties that would draw him back to the house at stated times, and certainly no "little woman" fretting herself silly on the edge of his existence. A wife was necessary to some men, but there were a good many men in the wilder parts of the country who got along admirably without being cluttered with romance. On the whole - his mouth moved with a trace of humour life was extraordinarily simple if one excluded women. A breeze rustled the papers he had left on the table and he turned about and bent to retrieve a couple which had drifted on to the grass and to packet them together in his hands. Strong hands, they were, long-fingered and bony and the colour of seasoned oak. He pushed one of them over the thick dark hair. There wouldn't be time for more work today, though he might put in an hour very late, before

bed. Still, he was fairly clear on the new experiment, and couldn't do much more on it till tomorrow morning, at the lab. It was as he took the path to the house that he heard the racket of an old car on the road at the other side of the house. Brakes gave a protesting squeal and he guessed that Sainte Beauve's solitary auto mechanic had been called into action. Bret entered the long modern kitchen and paused for a moment in its emptiness. A little breathlessly Gaby came in from the living-room. "All right," he said tolerantly, "she's arrived. Is the car waiting?" "Yes. It's that Kennedy from the garage." "Which means the young lady will soon be on her way." Grudgingly, Gaby queried, "Do we not offer her a cup of coffee and a cookie?" ' "I'll let you know. You might dump this parcel of papers on the desk in my bedroom." He walked carelessly in the living-room, saw a slim figure silhouetted against the window and waited, with male selfassurance, for the second when she would be wholly conscious of him. He appraised her and decided Gaby was right. Not much to attract in the pale skin, the thin shoulders clad in correct heathercoloured tweed, the plain brown shoes. Her features, when she turned round, were unremarkable, and the impression she gave was of shyness and lack of colour. Something about her negativeness irritated him, so that his voice, when he addressed her, had a thread of metal. "I'm Bret Winthrop," he said abruptly. "Won't you sit down?

She didn't look about her at the dark gleaming wood and gay colours, but at once lowered herself into a thong-seated armchair, drew in her neat ankles and looked up at him. It was then that he noticed a suggestion of determination about the small moulded chin. "You've never heard of me, Mr. Winthrop," she said in a quiet but firm little voice. "My name is Loraine Farnley and I arrived in Sainte Beauve last Tuesday, from England.' "I gathered from my housekeeper that you came from England," he said, as he moved across to the massive fireplace which was built up with unlit logs. "What can I do for you?" "Well, it's a little difficult to explain, but I'll try not to be longwinded." Again she looked up, a glance that was a very clear dark blue. "Do you know the name Farnley at all?" He pondered; digging his hands into his pockets. "I don't believe I do." "I thought you wouldn't." Her head lowered, showing him a soft, honey-coloured circle of hair around a felt hat that matched the suit. "I made enquiries and found that you came to the Twin Rivers Research Station only two years ago, as its principal. My brother worked there for some time, but he died just three years ago, so you wouldn't have met him. Actually, I'm trying to locate his ... his widow and small son." "I see." He straightened, took a carved box from a niche beside the fireplace and flipped it open. "Smoke?" Her hand lifted, and quickly dropped again. "No, thanks. I suppose you think I have a nerve, coming to you, but honestly, I'm at a dead end."

"If you arrived only last Tuesday," he replied a little crisply, "you can't have eliminated every possibility. Tell me more of the circumstances." She waited till he was smoking, then said, with an evenness that meant her emotions were well reined, "My brother Patrick was ten years older than I. He trained as a research chemist, got a government job in England and then had an opportunity of coming to Canada. The research station at Twin Rivers had only just been completed, and he was part of the first staff to take over. In those days it was hush-hush, but we knew from his letters that he was keen about the work." "Your parents and yourself?" he put in. "My mother and I. My father died when I was small I hadn't long left school when Patrick wrote that he was to be married. My mother was terribly disturbed about it because he'd only, been in Canada a few months and she thought he should wait till he and the ... the girl were better acquainted. However, it happened, and a year or so later they had a son." "So it was a happy marriage, if brief? " She let out a short sigh. "There was no way of telling. Patrick's letters were fewer and unsatisfactory, and his wife never answered any we wrote to her; she didn't even acknowledge gifts for the baby. My mother was heartbroken. She adored Patrick and was ready to adore his wife and child. Her life had always been cushioned because everyone loved her and would do anything she asked, but it came so that I was the only one left. She couldn't get out of her mind the fact that Patrick had more or less given us up and didn't want to come home and see us, even for a visit. It seemed like the last straw when he even ceased writing to us."

Bret flicked the cigarette he had just lighted into the fireplace. With a hint of hardness in his voice he asked, "Surely she was at fault in not coming over for the wedding? After all, if your brother couldn't get away that was the obvious thing to do." Loraine's lower lip drew in very slightly. The face which looked smooth and innocent as a tea rose was suddenly closed and withdrawn. But she said, "My mother was uncertain about it, and she did what she thought best. Patrick's first letter on the subject was quickly followed by a second saying the marriage was an accomplished fact. We sent gifts and waited, hoping for a friendly letter from the bride." Again the flash of dark blue from her eyes. "I don't suppose you've ever sat back and waited for anything, Mr. Winthrop. You've gone right after anything you've wanted, so you haven't known our kind of frustration." "What about you?" He sounded brusque, impatient. "Couldn't you yourself have done something tangible?" "I did all I could. My mother grew thin and fragile, and couldn't be left. Patrick was constantly in her thoughts - an obsession. When his letters ceased she became terribly ill, and in desperation I contacted the superintendent at Twin Rivers for news of my brother. He wrote that Patrick had been killed two and a half months before in a mountain-climbing accident." Bret took a walk across to the window, stopped there and then turned back. "And you never got in touch with the wife?" She shook her head. "I wrote and telegraphed; everything was returned. I was so worried that I even got a private enquiry agent on the job, and some time later we learned that she'd left Sainte Beauve immediately after my brother's death and could not be traced. The agent inserted advertisements in Canadian newspapers and we had some replies, but none that led anywhere."

"All that happened between two and three years ago?" "Yes." Her voice lowered. "My mother became an invalid; she never ceased hoping to hear news of her grandson, and it was a sort of pact between us that when I should be ... free," with a faint quiver of the lip, "I would try to find him. I'm free now. My mother died very suddenly just after Christmas." Bret looked at her and thought of pallid flowers growing under trees in English woods. She was one of the sheltered sort, but all stiff upper lip and mistaken loyalty; one way and another she must have borne quite a load. It would have cost her something in courage and fortitude to get out from under the familiar roof and take off across the Atlantic, and the thought of all that keyed-up effort annoyed him. Women were the most foolish creatures on earth. Particularly, this young woman rasped him because she had lost so much yet had stiffened herself against sympathy. "Suppose we come to your arrival in Sainte Beauve," he suggested offhandedly. "What have you been doing?" She was admirably collected. "First, I went to the address my brother used to write from, and then I spoke to their neighbours. None of them knew much about Andra and little Pat, but I did learn that she was pretty and of good family. No one knew where she had come from or where she went, but several advised me to get in touch with members of your staff who live in the Twin Rivers township. I had no idea how to set about it till I met the schoolteacher, Mollie Blain. It was on Miss Blain's advice that I called here to see you. She felt you wouldn't mind." Bret's grey eyes went keen. "I'm not sure I care for the tone in which you said that. Why should I mind?"

"I don't know." With her hands folded in her lap and her chin tilted she gave an impression of complete girlish candour. "Since you came into the room I've been aware of antagonism in the atmosphere, and it must come from you because there's only the two of us here. Maybe you feared I'd come to beg a job far beyond my capacity." "My dear girl," he said coolly, "if you had I wouldn't have had the least compunction in turning you down. Where my work is concerned I'm ruthless." "And not only where your work is concerned," she nodded comprehendingly. "Well, perhaps I'm wrong. Possibly the chill in the air is normal in a bachelor establishment. I wouldn't know." She stood up. "I apologize for troubling you." "Sit down," he said sharply. "You haven't told me exactly what it was you expected of me." She gave a short quiet laugh which was without mirth. "I'm not too sure myself, now. You see, I thought you'd be rather different - kind and elderly, and I meant to ask, quite casually, whether it would be possible for me to meet those of your present employees who knew my brother and his wife. Now that I realize one is expected to come quickly to the point, I'm a little doubtful as to what the point is. I suppose what I really hoped was that you'd allow me to have half an hour at your office with any of your men who were my brother's associates. It would save me a lot of tramping." Bret took a few strides, opened the door to the kitchen. "Gaby," he called, "you might bring that coffee." "Not for me, thanks," said Loraine. "I really wouldn't have come if Miss Blain ..."

"We've had all that," he returned tersely. He regarded her speculatively. "I can't have you at the research station, but I'll question all those on the staff who were there when I took over. If I were you, though, I'd let the whole thing lie. I wouldn't mind betting no good will come of raking over the ashes." "You mean I'll never find them?" "I mean that if you do find them, you may wish you hadn't. The woman never once wrote to you, so it's safe to assume she didn't want to know you. Maybe the marriage was anything but happy; you had only your brother's side of it and you admit he was uncommunicative." "Patrick was reserved." "I can believe that," he said with irony. "Was his wife a Canadian?" "Yes, but I don't know where her family lived." "Or her maiden name?" "He never told us that." She hesitated. "With a man like Patrick you didn't... probe." "I dare say you think I'm digging," he said bluntly, "but it's as well to remember that you came to me, not I to you. I think you were a fool to make the trip to Canada on such a mission. Your mother's health was failing and she probably attached far too much importance to the fact of possessing a grandson she was never likely to see. She would have been better employed in getting you married in England. That way she might have lived longer to enjoy other grandchildren." Gradually, as he spoke, Loraine went white. She stood up again, slowly, but now the red mouth was compressed and resolute. "You

have a distinctly earthy slant on life, Mr. Winthrop, and you make no allowances for other people's sensibilities." She had to break off there because Gaby Muraille came in, bearing a tray. She felt the woman's dark glance take her in comprehensively as it had the other day, and heard him say, "Thanks, Gaby," and close the kitchen door after her. He looked at Loraine across the table. "How old are you?" "Nearly twenty-three." "Is your independence .financial as well as mental?" "Only for a few months. If you must know," she said coldly, "it was my mother's wish that the money she left be used for this purpose." "Are you trained to earn your living?" "How does that concern you?" Calmly he poured coffee from a tall brown pot into cups that were white inside and yellow outside. "It doesn't concern me at all," he said. "I was merely trying to drive home to you the fact that you're a complete idiot. I share with most people a reluctance to speak ill of the departed, but I feel bound to remark that in my opinion your mother's illness made her small-minded and selfish. Hear me out!" He raised a hand as she made to speak. "Patrick, immersed in his job, goes off to Canada, leaving you to look after your mother, who frets first about his absence and then about his marriage. But she hangs on closely to you, who take care of her. Milk?" "No!"

"Maybe you can do with black coffee, at that," he said, eyeing her critically. "When was the last time anyone was honest with you about yourself?" "I'm really not interested in your views," she said in small sharp tones. "Good-bye, Mr. Winthrop!" She was much nearer the door, but somehow he was there first, 'with his fingers on the handle. He looked down at her, his eyes narrowed, mouth cynical. "Can't take it, can you?" he said. "I must have been very near the truth." She was taut, gathered in. "You're insufferable. Please let me go." "Sure you won't have a coffee?" he asked politely. "Quite sure. I don't want anything from you - not even the help you were magnanimous enough to offer." He drew back the door and she stepped quickly into the opening. "I'm sorry to have bothered you," she ended frigidly, and walked out. The man who was lolling over the wheel of an old saloon car straightened up, leaned over and opened the other door. "Good morning, Mr. Winthrop," he said, a hint of brogue in the drawl. "Looks like a good spring." "But chilly, I thought," Bret answered, a crooked smile on his welldefined lips. "Seems to be a breath of cool air from across the Atlantic.'-' Quite firmly he took hold of an elbow that seemed anxious to avoid his touch, and Loraine found herself seated and the car door closed. She was aware of him on the gravel drive, as unmoved in his demeanour as when she had first met him, but she did not look his way as the car moved off..

Bret waved a negligent hand, and went up the stone steps to the porch and into the living-room. Gaby was there, examining the coffee tray." "The girl had no coffee?"- she said curiously. "Probably a tea-drinker," he said carelessly as he lowered himself into a leather chair.' "She is like something locked up very securely. One wonders what she can possibly be doing here." . "Does one?" For one morning, Bret had had enough of Loraine Farnley. He had no intention of discussing her. "You might ask Ted to bring round the horses as soon as the Mackenzies arrive. We'll take a ride before lunch." He leaned back, holding his coffee-cup. He saw a tan glove lying beside the chair the girl had used, and the neat smallness of it irritated him. Here, women wore gloves to keep their hands warm. They didn't put on their best suit and its trappings for a Sunday morning call. The pale slender creature was out of place, and the sooner she went home the better. After which decision, Bret opened a newspaper and enjoyed his coffee. * Because he had behaved so entirely differently from what she had anticipated, Loraine found Bret- Winthrop less easy to forget. As she had told him, she had expected to meet someone older and more agreeable, but the fact of his being only thirty- two or three would not have mattered had he accepted her at her own valuation. Instead, he had told her in that lazy voice with a thread of iron running through it that she was a fool, and he hadn't minded being hurtful in other directions, either. He had implied that her mother was a gentle leech, that she herself was a colourless thing who hadn't had the

nerve to break away. As if it were possible to leave a mother who needed constant care and attention! Loraine never minded admitting to herself that she would have liked a career. It had taken her a long time to recover from the disappointment of having to refuse to take a post with her cousin, who was an interior decorator, and she had sometimes harboured the treacherous thought that nursing in a hospital would have been more rewarding and even more enjoyable than devoting herself to the needs of one querulous woman in a tall old-fashioned house in Worcester. But love for a mother dies hard, and Loraine's didn't die at all, even when she had come to know, bitterly, that Mrs. Farnley would go to lengths to deny her daughter marriage rather than lose an ever-present nurse. Loraine drew herself more tightly into her corner seat. She looked at, without seeing, the pine-covered slope to Lake Wincona, and she thought how positively uncanny it was that that big brute up there at the log house had unwittingly brushed her most tender spot. She had been so fond of Roland, so wounded by his sudden engagement to someone else. And what had she felt after his marriage, when her 'mother had confessed outright to telling him that Loraine could never love him? "It was for your own good, dear," the thin sweet voice had said. "Roland couldn't really have loved you, or he wouldn't have married another girl. Besides, we're happy as we are, aren't we? We don't need a man about the house." No, Loraine hadn't permitted herself to feel much. Only a little sick for Roland, who had married on a mild rebound, and perhaps a spot of anguish for what she might have had, and had missed. Anyway, she wouldn't have married while her mother needed her.

"Nice place Mr. Winthrop's got up there above the lake," said the driver conversationally. "It's halfway between Sainte Beauve and Twin Rivers. Are you interested in this country, miss?" "I've never thought of it that way. It's vast and very lovely." Her tone must have discouraged him, for he drove on in silence. But his question had its effect on Loraine's thoughts. She had been seventeen when Patrick left for Canada, and she remembered treasuring those early letters in which he had described the rolling prairies, the mountains and forests, the modern cities, the warmhearted people. She had dreamed of a time when she would visit him and see it all for herself. Now, here it was, and it meant almost nothing. Because she was on a quest which was three parts distasteful and quite likely to be a failure. What sort of woman was Andra Farnley? Had she loved Patrick and left Sainte Beauve because after his death its associations were painful? And what of little Patrick, who would now be around four years old? Try as she would, Loraine could visualize neither of them, though sometimes she had the ghastly conviction that Andra had had the child put into an orphanage or with a foster-mother. Which was silly. Andra and Pat were probably living with Andra's parents in one of the big towns. Andra would have a job and she would bring home little treats for the child and read him bed-time stories, like any other young mother. By now the car was entering the small town of Sainte Beauve, which nestled in a green valley. It was an old town founded by a man of that name, and in the Sunday quiet it looked grey and sleepy against the washy blue of the sky. The main street was long, gradually changing character as it travelled through the tiny shopping centre, the office blocks, old houses and cheap frame dwellings; at the end it ran straight out into the country again. But while they were still among the frame houses Kennedy took a turn

which brought them into another road, at the end of which stood the wooden school buildings in their own gravelled plot. The car stopped and Loraine got out. "Thank you very much, Mr. Kennedy," she said. "How much do I owe you?" "Eight dollars," he said, "being Sunday." It seemed an outrageous amount, but then so had her hotel bill. That was why she had been so glad to accept Mollie's offer of a bedroom in the schoolhouse. She paid and thanked him, walked the few yards to the house door and rapped. It was all very unreal, she told herself during the minute or two that she waited. On Tuesday she had booked in at the hotel in the shopping centre, and on Wednesday, during one of her calls in the avenue where Patrick had lived, she had been introduced to Mollie Blain. They had left the house together, and Mollie, who was well over thirty and of ScotsCanadian stock, had insisted that Loraine go home with her to supper. The rest had followed, naturally. Mollie was told the story and had offered information and advice. She had also offered to have a bed put in the end room and stated there was nothing she would like better than to have a housemate for a while. Loraine could pay half the expenses, but there was no rent to find because the schoolhouse adjoined the school and the schoolma'am had it for nothing. "How many times do I have to tell you the door's never locked?" said Mollie in her pleasant nasal tones as she opened it now. "You belong here and you don't have to knock, anyway. Well," she pulled off the check duster which had covered her brown hair against the dust, "how did you get on?"

Loraine dropped her cap and bag on to the hardwood table and pushed her fingers through her hair. "It was grim," she said. "No assistance from that quarter, I'm afraid." "No, really?" Mollie's face, homely except for the perfect Grecian nose, was a little puzzled and serious. "I'd have thought Bret Winthrop would help you. He's quite a guy in these parts. What happened?" Sketchily, carefully omitting most of her own reactions, Loraine explained. "I don't know why," she said, "but I felt I couldn't bear the man from the beginning, and all the time we were speaking I had a strong desire to do the opposite of anything he might suggest. He looked me over as if I were something in a shop window," Mollie laughed. "You do give that impression, Loraine. Here, we're a long way from the big city and don't go in for smartness. Even the rich among us prefer an air of careless elegance to tailor-made perfection. I know that suit you wear is years old - you've told me but it's an English cut. And the way you wear it ... well, you're one on your own." She threw out a large, well-shaped hand, smiling. "You mustn't mind being a bit of a curiosity. You didn't grow up the way we did." Loraine sighed. "I didn't realize it would be so much of a drawback. My brother grew up in the same atmosphere and he got on well enough in Canada." "I never once spoke to your brother, but I do remember knowing him for an Englishman without being told. You'd settle down here, if you had to," Mollie said comfortingly. "I'm used to big spaces and white winters and good summers myself, but I dare say in time I could fit into an English community, if it were necessary."

"I'm sure you could." Loraine sat on the faded chintz seat of a small hard chair. She indicated the array of little plant pots on the window-sill, the plain scarred furniture, the worn rugs, the moosehead over the door. "Don't you ever hanker for anything different, Mollie?" "Not now." Mollie spoke ponderingly, with a smile. "I'm a born spinster, I guess. I did have a proposal once, from a lanky Swede who owned a cabin and a few acres three hundred miles from nowhere. He had quiet ways and a nice smile, but I thought it over and the school won. I have nearly fifty children aged from five to ten and I teach them all myself. I clean the schoolroom, paint it up, I serve hot soup in winter and cold milk in summer, and do dozens of other jobs, yet I'm never overworked, because I love it and am able to give all my time to it. I wouldn't want things to be any different." "I almost envy you." "That's because you've been lonely, but there's no need for loneliness here in Sainte Beauve. We've been invited out to dinner tonight - remember? And we have regular dancing socials on Saturdays - all friends together and good fun." She paused. "You know, that sister-in-law of yours must have been a little peculiar, the way she managed to keep aloof from the social life here. Your brother was an Englishman, of course, which might account for part of it, but normally, young married women get together for tea and baby-talk. She didn't go in for that sort of thing, it seems." Loraine rested an elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. "It looks as if I shall have to make a round of the houses at Twin Rivers, after all. This time I'll travel by bus." "It'll be a tiring business, I'm afraid, and I'd certainly put out a few more enquiries first, if I were you. Twin Rivers is nothing like Sainte Beauve. Five years ago the township didn't exist; they'd have

been building while your brother was here - which was probably the reason he chose a house in Sainte Beauve. The men who built the research plant, and later the township for the staff, used to stay in Sainte Beauve, but they passed on to other contracts elsewhere. The township is laid out like a modern garden village and they have only one store, a supermarket like ours. The research station stands on the side of a hill, suitably surrounded by a twelve-foot barbed-wire fence. It's queer," she murmured reminiscently, "how very different it has been here since Twin Rivers came into being. Sainte Beauve used to be just a sleepy little burg in the wilderness." For the rest of that day Loraine felt rather flat. Perhaps she had depended too heavily upon the outcome of the interview with Mr. Winthrop. After all, what would a man of his type care about the problems of a stranger? He had shown interest, certainly, but one didn't have to be clairvoyant to see that he had no sympathy for her search, no real understanding of the position she was in. She would have to look elsewhere for help. On Monday morning it rained and she scoured Mollie's house. It was good to see the children congregate in groups, jumping and chattering till Mollie came out. They pushed up the steps into the schoolroom with her, gave off a muted sort of bedlam for a few minutes, and then trilled their opening hymn. Loraine turned on the radio and listened to a serial play without taking it in. She walked about the three rooms, scarcely aware of the old furniture and washed-out cotton prints. What was the next step? Would it be of any use to advertise again in the big cities? Would Andra reply to such an advertisement, even if she happened to see it? Loraine doubted it. When Mollie came in late that afternoon, Loraine was darning a worn patch on one of the chair cushions. The older woman took off

her jacket and unbuttoned the neck of her blouse. She shook her head at Loraine, consideringly. "You've taken this thing too much to heart. You don't think of anything else, do you?" ' "Hardly. It does happen to be my reason for being here." . "Well, I'm dashed if I'd give so much to it, in your shoes." She paused. "Have you noticed any of the men in Sainte Beauve?" "Of course." Mollie shrugged. "I doubt if you have, really. We're a nice bunch. I noticed the brother of our lawyer looking at you as if he'd like to know you better. You know - at dinner last night." Loraine smiled. "I'm not being paired off, Mollie," she said firmly. "Not even temporarily. This visit to Canada is strictly business." "A gal with a purpose." Mollie flipped her fingers. "The smile you gave just now was sweet, but you don't use it often enough. Honestly, I wish you'd forget this Andra person and have a good time. Supposing you do meet up with her - what are you going to get out of it? It's absurd." "It's the reason I spent the money on the trip." "But it doesn't have to become the obsession it was with your mother. Andra can never mean much in your life, but there are people here who could mean quite a bit to you, if you'd let them." Loraine's features tightened a little. She looked down at the cushion on her lap and the needle moved rather faster in and out of the threads. "To someone with my limitations close relationships aren't very sensible."

Mollie walked casually to the window, fingered a budding plant in a yellow bowl. "I believe I know what's happened to you, Loraine. Someone's hurt you and you've grown a hide, but inside you're still so sensitive you can't bear to be touched. I'm not prying. I just thought you'd like to be reminded that some wounds heal better when exposed to fresh air." Without much expression Loraine said, "It isn't like that. I'm not hiding a broken heart, or anything of that sort." Yet had she given herself time to think about it, Loraine might have admitted to possessing a heart that was hypersensitive yet insulated by years of agreeing with and obeying her mother. But at that moment there came a sharp rap on the door and Mollie moved to open it. From where she sat Loraine could not see who stood there, but she heard Mollie say, "Why, thanks, Ted. She's right here; I'll give it to her. Come in while I make some coffee? All right. Good-bye." Mollie drew back and closed the door, waved a bulky letter under her own nose, and winked at Loraine. "Smells of smoke and perfume. It's for you from Bret Winthrop. I wonder when he started to use English lavender?" Loraine was startled, then suddenly relieved. "He must have returned the glove I dropped there; I was wondering how to get it back. The smoke is his, the lavender's mine." "They don't mix," stated Mollie. "In fact, they're positively at war." Loraine held the envelope for a moment, looked at the strong even writing, then slipped a finger under the flap. She took out the glove, opened the sheet of notepaper and read. She went through the paragraph twice, and looked up. to find her companion waiting with lively interest for the outcome.

"I'll bet he makes some slick remark about that glove," said Mollie. "No, he's very businesslike. Enquiries among his staff turned up nothing new, but he wants me to meet Dr. John Carland, who attended my sister-in-law." "Why, of course! Why didn't we think of that?" Mollie was almost excited. "John would know more about her than anyone, but being a doctor he wouldn't reveal secrets to any but next of kin. Trust Bret to jab a finger right oh the vital spot!" "You seem to be awfully familiar with all these men." "Everyone uses first names in Sainte Beauve. You'll get used to it." Eager and thoughtful, Mollie looked much younger. "John Carland has been a doctor in Sainte Beauve for several years, and he's surgeon and consultant at the Twin Rivers clinic. A fine man. If I were you I'd go along to his house at about nine tomorrow morning." Loraine passed finger and thumb over the thick texture of the notepaper. "As a matter of fact I have a chance of meeting him tonight. Mr. Winthrop says Dr. Carland is going up to Wincona Lodge for dinner ... and I'm invited, too." "Well, well." Mollie's mouth dented at one corner. "That's Bret for you. Enlist him one day and you're on the march the next, under his orders! Does he expect you to pay that scrounging Kennedy to take you there?" "It seems he'll be in town and will pick me up. Mollie," she sounded almost desperate. "I'd much rather not go. If Dr. Car- land lives in Sainte Beauve ..." "There, now," said Mollie soothingly, "they won't bite. Dr. John's approach to women is clinical, and Bret mocks at us for the nuisance

we are. Just have the meal and a talk with John. The strictly business angle, that you came for." Loraine nodded. Impossible to explain her reluctance to revisit the big log house above Lake Wincona, but it undeniably existed. She snipped the cotton, placed the cushion on the chair to which it belonged, and picked up the letter. By now, Mollie had gone to her bedroom, and Loraine passed quickly down the short dark passage to the tiny storeroom which had been converted for her use. She closed the door, stood still for a minute and realized that since reading those few lines she had not once thought of what they might mean regarding Andra and little Pat. For the first time in years she had put her own feelings first, and the knowledge frightened her. She opened the cupboard and looked at her clothes; they were few but fairly good. What did one wear for such an occasion? Last night, at Mollie's suggestion, she had worn the grey jersey dress with the white collar, but somehow she felt it wouldn't do at all for tonight, and the only alternative, while the evenings remained cold, was the powder-blue woollen. Standing there, with her hand on the cupboard door, she looked sideways and noticed the letter lying where she had dropped it, on the bed-cover. She saw the big dark man writing it at the bureau in that living-room, a cigarette in his left hand, a twist of sarcasm at his lips as he penned the last sentence: "I am sure you will have no hesitation in accepting this invitation when I tell you that Dr. Carland is an Englishman." What an annoying, arrogant creature he was. She supposed it came of being ranch-bred and clever too. Perhaps after tonight she need have nothing to do with Bret Winthrop. She sincerely hoped so.

CHAPTER II THE air that came through the car window was cold and invigorating. Wild geese flew overhead in the dusk, beating their wings and crying with a strange joy as they dipped towards the lake. The sky was full of them and then they were gone, settling into the marshy growth of the creeks where they would make their nests and multiply. "They come up from the south each spring," said Bret, "and migrate in the fall. You haven't tasted anything till you've sampled wild goose." It was the first time he had spoken since putting her into the car outside the schoolhouse. He had greeted her coolly, exchanged a pleasantry with Mollie and got the car moving. Loraine's uncomfortably quickened pulses had had time, during the slow climb, to steady to a more normal rate. "I suppose," she said, "I ought to apologize for getting angry with you yesterday." "Not if you don't feel like it," he returned negligently. "It wasn't a very alarming show you put on." Vexation rose in her again, but she quelled it. "I expect you know already that you're an aggravating man — it's probably a line you take with people like me." "To be candid," he said, swinging the car round a rising bend, "I've never before had dealings with anyone like you - in Canada, that is. I thought your type was pretty well extinct, even in England." Roused, she asked, "What's so odd about my type?"

His shoulders lifted. "You'll probably start simmering again if I tell you." "Well, it's a cold night." He smiled suddenly, and looked at her. "You're a bit unexpected. I was about to tell you that you're only half alive, but maybe I should qualify that. You're just afraid to wake up. You have your own little set of rules and if others don't play up to them you're scared. The fault isn't yours, of course; it's in your upbringing. You need a couple of years on a ranch." "You mean I would need it if I were staying here. I'm sure I shall get along in England without it." "You'll get along," he conceded, "but only in a confined, muted sort of way. Still, it's the life you're probably cut out for." Abruptly he changed the topic. "I dare say Mollie Blain told you all there is to know about Doc. Carland?" "Yes. She was cross that we didn't think of contacting him ourselves. Does he know much about Andra?" "He didn't tell me much, but I believe he knows a few details that you don't. He remembers receiving a letter from an enquiry agent in England - that would be the agent you employed. Doctors are cagey about divulging facts to strangers, so his reply to the letter was noncommittal. I'm sure he'll be frank with you now, though." They had already passed under the great log arch at the end of the drive and were now curving round towards the side of the house where the porch was. Bret got out and came round to her, put a light hand to the middle of her back as he led her into the big livingroom.

Tonight the room was different. Flames licked about the massive logs in the fireplace, illumining the dark gleam of the low table, which held glasses, a couple of bottles and a siphon. The french door which opened to the garden and the lakeside was closed and curtained in dark red, and at the other end of the room a tall lamp shed another glow. There was plenty of soft warm light, mellowing the bright cushions, the skin rugs and handwoven carpeting, and the heat was wonderfully pleasant after the chilly outdoors. Bret lifted the tweed coat from her shoulders. "John will be here any time now. What do you drink?" "Anything, so long as there isn't much of it." Sitting in the thonged armchair with a cushion at her back, Loraine looked across at him. In the moving light he looked tall and strong and fiendishly sure of himself. His smile showed white teeth, the dark jacket outlined wide shoulders. It was distinctly strange to be here alone with him; a little maddening, too, because he was so uncaring. Soberly, Loraine wondered what was happening to her, and had another go at the Martini. "There isn't much reason for English people to come to Sainte Beauve, is there?" she said. "What happens to new immigrants in this country?" "They start out in Toronto or Montreal, size up the country and move on to wherever there are good jobs going. A couple of my staff are English, but they were sent out, like your brother. The rest are a mixture of nationalities." He paused and said calmly, "You're getting interested in spite of yourself." "I'm not!" she retorted, quite hotly; and then, with exasperation, "Why shouldn't I get interested? When you're waiting for something you don't stop living."

"Good for you," he said equably. "I wouldn't have guessed you had it in you. How do you like being with Mollie Blain?" "Very much. She's amazing." "The salt of the earth," he agreed. "Do you feel an urge to be like her - to live in a state of single bliss and deal only with other people's children?" "I might, in time." "Why? Does the thought of falling in love frighten you?" "I'm sure it didn't frighten Mollie," she said with spirit. "Mollie's quite another can of beans. I've only known her for the couple of years I've been here, but I wouldn't mind betting she's never been capable of inspiring or experiencing the red-hot feelings that are said to attack most of us." "What has that kind of emotion to do With falling in love?" Very slightly, his eyes narrowed. "You'll probably find out one day. Most girls of your age have already had one searing affair, but you're not quite like the rest. Didn't you know any men in England?" "I knew a few, mostly neighbours I'd been friendly with since childhood." He had sat down and was leaning towards her negligently, baiting her. "Didn't you find yourself growing fond of one of them?" Her heart seemed to miss a beat or two and drop a little. She heard herself saying very quietly, "Yes, I did."

Then a car stopped outside and its door slammed. A peculiar tension in the atmosphere seemed to snap, and Bret was on his feet, opening the door. The man who came in was slightly shorter than Bret and perhaps five years older. He had a squarish bony face, brown hair that was greying at the temples, and a mouth both humorous and gentle. Even before Bret made the introduction he held out a hand to Loraine. Bret said, "Miss Farnley's not as shy as she looks. What will you drink, John?" "A very small whisky with loads of water." He came round to Loraine's side and dropped into a chair between hers and the fire. "So you're Loraine Farnley," he said. "Patrick once told me he had a sister, but he spoke as if you were still at school." "Did he?" She coloured with a pleasure that was tinged with remembered grief. "Did you know him well?" "He was perfectly healthy, so he was never my patient, and I didn't meet either of them socially. It was Mrs. Farnley I knew best - and then only in the course of my work." He tried his drink. "We must have a talk about it later." "I'm afraid I'm a little impatient." With the firelight on her small features she looked young and appealing. "I don't mind postponing the discussion if you'll just tell me one thing. Can you think of any way in which I might get in touch with Andra?" John Carland hesitated, looked at Bret. Bret said easily, "Well, you can answer that one, can't you? What about this attorney chap in Calgary?"

So the discussion wasn't postponed, after all. Bret had small part in it; he leaned back in his chair, smoking and listening, occasionally letting his dark grey glance move from the tired but interested face of the doctor to that of the pale, blue-eyed girl. "As a person," John Carland said, "I didn't know Andra Farnley at all. She was my patient and I attended the child for minor troubles till they left. Some women are friendly, others reveal themselves in various ways, but Mrs. Farnley remained a mystery. She was goodlooking, dressed well and was pleased she had a son. But I can't tell you a thing about her beyond that." "And this business with the lawyer?" He nodded thoughtfully. "I have his name and address in my diary. It seemed that the child was entitled to a legacy, and Mrs. Farnley had given the lawyer my name, as her doctor. As well as the birth certificate he had to have my sworn statement about the bona fides of the baby's birth. That was all I knew." Loraine was leaning forward, hands clasped upon her knees. In the rosy light her eyes sparkled. "He'll know where they are. He's bound to! I must see him. Where is Calgary?" Bret put in dryly, "In Alberta, about a thousand miles away." "Heavens," she said, sobered. "I'd better write first. I can hardly wait." "Even if you saw the chap you might not get anywhere," said the doctor. "It's unlikely that he'll tell you Mrs. Farnley's whereabouts, if he knows them. The most he'll do is promise to get in touch with her and let her know you're here." "In which case she might remain as unreachable as ever," sighed Loraine. "Still, the man is a link, isn't he? And all I want is to see

Andra and the little boy - not to establish any kind of relationship with them." She paused. "Doesn't it strike you as extraordinary that a woman of her sort should have ignored us so completely? I'm sure it must have hurt my brother." "When a man marries he shifts his loyalties," said Bret, with an undertone of irony. "Would you say she was a woman of sense, John?" "A great deal of sense. She was thoroughly balanced and perfectly contented, I believe, to have no friends." Loraine said, "She must have found Patrick ... satisfying." This remark dropped into a silence. The doctor merely looked as if he did not think it required an answer, and Bret got up to toss his cigarette into the fire. The movement seemed to be a signal, for there came a tap at the door which communicated with the kitchen and Gaby Muraille looked in. "Good evening, everyone," she said. "Dinner is ready, Bret." ''Fine. We're coming." The dining-room was actually a spacious alcove off the unused end of the big, panelled kitchen. One mounted steps into it, sat at a polished blackwood table and in daytime could look down over the lake in its nest of pines. Tonight the heavy red curtains were drawn and a pedestal rioting with greenery and spring flowers stood against them. They ate fish and steaks and delicious pink puddings. There were new rolls, salad, yellow butter and wine, and the coffee Gaby served in the living-room was superb even to Loraine's unpracticed palate.

Idly, while the men lit up, Loraine wondered about Gaby Muraille. She talked to Bret as if they were friends rather than employer and housekeeper, but obviously she aimed only to please him. The meals in this house were always excellent, Loraine guessed, the dishes chosen because Bret liked them. The woman took no extra trouble for visitors because she had already extended herself to her utmost for him. She probably mended as well as she cooked, and the polished surfaces were further evidences of her industry and devotion. No wonder he was so opposed to marriage! The brief remainder of the evening was unremarkable. She was asked a few questions about England, was given advice on how to spend her stay in Canada. Bret remained aloof but companionable. He was apparently accustomed to entertaining the doctor, and the fact that she happened to he there this week was merely incidental. He had done what he conceived to be his duty. Loraine was annoyed to .find that his aloofness hurt a little. At a quarter to ten John Carland said he must go. He had to look in on a patient. "I can drop Miss Farnley on my way," he said. "Save you the journey, Bret." "Right. Sure you won't have a nightcap, either of you?" He helped Loraine with her coat. She felt him turn up the collar at the back; an automatic gesture. He must have done it many times before, to other people ... other women. His Canadian tones as he moved with them into the porch were suave and agreeable. John Carland went round to get into his car, and for an instant Loraine felt Bret's hand on her wrist, an impersonal pressure to draw her attention.

Quietly he said, "Don't post your letter to the attorney till we've had another word together. Agreed?" • She looked up at him, startled. "Well, I ..." "For Pete's sake," he said softly, savagely. "I'm not asking the moon, and it's for your own good. There's another angle to it, that's all. I'll see you tomorrow." "Very well," she murmured dazedly, and took her seat beside the doctor. Whether Gaby's rich cooking or Bret"s sudden change of temperament were to blame Loraine hardly knew, but she had to admit to feeling distinctly queer as they wound down the drive and on to the road. The night was dark and fragrant, Sainte Beauve lay like a distant scatter of diamonds in the valley and the lake was as black as a hole. On a sigh she said, "I'm awfully glad you're English, Dr. Car- land. I hadn't realized before that Englishmen are soothing." He smiled. "As a matter of fact I count myself a Canadian, I came here years ago and haven't been back, even for a visit. The country grows on you." "Don't you find the people overpowering? I'd no sooner arrived than Mollie Blain transferred me from the hotel to a room in the schoolhouse. I made lots of calls and at every house I was offered tea or coffee and savouries and cakes. I could have been one of the family in no time at all. Then Mr. Winthrop." She paused doubtfully. "He's the most overwhelming of the lot." "He's only a second generation Canadian, and he's lived all over the place - England, Spain, Mexico. He's at Twin Rivers for five years, or perhaps permanently."

"It was good of him to let me meet you tonight," she said. "You can't imagine how much more hopeful I feel, now that I know more about Andra." A moment or two elapsed before she added, in a carefully level voice, "There's just one further thing, Dr. Carland. I couldn't ask it back there at Wincona Lodge. It's about Patrick and Andra. How did she take his death?" He cast her an understanding glance. "I wish I could tell you. She'd known about the climbing fatality for several hours when I saw her, and I was grateful for the fact that she was self-possessed. I remember that when I offered the conventional words of sympathy she merely said, 'Thank God I have little Patrick,' She wasn't an emotional woman, but that doesn't mean she didn't feel deeply;" "She sounds," said Loraine, "as if she were a very nice person. I expect it was the air of reserve that attracted my brother. He was that way himself." "Yes, he was - careful in his ways, too. It wasn't in character for him to go climbing so soon after the spring thaw, but I suppose he'd had enough of being cooped in the town. He liked to go into the woods alone, even in winter." There was not much more to say about it. He drove her to the schoolhouse, and Mollie, hearing the car, opened the door and let out a flood of light. The doctor got out of the car, with Loraine. "The lawyer's address," he said. "Got a scrap of paper, Mollie, so that I can write it down?" Without being in the least aware of what he was getting at, the older woman promptly produced what she called a scratchpad and he came just inside the living-room, thumbing over the leaves of his diary.

"You can walk as far as the table, can't you?" she said mildly, as he propped the pad against the wall. He smiled, and did as she suggested. Slipping the diary back into his pocket, he said, "Haven't seen you since the maple- sugar party, Mollie. How are you keeping?" "Dandy," she said flippantly. "You wouldn't have come to the sugaring-off if someone hadn't broken a leg. If you got around a bit you'd see most of us once in a while." ' "You know how it is," he answered vaguely. "Are your children healthy?" "They're fine. That's another thing you'd find out if you dropped in at the school sometimes." "I must do that," he said. "I have a call to make now. Good night." When he had gone Loraine stood near the table, looking down at the name and address he had written. But her mind wasn't on it. This easy familiarity between the inhabitants of Sainte Beauve was unsettling, and she wasn't sure she cared for it And where John Carland was concerned it surprised her. He was the type to inspire instant "respect, to repel merely by his manner any suggestion of intimacy. "How long have you known the doctor? " she asked Mollie. "Since he first came here - must be nearly nine years." She added pensively, "I'm tough as old boots, so I never need a doctor, but I've sat back and watched him grow old. There's a Mrs. Winster, the widow of a past director of the paper mill, whom they say he'll marry. I wish to heaven he'd go ahead and do it." "Is she right for him?"

"I don't know." She flicked an impatient finger: "Just so long as he'd do something!" She veered swiftly from the subject. "This name and address must mean you've a line to work on. Calgary! Is that where your sister-in-law went when she left here?" They talked it over and over for at least an hour. They made the inevitable pot of coffee, planned what they would arrange if Loraine had to travel to Alberta, and discussed the sort of budget that would cover most eventualities. But Loraine did not write her letter to the lawyer at once, as Mollie suggested; she said she was too tired. Later, in her little room, Loraine tried to analyse her reluctance to tell Mollie Blain of Bret Winthrop's sharp insistence that she postpone sending the letter till he had seen her again; but it was hopeless. Mentally, she had never been so mixed up in her life. It seemed impossible that only a fortnight ago she had been in England, full of trepidation but clear-minded and outwardly poised. If only this sense of unreality would lift, so that she could see the essentials sharply outlined, unmistakable. What were the essentials of this visit to Canada? A meeting with Andra and the little boy ... Was that all? Yes, it must be. None of these people came into it at all. Mollie, John Carland, Bret. On any journey one must brush against people, and these three were merely chance-met companions who would still be going their own ways when her purpose was accomplished. Yet Mollie was already dear, the first woman friend she had ever had. Loraine's thoughts paused. Yes, Mollie was her first woman friend; a Scots-Canadian, four thousand miles away from Worcester. Mollie understood most things without being told; she was good-humoured, generous, both a worker and a looker-on; she wasn't clever, but she

was wise, and her homeliness was like the did mackinaw which hung behind the kitchen door - it kept out shrewd winds. Slowly, Loraine undressed. She belted the blue dressing-gown and sat on the chair at the dressing-table which a neighbour of Mollie's had lent. In the lamplight she saw herself in the mirror, a little flushed from the unaccustomed course of her thoughts, her eyes rather wide and apprehensive, and for the first time in her life she wished she were beautiful. She bent to examine her complexion and. decided it was fresh and soft. She had good hair and teeth. But here her potentialities ended. The rest was nondescript from a woman's point of view. Restlessly she got up and went to the open window. The schoolhouse was at the end of the street, so that the back of it looked over a stretch of grass which ended at a belt of spruce and aromatic balsam trees. She had walked among those trees and noticed only that they were different from those in English woods, but tonight, even at this distance, she felt their alien and disturbing fascination. Trees everywhere, in garden and streets, were full of young leaf, the pines that sloped down to the lake were miniature' poppies and crowfoot. The whole countryside had a fantastic, unfulfilled beauty of its own. She drew the cool air into her lungs, and her nerves quieted. *** Out in the brittle sunshine, next morning, Loraine did the week's washing for the two of them. For the big articles Mollie had a hand washing-machine, but she confessed to sending everything to the town laundry in winter. One thing about this backwoods air, thought Loraine, was that it made one want to work, and it was grand to see the line of clothes flying in the wind while she took a mid-morning cup of tea.

Soon it was time to prepare lunch and she beat eggs for an omelette, opened a tin of apples and prepared to make a pie as Mollie had taught her. Apples first in the dish, then a tablespoon of syrup; then in a bowl she must work a two-inch square of butter into a cupful of flour and a little fine sugar till the mixture became crumbly, when it was spread over the syrupy apples and sprinkled with cinnamon. After half an hour's baking the pie was delicious. Eating it, Mollie said that the worst of teaching anyone faithfully was that they eventually did the thing better than one did it oneself. When Mollie had gone again Loraine rigged up the ironing- board. The sun had vanished now and it was grey outside, the trees dark in the distance. In the kitchen it was always possible to hear the children next door through the matchboard partitioning, and this afternoon they were particularly noisy because Mollie was teaching a song to a section of them while the rest chattered over handwork. Loraine found herself smiling and picking up the tune. If she listened intently she could even separate the words. Mollie's patience was apparently inexhaustible; she tried small voices and bigger ones separately and then together, she demonstrated in her own contralto and banged out the air on a vibrant piano. When the whole lot got going together it was something! Loraine was so engrossed with listening while she ironed that she did not hear the first rap at the door. But she couldn't possibly have missed the loud and peremptory second one. She collected her wits, switched off the iron and went through the living-room to turn the handle. For a long moment she stared. Then she said awkwardly, "Oh, hallo. Will you come in?" Bret's mouth was sardonic. "Were you having a nap?" "I certainly wasn't!"

"No offence." He filled the doorway, came in with his lazy stride and looked about him in some surprise. "Is this place big enough for two of you?" "It seems so. Neither of us has yet fallen over the other." "You're touchy. What did I interrupt?" "I was ironing in the kitchen. I'm sorry, but - well, I didn't expect you to come here." "I said I'd see you today and this is where you live," he said coolly. "I've called on my way home from the plant. If you don't mind my saying so, you look as if you've done enough for one day." She had reached the kitchen door and was standing there, as though ready to run in and imprison herself. "I'm not tired. What was it you wanted to tell me?" He pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged impatiently, "This matter of your sister-in-law is supposed to be important to you. I refuse to discuss it while you stand there ready for flight." "I'm really sorry," she said. "Just let me make sure the iron is safe." She took the plug from its socket and rested the iron on the sheet of asbestos beside the stove. Straightening, she heard a loud chord on the piano in the schoolroom, and involuntarily she waited for whatever might come after it. The children broke once more into song, and this time Loraine knew the air. The words came over strongly: O Canada! Our home and native land, True patriot love in all thy sons command. With glowing hearts we see thee rise,

The true North, strong and free; And stand on guard, O Canada, We stand on guard for thee. As the last note died she turned quickly and saw that Bret was there, regarding her enigmatically. Not very steadily she said, "It's your national anthem, isn't it? The children love it." "Why, you sentimental little coon," he said in a soft derision. "What can it possibly mean to you?" She ignored this, and nodded at the wall. "That's a sign the singing lesson is at an end. Mollie will be in soon." "Then you'd better come for a short drive. Where's your coat?" He spoke the command as if he meant it to be obeyed. Something seemed to become knotted in Loraine's chest, and almost blindly she passed him in the kitchen doorway and went to her room to slip on the tweed. Hastily she pushed a comb through the honey-gold hair and dabbed a powder-puff over her nose. He was out on the porch when she joined him, and he scarcely looked at her as he put her into the long black tourer. He moved off quickly, to avoid the stream of children and possibly also to avoid Mollie. Loraine knew she had annoyed him; she was vexed with herself, too. There was no earthly reason why she should wish he had kept away from the schoolhouse - from herself - but she did. He took the road straight up out of the town and into a countryside dotted with gabled houses and green gardens. The green everywhere was tender and new, but on the maples it was hardly discernible and washed over with pink. The sky had lowered and was fast-moving. The wind beat across the densely forested hills and whipped away branches.

"This might be spring in England," she commented in a rather small voice. "We have better summers than yours," he said. "High summer is hot and cloudless and the fall is a miracle. You won't see it, of course." She felt dampened, and oddly sad. "What's this plan of yours - about Andra?" He drew on to the grass at the side of the road and switched off the engine. They were looking into an expanse of spruce that roared gently with the wind. There was little growth between the bases of the trees, and it was possible to look among them for some distance. A movement caught Loraine's glance, held it entranced while her scalp tingled and her fingers sought for something to clutch. It was a big black thing, ambling on all fours, nosing the ground and the trunks with the utmost unconcern. "Is it a bear?" she whispered. "They're fairly harmless and not very curious. You may not see another at all." He paused. "It's gone. You can relax." But Loraine didn't relax, though she pretended to. She drew farther away from him, clasped her hands tightly, looked at that strong dark profile, and waited.

CHAPTER III "HAVE you thought deeply about this business of getting in touch with your sister-in-law through the attorney?" Bret asked, a little offhandedly. "Not deeply. It's in my mind most of the day, and I was going to write to the man tonight if I'd heard nothing from you." "I generally keep my word," he said with a trace of acid. "You do realize that you stand hardly more chance of meeting Andra Farnley here in Canada than you did in England, don't you? This is a big country." Loraine's palms pressed hard together. "I must see her. Why shouldn't she allow it - just once, anyway? I'd take the journey and all the trouble." He shifted sideways to look at her. "Tenacious, aren't you? It's a pity it's not over something more worthwhile." "It's worthwhile to me." With brutal exasperation he said, "She doesn't want to know you. Do you have to have it driven home with a sledge-hammer? The woman is self-sufficient and very determined not to have any communication with her in-laws. She may be married again." "Even so, there's little Pat," Loraine answered stubbornly. Then the stubbornness fell away and she raised a hand appealingly. "Don't you see that this is something I have to do - a sort of trust? Supposing her circumstances have altered. By now she may be hard up; she may even have had to put the child with a foster-mother, or something. Dr. Carland said she had no parents." "Haven't you forgotten the legacy?" he said dryly.

"It could have been used up." "Not if Carland assessed her accurately. He seemed to think she was that rare thing - a woman with a sane head on her shoulders." Loraine sighed. "I know you're getting at me again, but I'll have to bear it. Last night you said there was another angle which we hadn't considered. This can't be it." "No, it isn't. I thought I'd try dissuasion tactics first." By the set of his mouth he would just as soon have left the matter there. But he added, "You've admitted that nothing you or your mother could put into your letters, to Andra Farnley made a scrap of difference. She might have reacted differently, though, if a man had written to her on your behalf." "A man?" she echoed blankly. "That's right," he answered laconically. "You mean a father or brother. There may be something in that. Patrick probably told her that Mother was gentle, and that I was negligible." "Did your brother regard you that way?" he asked a little sharply. "No, of course not. It's just that I was more or less a child when he left England and he never quite believed in me as a grown-up." "Didn't you have any male relatives you could have appealed to?" "No one near enough." "A friend would have done - a close friend." He stopped, then queried non-committally, "What about this chap you were fond of? Didn't he have any suggestions?"

She gazed at him, at a loss. Then she pinked, remembering; odd how hazy her former life was becoming since she had known Bret. "Roland? I couldn't tell him our troubles because Mother didn't care for him." "Was that the reason you didn't marry him?" "There was no question of my marrying him." "Because your mother needed you?" he asked shrewdly. Her fingers curled into a fist, pressing hard upon her knee. "We were never intimate - only friends. He married someone else." "Did it hurt you when he married someone else?" he persisted. On the point of hurling at him a warm negative, Loraine paused. It had hurt her, immeasurably, that paragraph in the local newspaper. The previous year she had confided in Roland and found him receptive and sympathetic. For a while he had inevitably been about when she went to the post or took a stroll, and he had tried very hard to get her to play tennis and join the picnic parties. The fact that her heart had begun to open to him had made it more and more difficult to decline his invitations. Then suddenly it was all over, and within a few months his engagement had been announced. "All right, leave it," said Bret abruptly. "Let's get back to the present. My suggestion is that I contact the attorney for you. I'll write both as principal of the research station where your brother was employed and as your friend. There won't be any hesitancy about it, I assure you. I'll demand an answer, so that you'll know once and for all where you stand with your sister- in-law." A sudden strong gust of wind buffeted the oar and he wound his window up halfway. The action seemed to enclose them even more

securely, and Loraine found herself swallowing to ease a peculiar constriction in her throat. "Would you really do this for me?" she asked very quietly. "But why should you?" He slid back behind the wheel and looked ahead at the tall trees. "You came to me for help, didn't you?" he answered brusquely. "And you naturally want to get home as soon as you can. To write the letter won't cost me any effort at all, and it might be just what's needed to get results. Have you got that address with you?" "No, but it's simple and I remember it." "Write it down for me." He took one of his own cards and a pen from his pocket. Loraine steadied the card on the dashboard and wrote on it, shakily. Queerly, when she had relinquished both card and pen the two of them sat back, silent. Then Loraine made an effort. "I hope you don't think I'm ungrateful," she said. "I haven't thanked you properly for inviting me to meet Dr. Carland, but I want you to know that I do feel awfully lucky - about that, and other things." He sounded very Canadian as he replied, with satire, "You're welcome, little one. It isn't every spring that we have someone like you among us. How are the inhibitions?" The wind rustled through the treeetops with a noise like waves on a distant shore, and from far away came the barking of a dog. A bird screamed across the sky and a few spots of rain smacked the windscreen. Sounds unending, yet back of them a deep forest silence.

"You're the only one who has ever noticed I had any," she said stiffly. "A natural reserve doesn't always hide inhibitions." "No, but in your case I believe it does. I'm not blind, my child, and I'm just as sensitive as the next man. You're a little bit afraid of people, particularly of men. You thought more than twice before you'd come out here with me this afternoon." "But I wouldn't have," she was stung to retort, "if you were a more ordinary type of man." "Like John Carland?" "Dr. Carland was easy to understand from the start," she returned spiritedly, "and I don't think it had anything to do with his being English, either! A section of any population are simple souls, that's all." "You've got something there," he said lazily, "but I shouldn't underrate the other simple souls, if I were you. They're not all as inexperienced as you are." "What are you getting at?" "Merely generalizing." A pause. Then: "You haven't any ties anywhere, have you?" "Not really. I have a cousin and a few distant relatives in the north of England, but we don't keep in touch. Why?" He shrugged. "It merely occurred to me that you might comfort that shaken heart of yours with someone here. I don't see you with a Canadian, somehow, and John's a bit old for you. He's thirty-nine." "I can assure you," she said, "that the last thing I want is to complicate this visit with a love affair. In fact," she added, far more

emphatically than she was accustomed to speak, "I don't want a love affair - ever!" He was not as impressed as he should have been. Indeed, his reply was faintly sour, "Which only proves that you were much more deeply involved with this Roland of yours than you care to confess. Maybe it's as well that you've come with a one-track mind. I doubt if you're cut out for the big spaces." With which he switched on, reversed the car and drove back to Sainte Beauve. He spoke aloofly, asking whether she had ever seen ice hockey or tasted maple syrup. He told her there were so many lakes in the country that it was doubtful whether they had ever been accurately counted, and related one or two incidents which had occurred on his trip last vacation to the Rockies. Loraine wondered what had given his mouth the twist of ... was it distaste? And then she decided she didn't care. He was altogether too complex a personality, too conscious of his own ability to command. It wasn't from any friendly motive that he was assuming responsibility of contacting the lawyer in Calgary. He was merely acting as he always did when confronted with a problem - taking control and following through. By the time they reached the schoolhouse Loraine was filled with an active dislike of the big man behind the wheel. Mollie had heard the car and was in the porch. She came down the path to the road. "Hi, there. I saw you drive off and guessed you wouldn't be long, so there's some tea waiting for you." Bret had got out of the car, but he remained near it, his fingers on the handle of the door. "Thanks, but I won't come in, Mollie. How's school going?"

"Fine. I feel like a million myself because I've just had a letter from Wade." "Is he better?" "Well enough to convalesce." To Loraine she explained, "Wade's the brother I told you about. He was injured by a falling tree up at the farm, but he's well enough to leave hospital and he's aiming to spend four or six weeks here." She smiled happily at Bret, pushed back a light brown strand of hair which had worked loose from, the knot at the back. "I'm going to fix him up at a guest cabin on Lake Wincona. He'll get good food and be able to fish and shoot a duck or two, and Loraine and I can see him weekends and some evenings. After a week or so we might pitch a party at the lake." Bret was smiling back at her with a pleasure so obvious that Loraine knew a momentary stab of ... was it annoyance or envy? Good heavens, not envy! "A few weeks by the lake will set him up," he said. "How is he coming here, Mollie - and when?" "Apparently he's leaving early tomorrow, which means I can only meet him in Sainte Beauve. The train gets in about eight tomorrow evening, so I shall order a taxi -" "No, don't do that. I'll take you to meet him and then we'll go straight out to the cabin. And I'll do the booking up there for you, too. I'll slip over and see the Mackenzies tonight." "Why, thanks, Bret! I'm so relieved. My good fairy must have brought you along this afternoon." As he looked at Loraine, Bret's mouth appeared to thin a little. "That's one way of putting it," he said. "Well, Miss Farnley, I'll get that letter off, but don't expect a reply for about a week. Once we

receive it we may be able to move quickly. So long, girls. I'll pick you up soon after seven-thirty tomorrow evening, Mollie." With a flick of his hand and a spurt of dust he was gone. Mollie slipped a hand into the crook of Loraine's arm. "You'll like Wade. He's not one of your spectacular males, but he's good stuff and easy to know. The accident was rugged luck. He helps my uncle run the farm and he'll be going back there when he's fit, but I'm hoping he'll stay here till the long vacation, and then I'll go with him." They were in the house and Mollie had closed the door, when she asked curiously, "Has something unpleasant happened between you and Bret?" "Of course not," came the even reply. "What made you think it?" "I'm as capable as anyone else of detecting a chill in the air. Still, it isn't my business. I'm glad he happened along today." "He didn't happen." Loraine moved to the tea-tray and lifted the pot. "Are you sure your brother will be all right at the cabin? Wouldn't you rather he came here, where he can have attention?" "He has stayed here, but it's not too restful with the children next door, and there's not much life for him. The guest lodge up at the lake is quite a place. Those Mackenzies who run it are friends of Bret's, and they live in the main hotel building themselves. There are lounges and a restaurant, or you can eat in your own cabin; there are canoes, shooting and fishing tackle, all kinds of games, and the service is pretty good. You can be energetic or lazy, and still have a high time. It's early in the season so there won't be many vacationers up there yet, but Wade won't mind. I wonder if Bret would lend him a horse?" "I didn't know you were all that familiar with Bret Winthrop," said Loraine, as she helped herself to sugar and milk.

"I'm not familiar with him. I've never been inside Wincona Lodge and I know even less about the research station. But I've meet him around at social affairs, and he's dropped me off home once or twice." She said no more for a moment, but stood considering. Finally: "I can't decide whether to let John Carland know Wade will soon be here, or to wait and see if his services will be needed." "Are Dr. Carland and your brother friendly?" "Wade's known John as long as I have, but they haven't had contact since Wade went to the farm about eighteen months ago." She shrugged. "Better leave it. Will you help me make over my last year's best dress, Loraine? I don't want Wade to recognize it." Working about the house again, Loraine felt better. She reminded herself that everything regarding Andra was turning out just as she had hoped it would, and decided that the business was best forgotten till a reply could be expected from the lawyer. She suggested a white collar and matching cuffs for Mollie's navy linen, and persuaded her to buy material for a new dress. "Something very feminine and flowery," she urged. "You're not a schoolma'am every day of the week." "Summer weekends I like my pants and a shirt," complained Mollie. "With me, light dresses are an awful waste of money." "You can't wear pants in the evenings." "You can - with a fresh shirt," Mollie laughed. "I'll make a bargain with you. I'll buy some flimsy stuff if you'll invest in a pair of denims! Looks like you're here for a while, and you'll need something less sedate than those tailored tweeds." Loraine looked out the slacks she had brought with her. They were good but old, bought in her last year at school with some money she

had been given for her birthday. They still fitted perfectly, but she had to admit that compared with the three- quarter-leg pants in every hue which were the leisure-hour dress of the younger women of Sainte Beauve they were decidedly out of date. So next morning she bought the denims, and a brilliant green and red check half-coat to go with them. Mollie was happy and excited. She came in at lunchtime and again in the late afternoon, full of Wade and how he might be reacting to the journey. The crushed ribs were mended, of course, but it must be trying to sit for many hours in a train. He'd certainly be in need of his bed when he arrived. "You won't mind not meeting him tomorrow, will you?" she said. "We'll go up together in the afternoon, and we certainly won't use Kennedy's auto. There's a man named Briggs, the father of one of my pupils, who will Jake it for us as a sort of contract, charging so much at the end of the month, according to the extra cost to himself. He may not always be able to wait and bring us back, but we'll take a chance on that." Under the bright brown hair which was fading a little at the sides, Mollie's face was young with anticipation. She was tall and slender, and the very straight nose lent to the ordinary face an air of distinction. Looking at her, after she had dressed in the navy linen and made up her face a little, Loraine was cross with the many men who must have known and liked Mollie but never realized what a good wife she would have made. There was the "lanky Swede" of whom Mollie had spoken, of course, but no one could blame her for not wanting to live in the wilds with someone she didn't love. She had stated with apparent sincerity that she enjoyed being free to give all her time to the school, but wasn't it possible she had gradually and almost unwittingly been forced into such a belief?

Bret did not come into the house when he collected Mollie that evening. Loraine heard the car arrive, wished Mollie luck and listened to the receding purr. She read for a while, gave some attention to an extraordinarily good radio play and had a bath. In pyjamas and dressing-gown she waited for Mollie, and at a quarterpast eleven came again the sound of the approaching car. She heard Bret say, "He looks fine, Mollie, but Sunday will be time enough to send over the horse. I'll get Ted to ride it over. Wade will be in top form inside a couple of weeks." "Yes, he does look good, doesn't he?" came Mollie's softer, more drawling voice. "You don't know how grateful I am for tonight, Bret. It made all the difference, having a man there to meet him, and the car was really a godsend. Thanks a lot." Bret answered pleasantly, suavely, "You're a nice girl, Mollie. Who are you saving yourself for?" "A heel who doesn't deserve me," she answered flippantly. "I won't keep you longer." "Oh, Mollie," as if in afterthought, "you might tell Loraine Farnley her letter went off this morning. Good night." Mollie came into the house blithely, took the pins from her coil of hair and let it drop in a thick little mass just below her shoulders. "Hallo," she said. "Good of you to wait up. Yes, I'll have the milk, seeing you've been good enough to keep it warm." She let out a deep sigh of satisfaction, delivered Bret's message and went on, "Wade's up there in a cabin and looking grand. My uncle knows he's here and is sending down Wade's car, so that will solve part of our transport problem."

She sat down, and over the milk she talked of her own childhood and Wade's. He was eight years younger than she and had worked in the provincial offices before going to his uncle's farm as the junior partner. Later, the farm would be this; it was only a modest holding, but there was plenty of adjoining timber land which could be acquired. It was during the clearing of a belt of such land that Wade had been injured. The kitchen clock tinkled twelve before they went to bed. There was less for Loraine to do on Thursday. She shopped and prepared the food, but also found time for a long walk among the tamaracks and willow bush and stunted firs on the rocky hillside. She scrambled like a goat among the crags, leapt down to the shore of a little lake that had an islet in the middle, came upon a deserted hut under an overhang and found, to her surprise, that the fireembers were still warm. She remembered hearing that there had been gold workings in the vicinity, and concocted for herself the story of a wanderer who lived on whatever he could salvage from abandoned mines. She didn't meet him, though. The sky remained grey and threatening and the wind was strong. In brief lulls it rained, but not fiercely, and though she longed for sunshine she could not help but be exhilarated by the keen air. And the greens and yellows and greys, the sombre darkness of firs, were unforgettably lovely. In the mid-afternoon the whole vast world seemed pulsing with new life, yet the only human beings she saw outside the town were a motor-cyclist sending up a distant cloud of dust and two incipient cowboys on grey ponies. She reached the schoolhouse by the back way and let herself into the kitchen. She washed her hands, set the kettle to boil for Mollie's tea, and was leaning back on the table trying to decide on the finer points for tonight's meal when a figure darkened the doorway

between kitchen and living-room, sending her heart up into her throat. Automatically, her hand rose to smooth the wind-tossed hair. "You're Wade, aren't you?" she said a little breathlessly. "Sorry if I scared you," he said, his tones a masculine version of Mollie's. "You must be the girl from England. Glad to know you." He held out a hand that was rather thin but very brown, and she took it, smiling. Wade Blain was a little over average height, slim and fairish. His hair, lighter than Mollie's, lay in one thick wave over the top of his head and was brushed back over the temples, and the eyes were a deep clear hazel. He had that extraordinarily straight nose and his brow was straight and deep above it. He was good-looking. Not, thought Loraine, unconsciously making a comparison, with an arrogant, overbearing masculinity; Wade's good looks were almost boyish; had she not known his sister she would have wondered whether his mouth and chin did not show he was easy-going and pleasure-loving by nature. As it was, she hardly noticed them. "Mollie said you wouldn't be coming to town for quite some time," she said conversationally. "Do please sit down." He didn't move from the doorway. "One of my uncle's hands delivered my buggy today. It's a couple of months since I was last behind a wheel and I couldn't resist having a stab at it." His regard was curious, his smile engaging. "You mustn't mind my staring. You're such an odd house-mate for Mollie." "I should have said that Mollie could take almost any sort of housemate in her stride." "Maybe. From her description I imagined you rather different." "How ... different?"

"She said you were small and neat and pale. Well, I grant you're small, but at the moment you're not particularly neat and your colour's a pretty pink. She said other things, too, which really don't signify." He came right into the kitchen, dropped on to one of the hard chairs and looked up at her, across the table. His candour was expert but nevertheless likeable. "Can you ride a horse or handle a fishing line? Do you square dance?" "The answer is a triple no, but I'm willing to try square dancing." "I'll bet you'd get along all right on a horse, too. I'll ask Bret -" "No!" she said hastily. "No? Are you scared of horses or of Bret?" He laughed and she was able to laugh as well, though not easily. She warmed the pot and spooned tea into it, looked at her watch and was relieved to see that Mollie was due soon. "It's going to be lonely up at the cabin all week," he commented. "Your sister seemed to think you'd like it." "It's like everything else; you can have too much of it. I was just about sick of the farm when the log fell on my chest." "Does your sister know that?" "That the farm was palling? I told her, but she may not have believed it. Farming's such a drag, especially our kind. Nothing to do all winter, and in summer, when you should be having a time with your pals and gals, you sweat your hide off. Someone else is doing my stint this season, I'm happy to say."

"So you'll be able to look up your pals and gals," she observed cheerfully. "When you've built up your strength you'll probably be glad to go back to the farm." "Oh, I shall stick it out," he said philosophically. "It isn't every guy who has a chance to inherit a few hundred acres and a house." To Loraine, this sounded a little cold-blooded, particularly as she knew the details of his good fortune. His uncle had married late in life and had chosen unwisely. After a year of grousing about the distance from the nearest big town his young wife had left him, and needless to say he had determined not to marry again. Eventually, he had decided that Wade was to be his heir and that as such he must settle on the farm and learn its intricacies. She did not have to make a reply because Mollie came in, already aware of her brother's presence. "I saw the coupe outside from the schoolroom window," she said, and admonished him affectionately: "Do too much all at once and you'll have trouble, Wade. Did you sleep well?" "Like a babe. By mistake, they brought me ham and eggs for two this morning, and I ate the lot." "Well, we don't have to drink tea in the kitchen! Let's be comfortable." He carried the tray into the living-room, gave Mollie her cup and took his own from Loraine. He ate a home-made biscuit and lit a cigarette. For a while he and Mollie talked about the local people. She gave him the news, showed him snaps she had taken of a young bear in the snow, playing with a treacle-tin not twenty yards from the back of the schoolhouse, and described the wedding of one of their distant cousins.

"What about you two coming back to the cabin with me?" he asked finally. "I told them there'd be three of us for dinner." "We'll come, but I don't think you should bring us home tonight, Wade." "Don't squawk so much, Mollie. I'm not an invalid." Mollie nodded. "You're not so weak as I thought you'd be, but you ought to take care. Why not see John, just to be sure?" "The Doc's a stuffed shirt," he said impatiently. "He's never lost that English bedside manner, and I can't take it." He turned suddenly to Loraine, the frown replaced by an apologetic grin. "That's not a dig at the English, only at Carland. I can't stand the chap." Mollie got up to put her cup on the tray. "I wasn't asking you to be friendly with him. John doesn't call here socially, so you'd hardly meet him except as his patient." "Which I refuse to be," he replied lightly. "Stop worrying, Mollie. I don't need a medico." "If you should need one, I shall call John," said Mollie, without much expression, as she walked out. Loraine had said very little while they were having tea. She had watched Mollie's eagerness when she spoke of the people and affairs of Sainte Beauve, and been conscious of Wade's good-humoured boredom. At twenty-seven he was, in a sense, both worldly and seeking. He was also, it appeared, just a wee bit selfish, which probably explained his fondness and slight contempt for a sister who would do anything in the world for him. During the following few days she saw a lot of Wade Blain, His cabin, one of fifty which were spread along the shores of Lake

Wincona on the Mackenzie land, was airy and pleasantly furnished in raw wood and gaudy linen. One could sit on the paved platform outside with a drink and a book, and soak in the sweetness and peace of the place. About a hundred yards up the slope stood the main hotel building, a spacious affair set in formal gardens and offering everything one could possibly need in the way of indoor relaxation and amusement; there was even a small store in the lobby. And then there was the lake, which was so icy-cold to swim in, so beautiful to look at in its setting of tan-coloured rock and pines, so delicious to float upon in a canoe. On Sunday, Ted Muraille brought the horse which Bret had promised Wade. Ted was dark and small and uncommunicative, but before remounting his own pony and riding away he stated very firmly that the horse was used to being well cared for. It was a fine horse, sheeny and near-black, with quivering muscles and a haughty head. Wade took a short ride and pronounced him "quite a boy" for speed but entirely reliable. He still thought it a good idea to ask Bret for the loan of a good- tempered pony for Loraine, but Mollie was against it. "For the time being we've taken enough from Bret," she said, leaning back in her canvas chair and surveying the idyllic scene. "Loraine isn't aching to risk her bones and you haven't been with us a week yet. She does a first-rate job of paddling a canoe and she's caught her first fish, even if she did drop it back into the lake. That's not bad going." "On a pair of horses," he said negligently, "Loraine and I could go places without having you around." "I'm teaching all week," she answered equably, "and you did have Loraine here all day Friday."

"It rained, and we had to play deck games over at the hotel." "It won't rain tomorrow," she said, looking at the high white clouds in the sky. "Call for Loraine at about ten." "We do our washing on fine Mondays," said Loraine firmly. "Well, Tuesday, then." Thus it was that on Tuesday morning at about eleven, Loraine was drinking orange-juice at the table outside the cabin while Wade cleaned his fishing gear and made a note of one or two accessories he needed. It was still fine, though today the wind blew across the lake and made the nesting ducks angry. From the lakeside came the delighted cries of two small girls who were on holiday with their parents at one of the larger cabins, and faintly she could hear the snick of a ball and the whirr of a mowing machine on the pitch behind the hotel. After a while she realized that Wade was not tinkling with rod and nylon any longer. He was sitting back and looking her way, and there was that in his expression that made her heart jump suddenly. "You're outlandishly innocent, aren't you, Loraine?" he said softly. "You let me bring you here, where we're more or less alone, and you're perfectly sure that I'll never get out of hand." She took an interest in her nearly-empty glass. "I suppose I trust you." "Because I'm Mollie's brother? Complacency doesn't run in families, you know." "Mollie isn't complacent; she's just decent through and through, and I shall take it that you're the same unless you prove otherwise."

He smiled ruefully. "I shan't dare to prove otherwise, after that. But I warn you that I don't sit down under my limitations as Mollie does." "That sounds a little unfair to Mollie. Perhaps I'd better tell you at once that I admire your sister tremendously." "I know you do, but I can't think why." As she made to speak Wade raised a hand. "All right, I'm being disloyal. Mollie's a great girl and I'm fond of her, but that doesn't stop my thinking she's a fool and something of a failure. And I don't say that because she hasn't married." He raised his brows. "D'you know how long she's been a schoolteacher? Fifteen years! And when she's put in another fifteen years she'll be fifty, with a few hundred dollars in the bank and a number of so-called friends who are sorry for her." "I think you're quite wrong about her. She gets genuine joy from her job - probably much more than you do from farming - and she's not in the least afraid of the future. What you don't seem to realize is that it's a marvellous thing to do what you really want to do right now, and let the future shape itself on that basis." "That's hogwash," he said teasingly. "All I want right now is to laze and make love to you. I wonder what sort of future would shape itself upon that?" "We're discussing one's life work," she said severely, "not an idle month or so beside Lake Wincona. What would you have had Mollie do with her life?" "The way she is suits me fine," he said, "but if she'd had sense a few years ago, she could have been where I am now with my uncle. When his wife walked out she could have moved in as easy as kiss your hand, and made him everlastingly grateful. She doesn't jump at her chances, and that, by the way, is the reason she hasn't married.

But where marriage is concerned she had a reason for not jumping them. Has she told you about it?" "No," Loraine answered quickly, "and I'd rather you didn't either, Wade. I'm only here for a short while, and I doubt if she wants me to know." He laughed. "Don't get into your straitjacket. She didn't tell me; I just guessed. When a woman is in love with someone who doesn't want her, it sticks out a mile." "Does it?" she asked, a little tremulously, thinking of Roland and those sweet, patient remarks of her mother's. "How did you become so astute about the human race?" "I've kicked around," he said easily. "To be honest, though, I've never met anyone like you before. You're really cute, Loraine." Possibly because it was the last adjective she would have applied to herself, the word pleased her; it was, of course, slightly inaccurate. Unless straggling with some emotion she was still pale, and though the bright cool atmosphere, the winds off distant mountains, suited her temperamentally and made her feel more alive than ever before, she clung to the armour of reserve. Sometimes she felt she would never cast it off. For too long she had taken care to cloak her personality so closely that even she herself had had difficulty in knowing it was there. Now, she was becoming aware rather too quickly, but fortunately she had not lost the ability to dissemble. "Why, thanks," she said warmly. "For that, I'll get you a drink." "Never run away from a compliment," he advised her. "And, particularly, don't run away from me. Before I leave here, you may even promise to marry me."

"You'll have to put things over rather differently if you really intend to soften me up," she told him with an abstracted smile. "I still think you should have that drink - a strong apple-juice laced with soda!" At one o'clock they made their way up to the hotel restaurant. The tables were only half filled, but the French-Canadian chef had turned out an excellent menu, and the whole place had the air of pleasurable expectancy which Loraine was coming to recognize as characteristic of the Canadian spring. She liked the gay sporting apparel of the holiday-makers, enjoyed their quips and tall stories and was inordinately pleased when, as had happened once or twice, she was drawn into a chattering group as if she belonged to the country. Today, after lunch, she and Wade went into the lounge. He went off to make enquiries about his laundry, and Loraine wandered to the glassed-in side of the long room and looked down over the roofs of the cabins and the fir-tops at the broad view of the lake. Kneeling absorbedly in the long window-seat, she was unaware of being spoken to until a messenger leant close and addressed her loudly. " 'Scuse me, ma'am, there's someone in the lobby to see you." She turned to the uniformed boy. "Me? But I'm not a resident here. You must have made a mistake." "You're Miss Farnley, aren't you?" "Yes." "Well, this lady wants to speak to Miss Farnley." "I'll come."

Absurdly, as she followed him, she was glad to be wearing one of the ordinary frocks she had brought from England. She didn't know why, but her heart was growing tight inside and her knees felt uncertain. She tried to think of one person besides Mollie - who would have come straight into the lounge without consulting a messenger - who might call upon her here, but not a single name came to her mind. Nor, when she reached the lobby and faced her visitor, did she have the vaguest idea who she was. Tallish, slender but gracefully curved, dark hair gently waving back under a small gold feather cap, green eyes, perfectly proportioned features and nostrils that flared delicately. A face you would not forget in a hurry because of its disturbing suggestion of ruthless composure. A mink coat drooped negligently over one arm; a thin black dress clung accurately to her body. "Loraine?" she said, in accents which were habitually smooth and silky. "Miss Blain at the school told me I'd find you here. I'm Andra. How do you do?" In her most desperate flights of imagination Loraine had never foreseen anything like this. She had seen herself chasing across prairie wastes to Calgary, being sent on beyond the Rockies, crawling back and making a few more hopeful attempts; she had visualized a poor home where little Pat was looked after while his mother earned her living; she had even, though reluctantly thought it possible that Andra, who apparently had no time for family relationships, might have gone down to the States and taken up something showy and remunerative. But she had never, even for a second, contemplated the possibility of Andra coming back, a rich, poised woman, to Sainte Beauve. "I'm very glad to meet you at last," she said inadequately, her throat dry. "Have you had lunch?"

"As much as I needed." She looked about her. "This place has improved since the Mackenzies took over." Wade was there, suddenly. "Doggone," he said blithely. "It's Mrs. Farnley." "I believe I remember you, too," Andra said. "Not your name - your face." "Well, that's something." He was obviously admiring the furs. "Where shall we go?" Loraine said quickly, her pulse uneven, "Wade, would you mind if I take Andra to your cabin? We've a lot to talk about." "Go ahead," he said, with the suspicion of a wink. "I'll be up on the baseball pitch."- With another appraising glance at Andra, he wandered off. Loraine was annoyed to find herself stammering. "Will - would you mind coming with me? It's only a short distance." Going down the slope at Andra's side, she felt as if she were approaching some sort of climax. No, the sensation was more as though she had stepped on to sliding ground and a chasm was widening behind her, so that there could be no going back.

CHAPTER IV ANDRA sank down into one of the canvas armchairs on Wade's small terrace and crossed a pair of superb ankles. The coat dropped to the floor at her side and she drew off her gloves. Loraine's glance sought and found the plain gold wedding ring, and she was wrung for a moment by the memory of Patrick, who had no doubt kissed it many times. She was grateful to Andra for wearing no other ring, no other jewellery at all. Anything Patrick might have given her would have faded into insignificance among the minks. It was a good five years since Loraine had learned of Andra's existence, and during that time she had tried very hard both to feel that she had a sister-in-law, and to forget her. In England, she had rehearsed their meeting in a dozen ways, and inevitably the outcome had been the forging of affection, even if only a very distant brand of affection. But in this moment of meeting she knew, unmistakably, that there would never exist a link of any kind between them. Andra would see to that. Somehow, Loraine was strengthened and steeled by the knowledge; it put them on the footing of strangers who must, of necessity, explore one another. She reached into the canvas pocket of the chair and got out a packet of cigarettes. "Smoke?" she asked. "I'll have one of my own, thanks." It was a long, thin cigarette, taken from a long thin case in gold set with a diamond initial. "I've come up from Winnipeg. My attorney sent on a letter which had come from a Mr. Winthrop, and after giving it some thought I decided to answer it in person." "It was an immense surprise to see you here," said Loraine, "and I'm really very happy about it. I came to Canada expressly to see you and the little boy." In spite of herself, she smiled eagerly. "Is he like his father?"

"No, he's like me. I don't know if you'll be able to see him. I must think about it." No enmity in her voice; she was merely cool and reflective. "The letter from Mr. Winthrop was rather forceful, but the gist of it was that you'd come halfway across the world to see me and the least I could do was to show myself. It was the tone of the letter that moved me - not the contents." "You wouldn't have come if I'd written to you, would you?" said Loraine steadily. "Probably not. After all, I didn't ask you to make the trip, did I? You took the risk of being unsuccessful. I'm sorry if I sound glacial," her shoulders lifted, "but we don't mean a thing to each other, and I'm not going to pretend we do. I was married to your brother for little more than two years, and as you get older you'll appreciate that two years isn't much out of a lifetime. I've always been grateful for Patrick because he got me what I wanted, but I don't wallow in sentimental memories of him." "That's sensible, anyway," said Loraine, feeling raw. "I'm beginning to understand why you never answered the letters from my mother and me. You didn't want any dealings with us at all." "I'm afraid that's true." "You made my mother's last years terribly unhappy." "My dear," said Andra in those smooth modulated tones, "I married Patrick, not his family. I was glad he had no one in Canada, and from the very beginning I was determined that your lives and mine should not cross; I had other plans. You didn't know me, so your letters could only have been conventional, for Patrick's wife, whoever she might be. I was twenty- two, and entirely capable of running my own affairs."

"It would have been kinder to tell us all this years ago, rather than let my mother hope and worry." "If I had told you, she would have written in tears to Patrick." "Did he know all these things in your mind?" "Don't be absurd. He was in love with me and we were happy together. He was content for me not to write till I felt really impelled." "He himself didn't write to us nearly so often after you were married." "I can't explain that." She was baffling in her extreme coolness. "Twin Rivers was growing and perhaps he was busier than before. Since you've been here you must have heard the details of his death." "Yes, from Dr. Carland." Loraine didn't ask why Patrick's wife had not even informed his mother of the fact of the accident. Inside, she was feeling too horribly sick and humiliated to pursue the question. "I understand you left Sainte Beauve within a few days." Andra tapped ash on to the stone floor and looked at the point of her cigarette. "As a matter of fact," she stated, "several things happened during those two years of our marriage. Did Patrick ever tell you how we met?" "It was on holiday, wasn't it - somewhere near Winnipeg?" Andra nodded. "We met at one of those fabulous parties that business magnates give. Patrick had been invited because he was still strange to the country and shy, and it was those very qualities that attracted me to him. What he didn't know was that I was in my own element. That millionaire was a friend of my stepfather, who

was also extravagantly rich. Unfortunately, at that time I hadn't a cent to my name." "That wouldn't have mattered to Patrick." "You're right," with a very faint twist of contempt at her lips. "It didn't. I don't propose to go into it any further - merely to explain that after his death I left Sainte Beauve immediately, because I could afford to. I believe Dr. Carland has already told you that my little son and I came into some money; it was he who gave you the attorney's address. The legacy was substantial, and we're both perfectly happy spending it." Sitting there so entirely unmoved by the conversation, she had a cruel, insolent beauty. Every part of her was so well cared for that she must give many hours a day to the task, and it occurred to Loraine that possibly that was how her sister-in-law had ^passed the time which a young married woman usually spends with others of her kind. Involuntarily she said, "It seems you didn't make any friends in Sainte Beauve." Now the contempt was plain in the other's expression. "That smalltown crowd? I couldn't bear them, with their endless visiting and chattering, their babies and recipes and home-made clothes. Patrick wanted us to move to Twin Rivers, but it would have been the same, on a slightly more exalted scale. Sainte Beauve suited Patrick, just as it suits you. I grew up way above such places." "Or perhaps below," remarked Loraine in hardened tones. "It all depends on one's perspective. I can't think why you've bothered to come up-country from Winnipeg today." "Maybe tomorrow I shall be asking myself the same question. I happened to be at a loose end - just back from a long visit to Europe

and not quite ready to go up to the ranch for a spell. The letter from Mr. Winthrop intrigued me a little, and my attorney's note says that Bret Winthrop is well known; he discovered something or other to do with nuclear reactors - whatever they may be - and made the headlines some time ago. So I set out very early this morning and drove up. Life isn't too exciting just now, so I may as well meet this man who writes straight from the shoulder and has a reputation for inhumanly clear thinking." "I'm surprised you came to me first." "If you were to know me long enough," said Andra, stubbing out her cigarette, "you'd find that I always approach everything with the utmost circumspection. I'm lucky enough to be able to see several moves ahead, and you can't blame me if I take advantage of it." Loraine felt there was very little more to say to this woman who had been her brother's wife. Just one thing. "Where is little Pat?" "Up at the ranch in Alberta." "Will you let me see him, if I go there?" The thin red lips curled. "Even you must know that one doesn't drop in at a ranch for half an hour, and then go away again. You'd have to stay for a night, and I'm not sure that I care for the idea. I'll let you know about it." "I've no wish to stay for a night - just for the visit. I'm sorry to be importunate, but if I don't see him I shall feel my job is only half done." Andra gathered her gloves and got languidly to her feet. "You people with cast-iron principles make me a little tired. Still, why should I grumble? It was Patrick's integrity that made me marry

him. I can't decide at once whether I shall allow you to see the child. I'll write you through the attorney." They moved down from the terrace, took the path towards tile hotel. Andra looked back over her shoulder at the lake. "We used to bring a hamper up here," she said casually. "Patrick always believed he was the best trout-fisherman in the district." Loraine said nothing. As Andra turned back her head the exact curve of her mouth was very apparent, and the tilted green eyes were bored and almost expressionless. They arrived at the front of the hotel and Andra waved a careless hand at a long scarlet convertible. "I'll go now," she said. "This same road does go round by Wincona Lodge, doesn't it?" Loraine's hand clenched at her side. "Yes, it does. Are you . . . going there?" "Why not?" laconically. "It won't cost me anything." "Mr. Winthrop won't be home yet." "Then I'll wait. There's sure to be someone about who'll give me coffee and a sandwich. I'm not in a hurry, and I like driving through the night." She got into the car and started the engine. Without looking again at Loraine she slipped in the gear and moved off. Loraine's tongue stole out to moisten her dry lips. Her throat was parched and bitter and her heart felt as if it had slipped sideways to lie flat and heavy in her breast. Standing there, she could have wept for Patrick and the love he could never have known.

A little blindly she began walking, swinging up round the hotel and through the gardens where the green of tulips was showing, to the field at the far side. Wade was watching some very amateur baseball practice, but when he saw Loraine he came over at once. He stared at her puzzled and wounded eyes, and shook his head. "That's what comes of chasing dynamite," he said. "It blows up right in your face. Has she gone?" "Yes. Wade, will you take me back to the schoolhouse?" "Now?" "Please. Mollie will be home by the time we get there, and I want rather badly to talk to her." "Come on, then. And stop looking as if you'd run over a dog." She was grateful for Wade's easy familiarity with her problems. As they drove down to Sainte Beauve she told him a little of what had passed between herself and Andra, but expressed it as if she were merely disappointed at the brevity of their interview. "Why did you call her dynamite?" she asked finally. "I don't know. It was how she struck me, I guess. When I lived in Sainte Beauve I only knew her as I knew many others - through seeing her about occasionally; she didn't strike any note with me at all. But today ... wow!" "You mean that today she did strike a note?" "Sure did. You might not get it, because you're a woman, but whatever good fortune that girl's come into has changed her somewhat. She's after something."

"You only saw her for a minute. How can you possibly know that?" "What she oozes," he said succinctly, "wouldn't register with you." Soon after they arrived at the schoolhouse Mollie came in, and Wade said he thought he'd go back to the hotel and join a game of poker. When he had gone Mollie listened without commenting to Loraine's description of her talk with Andra. "It was rather ... heartbreaking," Loraine finished in low tones. "In England I often thought she might be hard and so soulless, but I've come to know so many Canadians who are friendly and hospitable that I began to hope she was like them - that there was some strong reason why she never got in touch with us. She didn't love Patrick." "He was happy and she gave him a son." Mollie leaned thoughtfully against the window-frame, looked at Loraine's pale dispirited face, the nervous hand with which she smoothed back the short honeycoloured hair. "Seeing that she's come into money, it was almost bound to be like this. Why don't you forget the whole thing, Loraine?" "Go back to England without seeing the little boy? If I did, I think it would nag at me all my life that I hadn't completely carried out my mother's wishes. No, I'll have to wait till I hear from her, and if she turns me down I must find out exactly where this ranch is, and go there." She stood up resolutely. "Thank heaven it's happened at last, anyway. There's no uncertainty any more. I know exactly what I have to contend with." "That's the girl. Let's have some tea." They spoke of other things. Mollie was preoccupied with a documentary film show that was to be given in the schoolhouse at seven o'clock, and the ice-creams and soft drinks which had yet to be delivered. She changed her frock, agreed with Loraine that a

couple of savouries with a glass of milk would keep them going till about nine, when they might cook some eggs. It was six-thirty when Bret arrived. He knocked at the door, Mollie threw out her usual, "Come on in, whoever you are!" and Bret walked in, and immediately reduced the room to a quarter its size. "Oh, hallo, Bret," said Mollie. "Take a seat." Heat surged suddenly through Loraine's body, and then it receded, leaving her so chilly that she shivered. She looked at Bret, saw the angular features which were handsome because of their strong masculinity, and the sardonic grey eyes, and she was aware that her jaws had become clamped with some swift, shattering emotion. There are moments in most lives from which everything seems to stem. This was such a moment for Loraine, and it left her mentally exhausted. Bret took one of the chairs, stretched his long legs. "I thought I'd look in to say how glad I am that my letter brought Andra Farnley to Sainte Beauve," he said, with sarcasm. Mollie stood up. "It's Loraine you want to speak to, isn't it, Bret? So you won't mind if I slip away. I have to supervise the arrangement of the chairs next door, for a movie." Loraine retrieved her voice. "You don't have to go, Mollie. You know all about it." Coolly, Bret said, "Mollie has the right idea. It would be best if we talked this over alone." "Sure," from Mollie. "I understand. I'll be back later."

As, the door closed, Loraine folded the newspaper she had been trying to read, and said with an effort, "Your wording of that letter must have been quite potent; it got such swift results." "About which you're not exactly ecstatic," he commented drily. "Did you take a dislike to Andra because she's not poor and needy?" "I'm sorry if I seem offhand; it has nothing to do with dislike for anyone. Maybe I'm disappointed that it's all over so quickly. She's been on my mind for a number of years, and within half an hour it was all ended. I got the impression that she came simply because she had nothing more exciting to do, and it wasn't very flattering." "She came specifically to see you; she told me so herself." He sounded crisp as he added, "And it won't hurt you to know that she was disappointed in you, too. She came prepared to offer you a home here, if you needed it." Loraine was staggered into silence. Shadows lay over the room and she had her back to the window; otherwise he must surely have noticed the strained whiteness of her expression. She could scarcely think. Andra, who had been cold and cruel in her indifference, had actually told Bret that she had been prepared to take Loraine into her home. But why? What could she hope to gain from such a lie? His sympathy and respect? What did either mean to a woman who had every worldly thing she wanted? "I can hardly believe it," she said weakly. "In fact, it's entirely incredible that she should make such a gesture after having ignored my existence for so long." "She was not to blame for that," he answered deliberately. "She's too well bred to put it in so many words, but I gathered your brother was at the root of it. He may have had his reasons..."

He broke off there, for Loraine had jumped to her feet with an exclamation, and given the table such a violent thrust that the pot containing overblown hyacinths toppled over, spilling bulb fibre in all directions. Automatically she righted the pot and with shaking hands she scooped up the soil. Bret's hands, doing likewise, brushed hers, and she moved precipitately, almost repeating the accident. He gripped her arm suddenly, forcing her to stand still. "Look here," he said in a clipped voice. "It may have been a strain for you to meet Andra Farnley, but you're acting like an infant. You're getting what you came here for, whether you like it or not. I told you before that it might not be pleasant to rake over a dead fire, but you insisted upon it and you've got to be big enough to face whatever you may turn up in the process. Nobody enjoys being disillusioned, and as for taking away your loyalty to your brother..." "No one could do that!" she cried fiercely, and then her voice broke. He took her other arm and turned her to face him. Her mouth was working, the dark blue eyes brimming. "For Pete's sake!" he said softly, in consternation, and drew her against him. Loraine wasn't crying. Her eyes were tightly closed against his jacket, quivers of pain ran through her, but she could not have explained their cause. She heard him say, "Stop it, honey," as if he were comforting a child, and felt him shake her roughly, while he held her. Grateful that the room was darkening, she drew away from him. Inside she seemed to be a mass of glass splinters, but outwardly she was straight and pale and to some degree composed. "I apologize," she said stiffly. "I don't usually give way."

His tone was harsh, a little jeering. "I'm sure you don't. I should have let you know I was coming, so you could have buttoned up more tightly. But don't worry, I won't take advantage of it. Let's have a light, shall we?" Before he could reach the main switch she snapped on the table lamp, whose glow was kinder. Bret did not sit down again. He stood leaning against the wall behind the table, his hands in his pockets and an enigmatic smile on his lips. She sat down so that he could see only half of her face. "I saw you out walking with Wade on Sunday," he said abruptly. "Did you?" with reserve. "I didn't see you." "I was riding. By the way, don't let Wade put you up on Pete; he's definitely a man's horse. Would you like to try a pony?" "I don't think so, thanks. If I should feel the urge they have a few hacks at the hotel." "You're up there pretty often, aren't you?" "The lakeside is very pleasant." "And Wade?" "He's pleasant, too." "And just a little unreliable. That reserve of yours may carry you through some situations, but there are others that might rip it from top to bottom. I'd avoid those others, if I were you." "I don't have any difficulty in dealing with Wade. He may not have the scientific approach, but he's human."

"He also has something of a reputation. You won't hear about it because you're living with his sister, but he went to his uncle's farm eighteen months ago to escape from a spot of woman trouble in this district. That doesn't make him a villain, but it does make him a type to be handled with care. You're not what I'd call experienced." "No?" still not looking at him. "No," he echoed flatly. "That girlish romance you had in England didn't teach you a thing." Her nerves were so taut she could have screamed, but she managed to ask steadily, "How do you know that?" "From holding you just now," he said cynically. "If I'd kissed you, you'd have folded up with terror." Amazingly, she kept cool. "You're very sure of yourself with women, aren't you? I suppose to you we're all a number of chemical ingredients that should explode at a given temperature. The fact that I didn't react according to the book must be of academic interest to someone like you. You might let me see the analysis when you've worked it out." He laughed silently. "I've told you before that you're occasionally unexpected, but even in your unexpectedness you're in character. You fight away from the personal with all your might. It's your form of self-defence." "Self-defence is something one can't do without. I dare say even you find it necessary, sometimes." "I go in for attack," he said lazily. "You must have noticed it." His male arrogance and invulnerability were infuriating, and hurt her in a way she found incomprehensible. "I've noticed that you can

be detestable," she said through pale lips. "I only hope that one day you'll find some woman who's really a match for you. I'd like her to wrench you to bits and leave you flat!" Suddenly, his air of casual good humour was gone. He straightened, leaned forward slightly; his eyes had a merciless glint. "Don't waste your indignation on me. I'm tough-skinned. And if at any time -" The door opened. Mollie came in, looked quickly from one to the other and said in her customary light manner, "It's chilly next door, so I came back for a coat. Don't mind me." Bret was calm, withdrawn. "I was just leaving." "Oh, were you?" Mollie paused in the doorway to the corridor. "Bret, will you come to a party we're giving at the hotel on Saturday? It's for Wade really - a welcome now that he's quite well after the weeks in hospital." "Of course I'll come. It's kind of you to ask me. Dress?" "No, any old pants and a bright shirt. If the weather's good we'll finish with a barbecue." Anxiously, "Do you think the Mackenzies will mind us being informal?" "I'll see that they won't," he said. Then, as though it hadn't before occurred to him, he turned to Loraine. "Somehow, I didn't get round to telling you that Andra is staying on here. She had a packed bag with her because she'd planned to go on to some friends, but I persuaded her to remain here for a while instead. She's at the guest lodge, in one of the hotel bedrooms, not a cabin. I went over with her." He waited just long enough to be sure that Loraine would not reply before ending, "Well, good night, Mollie. Good night ... Loraine."

For two or three minutes after he had gone it was quiet in the room. Mollie bit at her lip and went into her bedroom for her coat. Back in the living-room she shouldered into it, then she stood with one hand on the table looking very much at a loss. It was she who had to end the silence. "Knocked you sideways, didn't it?" she said crossly. "You thought you'd seen the last of her. What in the world made the woman stay?" "You heard what he said," answered Loraine tonelessly. "He persuaded her." "Well, we don't have to see the black end of it," said Mollie, as much to console herself as to exhort Loraine. "By telling you what she did this afternoon she's injured you about as much as she can. Seeing that Bret's impressed, he might be able to get her to agree to your visiting the boy soon." "There is that," conceded Loraine, dully. She stood up, pressed a hand over the soil in the pot of bruised hyacinths. "I'm sorry about these, Mollie. I tipped the pot over." "They're pretty near finished, anyway." Mollie teetered unhappily. "Why don't you come in and watch the movies with us? There'll be about a dozen adults." Loraine grasped at the suggestion like a drowning man at a spar. "I'd like to. I'll get my tweed." The rest of the evening was strange, but it was not unreal as Loraine's previous days at Sainte Beauve had been. She was painfully awake, horribly aware that the catastrophe she had dreaded from the moment of meeting Andra this afternoon had come to pass. Yet in a way it had very little to do with Andra. She was the cause, but the effect was peculiarly Loraine's.

There were three films, one of them about shipbuilding on the Clyde, but Loraine could never afterwards have told anyone what she saw. During the interval she talked to the projectionist, but his features remained a blur, the conversation might not have happened. Later, she stood outside the schoolhouse with Mollie, passing the children over to parents who had called to take them home, and then she cooked French fried toast, and even ate a little herself. In bed she tried to see her whole position dispassionately. She had met Andra at last, and received the sort of jolt it takes years to live down. Andra was at the lakeside hotel, less than a mile from Wincona Lodge, and she, Loraine, was still with Mollie, hoping to get a glimpse of little Patrick. Looked at baldly, the situation was without complications; the complications had erupted inside Loraine herself. She shied away from looking into them, and instead thought about Andra, who must be twenty-eight, was extremely-beautiful and insidiously clever. So the woman had come with a packed bag. Had that been a precaution, or part of a plan? You couldn't think of anything happening naturally with Andra; every detail of her life was laid out. For some reason known only to herself she had planned to marry Patrick and pulled it off within a month or so of their meeting; after his death she had smoothly planned her life without him, and now some other plan was maturing in that crystal-hard mind of hers. Could it have anything to do with Bret? Was it possible that a mere letter could have provided the starting point for some new scheme in Andra's shrewd brain? To Loraine, who lived more in the heart than in the mind, the idea was fantastic, yet there came the prodding reminder that, with Bret, Andra had been noble and gentle, restrained in her admission that it had been Patrick's wish that she should have no communication with his mother and sister. If the situation turned against her she would still know how to manipulate it for her own ends.

A drugging tiredness settled upon Loraine, and because she had no will to fight it, there came the memory of that long moment in Bret's arms, the unbelievable anguish, the swift, flaring need that had robbed her of strength. Love, she had always thought, must be a palpitating, tender thing that grew gently from bud to flower. With Roland it would have been so. But with Bret Feeling shorn and shaken, she turned her face into the pillow. Nothing would ever be the same again. * A day or two later, at Mollie's request, Loraine went to see Dr. Carland. Mollie herself could not get away at the morning surgery time and also, like most healthy people, she professed a reluctance to call upon a doctor, even on behalf of someone else. Loraine, she thought, could manage it as well as she could, if not better, seeing that John Carland always contrived to rile her. "He doesn't make me really angry," Mollie explained, "only tired to death. His life is as grey as a November sky and he won't move himself to do anything about it. What can you do with a man like that?" "He doesn't strike me as an unhappy man," Loraine said. "I like him." "Maybe you stand a chance of understanding him. I never will." Dr. Carland's consulting-rooms were above the small, stone- faced bank. The waiting-room was neat, with cane-backed chairs, a low, glass-topped table and the customary pile of magazines. Loraine partly explained her mission to a white-clad, middle-aged receptionist, and sat down to wait her turn. It came about half an

hour later. She was shown into a warm little room which held a desk, three chairs, a bookcase and a filing cabinet. John Carland gave her his small characteristic smile. "Hallo, Loraine. How's Canada treating you?" "Very well, thanks. You know I haven't come for myself?" "Yes, and I'm glad to hear it. They tell me you got results from that lawyer." She nodded. "Andra's here, and I'm very grateful to you for helping matters along for me. But that isn't what I came about. Mollie asked me to see you about Wade." His smile was tolerant. "That sounds rather roundabout, but I think I understand. Wade needs medical advice, but he'd rather not take it from me." Loraine was apologetic. "I feel awfully silly coming to you like this, but Mollie feels that Wade should still be under some sort of observation. She just wants your opinion." "How can I tell without seeing him? And why should you be brought into it, Loraine? I've always thought of Mollie as a brave woman, but in some ways she's a coward. Why didn't she come to see herself?" "She's tied up at the school." "Nonsense. I'm here in the evenings. However ..." he shrugged good-humouredly. "Has Wade ever complained of any pain from those ribs?" "The first day we went on the lake he grumbled because his side ached, hut he hasn't mentioned it again."

"He's young and resilient. They wouldn't have discharged him from the hospital if they hadn't been quite certain he'd practically recovered. I'll gladly see Wade, but you can tell Mollie there'll be nothing to worry about unless he does something foolhardy." A pause. "How is she, in herself?" "Robust, as usual." "Does she strike you as being ... happy?" Loraine thought it odd that he should question Mollie's happiness, just as she had questioned his. "I think so," she said hesitantly. "On the whole she enjoys life immensely and she always says she has no wish for anything different, but somehow I can't help thinking what a wonderful wife she would have made. Those children at the school mean everything to her, and it seems such a pity, because they're, only partly hers and for such a short time. She ought to have married." She thought he looked a little weary as he answered, ''Well, she's doing an excellent job, so her life isn't wasted. Perhaps some of us are meant for just that." She said impulsively: "But we're supposed to fulfil our private destinies as well, even if we make mistakes in the process. There's still time for Mollie. Thirty-five isn't old." "I hope not," he commented. "I'm forty next birthday." He got up from behind the desk. "Thanks for coming, Loraine. I wish I could see more of you while you're here." Loraine said doubtfully, "I know you're busy, but I haven't quite finished my errand. You see, Mollie thought you would insist on seeing Wade, and as Wade is. so dead against coming to you, she wondered if you'd be free to come to a party at the lakeside hotel on

Saturday, and sort of combine business with pleasure - look him over without his knowing." The moment she had finished speaking Loraine thought he would refuse point-blank. The habitual kindliness faded at once from his expression, leaving it sharp and formal. He moved a couple of case cards on the desk, slipped something into the pocket of his white jacket and took a pace towards the door. He looked at Loraine and smiled. "I'll try to get along for an hour, if only to have a talk with you out of business hours, but I've no doubt at all that Wade is physically sound." He opened the door for Loraine, and both were at once confronted by a tall smiling woman who wore a dark jersey dress and a heavy silver chain under the Collar. "Pardon me for bursting in like this, John," she said at once, "but I have a patient outside in my car. He crushed his finger in one of the machines, and I brought him along right away. Will you deal with him here?" The hovering receptionist beckoned, and Loraine slipped past the other two with a murmured good-bye. But as she left the waitingroom the receptionist murmured, "It's Mrs. Winster from the paper mill. One of the town's upper ten." Mrs. Winster, Loraine recalled, was the widow of a former director of the mill, the woman Mollie had once mentioned in connection with John Carland. She looked extremely well-kept, might be anything between thirty-five and forty-five, and had the reputation of possessing a good business head. Loraine thought she was probably likeable but dominating, and, strangely, she could imagine John Carland having the sort of respect that is akin to affection for

such a woman. But she didn't like to think of marriage between them. John needed someone understanding, a wife who would always put his interests as a doctor first; Mrs. Winster was too keen on her own position at the pulp and paper mill to do that. Loraine shopped in the supermarket, browsed at the small library for an hour and went back to the schoolhouse. Since Andra's arrival, she had not been up to Wade's cabin. He had come down to supper last night and told them that Mrs. Farnley was flourishing, that she wore a sporting get-up of such elegance and sophistication that the men up there were pop-eyed. But she remained exclusive, and had only spoken to Wade because she knew him to be a former member of the Sainte Beauve community. Bret Winthrop had been over the night before, Wade said. He, the Mackenzies and Andra had dined together, and Andra was now riding one of the Winthrop horses; one had to admit she looked swell in the saddle. Jealousy, Loraine told herself, was uncivilized, and bitterness gnawed at the foundations of one's personality. But it was easy to think up such platitudes and almost impossible to live up to them. She knew that some time she would have to contact Andra again and plead once more for an opportunity of seeing her small nephew, but she must wait till she was certain of keeping her own feelings under strict control. Only, by matching Andra's composure could she hope to get her way. There was a chance they would meet on Saturday at the hotel, and that would provide a sort of test. Loraine decided that if she came through it well she would seek Andra out the next day. It was bleakly comforting to have come to a decision. It rained intermittently all day Friday, and though Saturday dawned crisp and clear, Mollie was sceptical. Thirty people had been invited

to the party, all of them people who had known Wade before' he left Sainte Beauve for his uncle's farm. There were others Mollie would have liked to ask but whom Wade vetoed on the grounds that they were stiff-necked and held the past against him. "Not that I have much in the way of a past," he explained with a wink to Loraine, "but I wouldn't like you to start getting rum ideas about me. I'll never be wicked to you." "You'd better not," said Mollie, with a trace of acid. "And be nice to everyone who comes, Wade ... everyone." "That sounds ominous." Loraine didn't know why, but she put in quickly, "Mollie means Dr. Carland. You see, I've invited him." "Pals, eh? Oh, well, if he's your guest -" He let it tail off at that. Mollie cast Loraine a quick look of relief and gratitude, and Loraine knew a brief thrust of pleasure, for Mollie's sake.

CHAPTER V WHEN they reached the hotel that evening the sun was sinking behind the pines in a pool of pale golden light. The day had been warmer than most people had anticipated, and though a few of the guests wore sweaters, most of them were happy enough in shirts or blouses. Drinks were served in the lounge while guests were arriving. Lights sprang into the ceiling lanterns, more logs were heaped upon the fire and a gramophone played sentimental music that no one listened to. Loraine wasn't sure when Bret came in. At one moment she was unconsciously straining to watch the entrance from the lobby, and the next she was aware, in every fibre of her being, that he was already there, in the room. She saw him speak to Mrs. Mackenzie and then pass on to Mollie and make one of those masculine comments which bring colour and pleasure to any woman's smile. Loraine's heart quickened absurdly, and she clutched her glass more tightly. Steady, she adjured herself. He's just a big Canadian ship, passing in the night. She gave animated attention to the young married couple with whom she was sitting, discovered they were hotel residents but knew it didn't matter a bit. The dinner was excellent and conducted on homely lines. At the one large table, Loraine sat between Wade and a fine-looking French Canadian, and it wasn't till she had tasted her soup that she looked up and met the faintly-mocking grey gaze of Bret, who was seated a little way down on the opposite side. Seeing that she had nerved herself for the encounter Loraine acquitted herself admirably, giving him the small smile that one accords to a fellow guest one hardly knows. But she had had time to notice the vital tan of his skin, the strong brown throat, the breadth of white-clad shoulders, the monogrammed breastpocket of his shirt. He was impeccably turned out for the lakeside party, the scarlet monogram merely a touch of

the flamboyance which raged unchecked among the shirts of the other men. Dr. Carland had not turned up for dinner. Mollie had resolutely filled his place at the long table with someone else and left space for him at a table for four. She made a small speech which Wade ironically cheered, and Bret replied for the guests who were glad to welcome Wade back safe and comparatively sound. Mrs. Mackenzie announced that coffee would be served on the terrace and that the lounge was, at this moment, being cleared for dancing. It was cool and lovely outside. The spangled lake laid its now familiar, heavy pull on Loraine's heart, and she went down the steps to the path and on the long lower terrace from which one could look down over steep, plant-strewn rocks to the water's edge. She could feel that the atmosphere was already much warmer than when she had arrived in the country, and she could see the weeks ahead, when the sun would blaze gloriously and heat seep into every crevice. And then the long red and gold autumn, which would sleep at last under a blanket of snow. Skating on the lake, ice hockey, hot pies and mugs of steaming coffee, fur coats, woollen hats and scarves; a white Christmas. She trembled slightly and felt someone at her back. She said softly, "You know, Wade, I'm beginning to understand why your women are so self-assured. The country's so big, and they can't help but feel their importance in its development. Don't laugh, but -" "I'm not laughing," said Bret. "I made that sound because I thought it might be rather dangerous to be mistaken for Wade. Carry on." She didn't turn; her hands pressed hard on the edge of the wall. "It's a lovely evening, isn't it?" she said politely. "I asked you to carry on with what you were saying before." "You can't possibly be interested in my ideas."

"Why not? You have your quota of intelligence." "But only a schoolgirl knowledge of chemistry." "Let's forget that, shall we?" He came beside her. "In Indian territory they smoke the pipe of peace. Shall we do the equivalent and have a cigarette?" She smiled involuntarily, took one from the case he offered and held it with commendable -steadiness to his lighter. He leaned his elbows on the wall, bringing his head almost to the level of hers. It was too dark to read his glance, but his voice was sharply teasing as he observed, "You hate yourself for spilling a tear the other night, don't you? And you hate me more for the way I spoke to you afterwards. You came back to me, though, so we're about quits." "No, not quits," she said. "I didn't hurt you, but you did hurt me." For a few seconds he said nothing. Then, a suggestion of roughness in his tone: "I don't get you at all. I don't want to hurt you, but I'm damned if I'll let you shout your head off at me and get away with it. It was for you that I wrote to Andra Farnley, and it seems to me you're darned lucky she came here and saved you a long journey in a strange country. Those facts about her marriage with your brother all existed long before you came here and learned about them, and the sooner you get used to them the better." "I'll never get used to them." She spoke bitterly, softly. "If you'd known Patrick, you wouldn't believe them, either." "I know how you feel and I respect you for it, but no one knows a man so well as his wife does. Don't think that Andra goes around talking about Patrick. She hasn't mentioned him to me since that first time."

Which implied, she thought dully, that Bret had seen Andra more than once since she had come to the hotel. "I'd rather not discuss it," she said. "Then snap out of it," he responded. "You've accomplished almost all that you came here for." She nodded. "When I've seen little Pat I shall go." He took a pull at his cigarette, blew smoke away from her. Noncommittally he asked; "Do you want to go?" Her head lowered. "I haven't thought about it." "Be spontaneous for once. Do you?" "I think I do." "Nothing, as yet, to keep you here?" "It's hardly three weeks. What could there be?" "There's Wade," he suggested coolly. "You've already advised me not to take him seriously." "But anything I might say wouldn't stop you, if you were attracted." "No, but I should have to know him much longer, before I'd commit myself." "How long do you suppose it takes anyone to fall in love?" he asked sarcastically. "Anyone normal, I mean?" She suppressed a tremor. "I think it depends on circumstances. If there's no threat of parting you might go on for weeks, hardly

knowing i t . . . exploring each other's personality and just feeling happy and wonderfully expectant." "Is that how you felt with the hero in England?" She squashed out her cigarette on the wall and threw it over on to the rocks. "Why do you have to prod?" she asked, vexed. "If I didn't know better, I'd say that a woman must once have given you a stab or two." He laughed. "You do know better, though." A pause. "You didn't finish expounding upon this falling-in love business. What if there is a threat of parting?" "Your guess is as good as mine," she answered tritely, in a harder voice. "Is that the music starting?" "It's just a popular selection to warm up. Loraine," she tingled from head to foot at the way it sounded on his lips, "I detest this sparring as much as you do. The reason we do it is because we, don't trust each other." Stung a little, she answered, "I'd trust you in most things. Don't you trust me?" "In most things," he nodded, his mouth sardonic. "You're cagey and your judgement's off-track, but I'd say you're sincere, if misguided." Before she could reply there came the sound of hurried footsteps. She turned round, summoned a quick smile for Wade. "Been looking for you all over," he said in his nonchalant fashion. "Never thought for a second you'd haul off with Bret." "She didn't," said Bret lazily, as if no intimate word had ever been spoken between them. "You're looking well, Wade."

"I feel like a million." "You shouldn't overdo it, though. Those adhesions could still give you trouble," "Not they!" He put a hand to Loraine's elbow. "Shall we go up and dance? The first is a square." Bret sounded a little cool as he said, "I'll have another cigarette down here. Do you square dance, Miss Farnley?" "Wade's taught me the steps, but I've never yet tried them out in public." "Now's your chance," he said, turning back to look over the lake. "Run along with Wade." She left him quickly, crossly, letting Wade take her hand and pull her up the steps to the upper terrace and into the converted lounge. The squares were already forming, and Wade hurried her into position with six other young people. The caller was intoning something about the "Caribou Hunch", his voice a rather humorous, metallic drone, and Wade assured Loraine that the dance was Only a mild variation of the one he had taught her; the title was that of the music. Violin and accordion struck an amazing chord, and the dance was away. Honour your partners, Corners address, Join your hands, Go away to the west. It was mad and exhilarating, and the rest of Loraine's square seemed to have the greatest fun in showing her how the circling movements were accomplished. They did this with a laughing call of their own just before each change, and she found herself sliding into the next

movement as unobtrusively as they did. By the time the dance ended she was gliding smoothly over the floor with the rest. Then she discovered it hadn't quite finished, for a local ending was tacked on. Promenade and kiss your gal right now, First square up and take a bow. Swing her left and swing her right, Come along, pal, don't take all night! Wade did it expertly. His kiss caught the corner of her mouth, and when he had finished spinning her round she had to cling to him while the room righted itself. Flushed and laughing, she let him lead her to a chair, and as she sat down she saw Bret leaning in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his smile cynical. Her head rose, and her blue eyes met his impersonal glance defiantly. If she weren't careful the mere sight of him, withdrawn, slightly contemptuous, would make her desperately unhappy. For the sake of her own sanity she couldn't allow him to be so important in her life. So she ostentatiously accepted an ice-cream she didn't want and joined in the conversation around her. It was about half-past ten when Andra came into the lounge and looked about her with some distaste. Heart tight, Loraine saw the scarlet-clad woman pause, refuse a chair and scan the room till she found Bret. With a pain low down in her throat she saw Bret make his effortless way towards Andra, then knew herself suddenly the focus of their attention. Andra smiled gratefully up at him, shook her head at some remark he had made and moved away from him ... towards Loraine. Andra spoke first. "Good evening, Loraine. Will you come up to my room for a little talk?" Loraine had stood up, stiffly. "I'd better tell Wade."

"Bret said he'd tell Wade for you. I won't keep you long, but it's rather important," Andra was already turning towards the archway that led to the wide lobby and staircase. "I wish the local people would use their school buildings for these affairs," she observed, as she evaded a large young man wearing a cowboy get-up. "I never cared for homespun gatherings." "That's because you're not a homespun person," said Loraine, on the defensive. "I think they're wonderful people." "Your brother thought the same," Andra mentioned as they walked up the wide staircase. "Physically, you're not very much as he was, but you have a similar way of talking, and you have the same keenness for ordinary people that he had." Her manner was objective, the smile with which she spoke oddly friendly, but Loraine could not allow herself to be disarmed. "We Farnleys were always an ordinary family," she said. "A woman as clever as you are must have realized that from the beginning." Andra nodded, as if to intimate that she had realized it and been rather glad. Her manner was puzzling; it put Loraine tautly on guard. They came to the landing and turned along the corridor to the left. Andra opened a door and switched on the light, went inside and stood there till Loraine had followed, when she could close them in. The bedroom was spacious in the ranch-house style of country hotels. The ceiling was beamed, the bed a large one covered by a brilliantly-coloured Indian blanket, and under the long window ran a window-seat, cushioned the whole length in cyclamen weave. The two chairs were leather-covered rockers, low enough to put one at a disadvantage; Loraine chose the window-seat. Andra picked up her cigarette-case from the bedside table, flipped it open and offered it. Loraine shook her head, and the other woman

shrugged and lit up for herself. She took her time about it, either consciously or unconsciously making every movement graceful, The red dress was simple and charming. The flat thonged shoes were perfect for slim feet and ankles; they helped to reduce Andra's age by at least five years. Through a veil of smoke, Andra said, "I expect you were surprised to hear I'd decided to stay here for a while. When I saw Bret that day I came he said he thought you and I should get to know each other better, and offered to fix things up for me here at the hotel." "Is that why you asked me up - to prove to Bret that you're trying very hard to do as he suggested?" "Come, now, my dear," that silky voice seemed to have no racial characteristics, no connection with anything or anyone but this dark and beautiful woman. "You must allow for the fact that at our first meeting you reminded me too much of Patrick. I admit I didn't want to see you again. Now, things are slightly different, and I don't mind being more frank with you. I believe Bret told you that I'd be willing to give you a home here in Canada." "Yes, he did." Loraine was tense and nervous, strung up far more tightly than she knew. "You thought it up when you met him, didn't you? You wanted him to think what a generous person you were." The thin black eyebrows were raised; faint smoke came from those slightly flared nostrils. "Aren't you being hasty and unkind? That's hardly the way to receive generosity." "I'm afraid I don't believe in you, Andra. I'm quite aware of the fact that where I'm concerned you haven't a single good intention." For the first time, her voice shook. "How could you say those things against Patrick ... to Bret Winthrop, I mean! Patrick was too normal, too fond of his family, ever to prevent your writing to us in England.

He would have loved to send us snaps of you all, and news about you, and nothing would have pleased him more than to know you wrote to us regularly and were willing to accept us, as we were willing to accept you. Nothing you might say would convince me that once Patrick had married you he turned against us... What you told me the day you arrived here was true. You were determined never to know us." The green eyes had sharpened. "Have you been as vehement over this to Bret Winthrop?" Loraine swallowed. "No, because it has nothing to do with him." "How right you are! Please remember that whenever you may be speaking to him. Though I don't suppose you see him often." A pause. "Do you?" Loraine did not answer this. "Why did you bring me to your room, Andra? Was it to try persuading me that you were overwrought at our first meeting, and not responsible for what you said? Did you think I'd believe it?" Just slightly, Andra was roused; it was noticeable in the thinning of the red lips, the narrowing of her eyelids. "You're a tougher proposition than you look, Loraine, but you'll never be as tough as I am because you like people, and that's definitely a hindrance if you aim to get somewhere in this world. For your information, here's how I put it to Bret. I told him that Patrick forbade me to write to his family, and that to save hurting you I'd taken the blame myself." Loraine was white. "That was a beastly thing to do." The small even white teeth went together. Andra's smile was insolent. "That's my story, and I'm keeping to it. I shall also repeat it whenever it's necessary. But that's more or less by the way." She stubbed out her cigarette in an ash-bowl shaped like the head of an

Indian and moved towards the window, keeping the length of the window-seat between them. "I asked you up here because I've decided that it's very unlikely I shall ever let you see my small son. I thought you ought to know so that you can go ahead with arrangements for your return to England." Loraine sat very still. After a moment she said huskily, "Why must you be like this? What harm could it possibly do if I saw him just once?" "I'll be candid. I want you out of my life - right out. I don't want you to learn anything more about me. To me, your brother is very much in the past, and I have plans for the future. In the last three years I've travelled extensively, and little Pat has been looked after by a woman who was my brother's secretary many years ago. She's the only woman I'd trust him with but, to be quite honest, I hate her, and I shall turn her out as soon as he's old enough to do without her. She's the only link with the past that I'll tolerate." "Don't you feel that... the child is a link with the past?" "Oh, please!" Andra threw out a hand as though the appeal to her feelings were infantile. "He was a year old when his father died; he'll take to a new one without knowing a thing. He means a great deal to me; he's given me all the happiness I've ever had." She didn't speak as a woman speaks of a child she loves. Rather, she sounded proud and cynical. Loraine remembered the legacy so fortunately received not so very long before Patrick's accident, but felt she couldn't bear to enquire further. She got to her feet. "I hope you'll change your mind about letting me see the little boy," she said with an effort. "When you've lived with anything so long as I've lived with the resolve to find you both, you don't give up easily."

"It would be as well for you to remember," replied Andra with dangerous calm, "that I've lived even longer with my own plans. I'm going to marry again, and my son will have his surname changed to that of my husband. He'll use his second name, Which is Leigh - my maiden name. Patrick Farnley won't exist anymore." "You ... you're engaged again?" "Not yet," with a crisp smile. "But since coming to Sainte Beauve I've decided that my son shall be Leigh Winthrop." Loraine squared her shoulders as if to ease a burden. "You seem very sure of yourself." "It's only by being sure of yourself that you can get the things you want in this life. By the way, if you report this conversation to anyone else, I shall deny it." "I know," said Loraine, and she moved to the door. There she made a final appeal. "Andra, I've no wish to interfere in your life, and I think I would like to leave Canada as soon as possible. Won't you please give me permission to go to the ranch? I won't expect to be put up for the night, and I promise my visit wouldn't last longer than half an hour." "I won't give you permission," said Andra, "now, or at any time. That's final!" Loraine left the bedroom quietly, shut the door and walked along the corridor. She went down to the lobby and hesitated in the archway to the lounge. The crowd were dancing again, and she searched a little wildly among the dancers for Mollie. At that moment it seemed imperative that she should speak to Mollie, who was calm and judicial and far-sighted. But Mollie wasn't in the lounge.

A good-humoured young man spoke at her side. "Looking for me? That's fine. Shall we dance?" As they moved on to the floor Loraine closed her eyes. She was utterly grateful for being spared for a while the pain of thinking. * Mollie, at that moment, was in Wade's cabin with John Car- land. It had happened simply. She had gone outside for a breather and noticed a light in the cabin across the hill. She had shaken her head, murmured something about thoughtless men and started out on the drive just as Dr. Carland had arrived in his car. John had seen her, heard her explanation, and said he would walk down with her. "Sorry I'm so late," he said as they moved off. "I had a call." "That's all right," she answered. "I'm surprised you've come at all." "Do I deserve that? " he asked mildly. "So I'm a rattler," she said. He laughed a little in the darkness. "It wasn't a snake bite - only the bark of a normally likeable terrier. I really did have a call. The Lupovskis have twins." "Heaven's sake!" she ejaculated. "In five years there'll be so many new entrants at the school, it just won't hold them. I wonder if we'll ever get that new building? " "The deadline was seventy-five pupils. You'll get it." "It won't be the same, though," she said rather wistfully. "There'll be two or three teachers, new ideas. Well, that's as it should be. Sainte Beauve has taken a long time to start growing, but now it's really

under way. Remember when you first came--how they didn't like your accent and quiet ways ? " "Too well. I also remember a certain young woman who was extremely kind - the bean-and-bacon suppers in your mother's kitchen, and my first Christmas when you all invited me in and gave me some knitted gloves, I still have them." "You seem lonely," she said offhandedly. "Mom was like that." "So were you. It must be at least two years since I last tasted one of your pancakes." "Mrs. Simmonds is a good cook. She's the sort to keep your house sweet and clean, too. Does she still insist on leaving for home at six?" "I wouldn't have it otherwise. She has her family." They had reached Wade's cabin and he added, "Will you wait here while I put out the light?" "I think he's left one in the bedroom, too." So they both went in, and Mollie went through to switch off the small bedside lamp. When she came back into the living- room John was standing near the table, looking at her. His eyes were tired, his expression philosophical. "It's very peaceful in here," he said. Against her will, Mollie answered, "Sit down and have a drink. Wade keeps a couple of bottles in the cupboard there." He did sit down, but he looked questioningly at the glass she set in front of him. "I'm not sure Wade would offer me one of his drinks," he said. "Does he know I was invited tonight?"

"Yes, he knows. We let him think you were coming as Loraine's guest." With a sudden exasperation she said, "You know why I wanted you to come. Wade seems to me to be a hundred per cent, but I'm sure he does too much. It's a kind of bravado -riding hard, canoeing, swimming." "If he manages to do all that and still look well, there can't be much risk in it." "He still has an occasional twinge." "I should say the lake is too cold for him yet. I believe the temperature of the water is still in the fifties." He tried the whisky, sat back in the hardwood dining-chair. "Why did you send Loraine to me, Mollie? Why didn't you come yourself?" She had put away the bottle and siphon, and now closed the cupboard door with a snap. "On weekdays I'm not free during your surgery hours." "But what you asked of me was a friendly act, not a prescription. You had only to ring me to ask it; you knew that." She took the other hardwood chair at the table, rested her hands in front of her and looked at them. Her bent head showed the beautifully straight nose, a line unconsciously carried on in the centre parting of her hair. Under the light the hair gained life, became a warm chestnut colour, lighter than his. "Look, John," she said evenly, "I genuinely wanted your opinion of Wade, because in the medical sense I'd respect your opinion above all others." "But not in any other sense," he said quietly. "That's what you're intimating, isn't it? You're repeating what you said eighteen months

ago, when I had the unsavoury task of telling Wade it was his fault that girl's engagement was broken." Her brown eyes flashed at him. "Wade did nothing wrong! You hounded him, and I'll never understand why. No love affair is one person's fault. The girl and her fiancé were newcomers to Sainte Beauve and that alone should have kept them together. But in no time at all she let Wade make the running, and when he became tired of her she kicked up the biggest shindig she could, because she found her fiancé didn't want her, either, after that. She wallowed in the pleasures of a nervous collapse, with her parents and you and the rest of Sainte Beauve against Wade." "That's not true!" For once John Carland looked militant, but apart from thrusting his head forward a little he gave no other physical sign of it. "It was Wade who caused the rumpus when he aggravated the situation by poking fun at the other fellow in public. The whole affair left a bad taste, and I'm quite sure that if the townspeople hadn't felt sorry for Wade after his serious accident, they wouldn't be here tonight. Not even for your sake." "Well, we seem to be back where we Were, don't we? Who started this?" He sighed. The hand which had begun to clench on the table relaxed a little. "I used to think it might do us good if we aired this thing after keeping it so long on ice. My actions at that time were purely in the line of duty, and if the man concerned had been anyone but your own brother, you'd have agreed to my tackling him on behalf of the girl. It's odd to think that if all this hadn't happened, you and I might by now have been married." Quickly, she pushed up from the table. Quite steadily, she said, "I can't recall that the possibility ever arose. We'd known each other for years and never been closer than good friends."

He sounded tired again. "Good, friends do. marry each other, but we, it seems, weren't meant to." "I agree," she said in hard tones. "I may be past my youth, but I'm darned if I'd give in to a half-hearted proposal for the doubtful privilege of gaining a husband." "Don't get too thick-skinned, Mollie. It's awfully difficult to soften up again. But in a way I envy that outlook of yours, particularly just now." "Just now?" She moved from the table, opened a drawer in the cabinet and took out cigarettes. Each movement was easy, but widened the space between them. Carefully selecting a cigarette, she added, "You never appear to have any personal problems." "I've never lived a personal life. I was no sooner a fully fledged doctor than I came here, among strangers. I like these people, and I believe they like me, but there's no real bond between us." He took a cigarette from the box and leaned to the match she held. "I'm not an especially strong character, Mollie." A faint flush rose into her face; she took a slow step towards the open door and lingered. "That's not a pleasant thing to hear anyone confess. I don't see how a man who has an iron sense of duty and is a first-class doctor and surgeon can be anything but sound in character. If you feel now that you're weakening in some direction, it's because you want to." "I'm not weakening. I merely have to make a decision before it's made for me." He waited, as if giving her a chance to put a question. When she remained silent, he said abruptly, "I'm taking my leave in June - flying to England for a month. It'll be ~ the first time back." "I hope you'll enjoy it," she replied conventionally, and without hesitation went out into the night.

He switched off the light, drew the door closed and followed her. The shutter was down between them more firmly than ever before. They met Loraine on the upper terrace. She was with Wade and several others who were laughing boisterously. Mollie didn't look closely at Loraine; she noticed that she was pale and that her smile was rather feeble, but the party was becoming noisy, and reaching that stage when a lull is in order. At this rate they'd never last out a midnight barbecue. She saw Wade look at the doctor and away again, and with more verve than she felt, she said, "Time for another square dance, isn't it? Loraine, will you take Doctor John?" But the doctor was not keen. He took Loraine into the lounge, but only to sit with her and ask how Sainte Beauve was treating her. "You're all tensed up," he said, smiling. "What's wrong?" "They keep up a hot pace," she said. "I'm so glad you were able to come, Dr. Carland. You should have been here for dinner; the food was marvellous." She didn't add that the very thought of it now sent a shudder through her. "You look very pretty," he commented. Then: "Your sister- in-law is staying here, isn't she? Have you seen her tonight?" "Yes, I've spoken to her." For a moment the temptation to unburden to him was almost irresistible. Then she saw the lines at the corners of his mouth, the weariness with which he leaned back in the corner of the sofa they shared, and was checked. "She and I haven't much in common," she said, as though it were immaterial. They talked for a while against the dance music. Loraine was becoming a little soothed, till Bret appeared at her side, and she had to move up to make room for him. He lowered himself to the sofa, leaned forward with one arm along his knee, so that he could speak

to them both. Loraine sat tight. She felt his warmth, smelled his particular smoky fragrance, and noticed the fine dark hairs on the strong hands, the whiteness of his teeth, the way the hair slicked back above his temples. She knew that occasionally he looked into her face, studying her, and at such times she held herself completely rigid, willing herself to pay no attention. At length he looked at his watch. "I'll have to go," he said. "We're watching an experiment at Twin Rivers and I promised to call in at twelve-thirty. Are you staying, John?" "I can't. I've had a long day - just popped in because I was invited." Bret turned a critical eye upon Loraine. "I don't think you should stay much longer, either. Mollie won't be leaving, but I'll take you home." "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly go." All three were standing, and John Carland said his brief, pleasant, "Good night," and moved away. "Did you have a coat? " Bret asked her. "I'm not leaving," she said. "Mollie's depending on me." There was a faint glitter in his eyes. "Why have you gone stiff as a rod?" "Please, Bret," she whispered, "I've had enough for one evening." "Enough of me? I'd have said you'd had a surfeit of Wade and the gang. Did he follow up the dancing kiss with the real thing?" She was trembling, but walking with him discreetly along the edge of the dance floor. "It wouldn't really interest you very much if he

had. Just as my relationship with Andra shouldn't interest you, either! Please don't force her to speak to me again." "My dear girl," he spoke in the level tones of cool anger, "it would never occur to me to force either of you to do anything. She was anxious to have a talk with you and I suggested she do it tonight. If you've quarrelled with her it's your own affair, and probably your own fault. You can't blame Andra if she gives up trying to be friendly with you." "I blame myself entirely," she said bitterly. "I wish I hadn't been born with a conscience, then I wouldn't have come to Canada." "You're making a heap of trouble out of very little," he answered. "The single fact that Andra came here to see you proves she's genuine. I'm not saying she's your type of woman - she isn't. But your brother chose her and she did her best to make him happy, even though she wasn't in love with him." They were out in the darkness now, the nearest couple a dozen yards away. Loraine said, "So she's admitted to you that she didn't love Patrick. Did she tell you why she married him?" "Yes, and in my opinion it's not such a bad reason. A good many people have married from loneliness and been happy, without this world-shaking, white-hot thing you hear about. In time, theirs might have been a perfect marriage." "Her words, I suppose." She turned quickly, and felt his grip steelhard on her forearm. She was compelled to look up at him. "She managed to tell you a great deal at your first meeting, didn't she? And now she's decently reticent, though you're no doubt progressing along other lines. An hour ago I'd almost made up my mind to ask you a favour, but I realize now that I don't want it - or anything else - from you! And let go of my arm. You're hurting."

His grip relaxed slightly, but was still inescapable. "You're a damned pighead," he said through his teeth. "You steam up or clam on anyone without the slightest cause, and make yourself violently miserable in the process. If I could beat a little sense into you, I would! I know it's no use asking you now what was the favour you wanted; you'd choke rather than tell me." He released her suddenly, his breath raged hot across her forehead. "You make me tired to death. I'd better go, before I do something we might both be sorry for!" Loraine put out a hand and found the wall, to steady herself. Her brain was rocking, her throat parched. She heard a car start up and zip away at high speed, and after a minute or two she was-able to answer Mollie, who was standing framed in the lounge entrance, calling to her. Afterwards, the following couple of hours were always hazy to Loraine. She remembered there was more dancing and a general move outdoors, to where flames leapt in a brick enclosure; the smell of frying sausages and chops, laughter and red faces, flirtations and cowboy songs to the rhythm of a ukelele. She recalled slumping in the corner of a car, the tremendous effort of stirring herself to go indoors and to bed. But all these recollections had an aura of fantasy. The real thing was Bret's anger, because she had dared to contradict him about Andra.

CHAPTER VI THE next few days were strangely quiet. Wade kept away from the schoolhouse, there was no news of Andra, and John Carland called in only to report that he had seen nothing amiss with Wade on Saturday night. Mollie thanked him and let him go, afterwards commenting that in a way she wished they hadn't asked the doctor for his opinion. "He's much too busy to bother with my fears," she said. "Someone told me he was called to the paper mill five times last week - that's apart from his' private practice and the clinic at Twin Rivers. Officially, old Dr. Xavier is the paper mill medico, but he's more or less retired now." "The paper mill," Loraine mused. "That's Mrs. Winster, isn't it?" "Heard anything about her?" "I saw her when I called at Dr. Carland's last week. She brought a patient." Mollie shrugged offhandedly. "No one can say she isn't trying. He told me he had a big decision to make, and I suppose that's it. If he does marry the woman he won't be able to call an inch of his soul his own, but he's old enough to see such things for himself. Maybe he'd like it easy, for a change." She talked of other matters, concerning the town and the school. In some ways Mollie had never been approachable; she was so capable of running her own life that one gained the impression that she expected a similar efficiency from others. Until now, however, Loraine had found she could talk to Mollie about almost anything. But since Saturday there was, an indefinable constraint between them, and Loraine had found it was not difficult, after all, to keep silent upon most of the conversation she had had with Andra. She

had merely told Mollie that at the moment Andra firmly refused to permit a visit to the little boy at the ranch. Mollie had commented, "Is it a pose, I wonder, this anxiety to keep you ignorant about him and her own private affairs? Or is there really a mystery about the woman - something thoroughly nasty?" "I think that coming into money must have altered her tremendously," said Loraine charitably. "She must have been quite sweet when Patrick married her." "Don't you believe it. I've heard that the flowers of deadly poisons give off an enticing perfume, and Andra's practised that bouquet of hers with men since she was knee-high to a cricket. If your brother was like you he was no bull-moose. Don't under-estimate Andra; she says only half of what's in her mind - the nicer half." There the subject was abandoned, but it was never far from Loraine's thoughts, and at night the details of it assumed giant proportions. Why, in the first place, had Andra married Patrick? Dozens of men in the wealthy idle set in which she had moved would have been glad of her favours, and among them at least one must have thought well enough of her to marry her. Yet she had chosen the shy, awkward stranger and gone away with him to a town where she was unknown, and unlikely to be received by the monied few. She had settled with him and started a family; but for his sudden death they would be here now, going their aloof way. But would they? Loraine worried and worried at it but got no nearer a reasonable explanation of Andra's attitude. The woman was so shrewd that it did not seem possible she could continue to deny so insignificant a request. Merely to be relieved of the bother of refusing, she might as well give in, and let Loraine leave the country satisfied.

Wade looked in at the schoolhouse on Saturday morning, and to Mollie's consternation he was wearing his left arm in a sling. , "Don't dither, there's nothing wrong with my arm," he said, demonstrating. "I seem to have strained my side a bit, and it's less painful if I keep my arm in this position. It'll soon be right." "Will you see John?" "Hell, it's not that bad. I meant to take the thing off before I came in here, and forgot." "How in the world did you do it?" "Riding. Pete's a strong beast and takes some holding when you give him his head." "But why give him his head?" "I was dared." He winked. "Andra's some girl. She rides like the wind and doesn't care if she loses you by the wayside. I told her about my injury and she said I must have been a fool to let a log knock me down. That's the sort of woman she is - exciting but cold and canny." "So you haven't fallen for her? " said Mollie acidly. "Gosh, no. I only fall When I'm sure of myself. Which reminds me," he turned his most charming smile upon Loraine, "that I've been missing you more than is good for me. I'm a bit tired of the lakeside. How about a drive out somewhere?" "With that arm?" said Loraine. "Certainly not." "We could make it tomorrow."

"What am I?" queried Mollie. "The deadweight?" With an air of contrition he said, "Of course, tomorrow's Sunday. I'll come down here for the day. Let's make it Monday, Loraine. We'll go to Tipicua. A cousin of ours has a fur farm there, and you'll be able to see minks in the natural." "We'll go only if you're fit for it." "Granny," he jeered. "What about this movie they're showing in town tonight? I found a leaflet about it in my cabin. Shall we all go?" "You two go," said Mollie. "I have a meeting of the Guild." Loraine was glad there seemed to be no question of spending Sunday at the lakeside. She had had a note from Bret which said, after a perfunctory pleasantry: "I gathered that the favour you avoided asking me was not urgent, but I want you to know I'll be happy to do it for you, whatever it is. Ring me at any time, either here or at Twin Rivers." It sounded as if he'd forgotten his heat, the anger with which he had left her. Probably she wasn't important enough to linger in his mind except as a visitor to Sainte Beauve who ought to be helped in her mission and sent on her way. Ignoring the sickness of heart' and thinking about him soberly, Loraine knew she should not voluntarily see Bret again, yet there were agonizing moments when she would have given anything for a glimpse of him out riding, or striding through the woods or canoeing strongly down the lake. Like most Canadians he belonged to the outdoors, and that was how she invariably imagined him, how she would imagine him in the months ahead, when he was no longer only five or six miles away. But he was not outdoors when she next saw him. He was at the film show that night, in a party which included the Mackenzies, Andra

and a couple who were on holiday from New York. Loraine and Wade were already seated when the others came in, and she watched them take their places, with Andra and Bret the last to sit down. While still standing, Bret had nodded to two or three acquaintances: Loraine's glance swerved on the point of meeting his, but she heard Wade make an appreciative comment upon Andra. "That gal sure knows how to use what she's got," he said. "If anyone had asked me a year ago what sort of woman would get Bret, I'd have said she didn't exist. But she exists, all right. She's right there beside him." The film was a musical extravaganza which demanded no effort of concentration. Sitting it out was Loraine's most gruelling experience since she had come to Sainte Beauve; she had to admit it was even more painful than the scenes with Andra, and hot words with Bret. The hall, used impartially for any kind of entertainment, was small and intimate, one of those modern gems which, when a town grows sufficiently to provide a cinema, becomes the exclusive "little theatre" of the cultural group. Bret was on the other side of the centre aisle and one row forward, not more than ten feet away, and it was possible to see Andra's dark head beyond him, the pale blue of her face when she spoke to him. Loraine had never felt so lost, so achingly alone and unwanted, not even in England during the long chilly void after Christmas. To be so near Bret, to feel him there for two hours, and to know that if he had seen her he had also forgotten her presence, was refined torture. "What's the hustle?" asked Wade, when the performance was over and she dragged at his sleeve. "Did you leave a pie in the stove?" "It's not fair to others to dawdle," she said weakly.

Fortunately, he dropped her at the schoolhouse and went straight on to his cabin. And Mollie was inside, finishing off her secretarial work for the Guild and looking so normal that Loraine had to pull herself up sharply. Only a couple of minutes later there came a rap at the door; it opened and Bret stood there, tall and immaculate in a lounge suit. "Come in," said Mollie. "Are you alone?" "No, the others are in the car." He gave Loraine a comprehensive glance and looked back at Mollie. "I called in to invite you both up to my place for lunch tomorrow." "Gracious," said Mollie ingenuously. "I seem to be going upscale just lately." Bret wasn't put out. "There always has to be a first time," he said evenly. "Can I count on you?" Loraine answered quickly, "Wade's coming down here for the day. It's already arranged." "Then the three of you can come." "We've already cooked for the week-end," she said, averting her gaze. His mouth thinned. "Have it your own way. Did you decide whether there's anything I can do for you?" "Yes. There's nothing, thanks." "Why do I bother with you?" he said unpleasantly. "You look terrible, do you know that? And it's your own fault!"

"You don't have to tell me again that I make you tired," she said, through pale lips. "I don't find you exhilarating, either. And I don't want your barbed generosity." The metal thread in his voice, he said, "You've a lot to learn, honey." "When I do learn it, I hope it won't make me as insensitive as you are." Bret looked as though he had more to add, and forcibly, but he apparently thought better of it. With a swift "Good night," he reached for the door and closed it with a thud behind him. Mollie let out a surprised breath, folded her arms on the table and regarded Loraine with raised brows. "What was behind all that?" Loraine shrugged wearily. "He wants me to be nice to Andra. She'll be at Wincona Lodge tomorrow, lounging around as if she's already mistress of the place, and I refuse to meet her on those terms. Neither she nor I want to see each other again, but she's persuading Bret that it's my fault, that I won't go halfway. Honestly, Mollie, I'm coming to a point where I'll give up the whole thing!" "Does Bret know that?" "It's nothing to do with Bret." "But I'm not sure he couldn't smooth things for you. If it's true that he's smitten with Andra, he'd surely be able to influence her?" Loraine turned away a face that was angular with pain. "I'll give it a few more days," she said without a tremor. "I'm turning in now. Good night, Mollie." *

Monday was not an ideal day for a drive. The sky was overcast, so that the firs and pines looked black against it, and the couple of lakes on the way to Tipicua were sombre grey, flecked with foam whipped up by the wind. The mountains were veiled in mist. "It's raining over there," Wade said. "I was hoping to drive that way home, but it won't be worth it if it's wet. How do you like our country, sweetie?" "It's grand, but there's an awful lot of it." In the hills, with Sainte Beauve many miles behind them, Loraine felt better. "Have you ever been to England, Wade?" "No. My father used to go to Scotland when he was young, but my mother was pure Canadian going back over two hundred years. When I was younger I was itching to go overseas, but I didn't make it. I've lost the urge now." "You're getting old and sober." He nodded, grinning through the windscreen. "That's what comes of living with an uncle who's raised so much wheat he's all ears! Before I went to the farm I used to think I'd meet a girl who'd travel with me. We'd get married and start roving - it wouldn't matter where. All I can offer a girl now is a big old- fashioned house with Uncle one side of the fire and me at the other." "You've had your day," she agreed with mock sympathy, "and perhaps you're a trifle choosey. You've had so much to do with so many girls that you're not quite sure what to look for in one. Experimenting is fatal." "True enough, though you can't know much about it." He paused and drew in one side of his lip before asking, "Did you hear about the flare-up before I went to the farm?"

"I've heard rumours, but to be candid I wasn't curious." "That's deflating. You should be jealous. It was all very silly, and I was the one they should have been sorry for, not Nesta. I had to give up my job, but she slid out of a marriage that would certainly have been a disaster. After all, if she'd thought much of the fellow she wouldn't have gone about with me." "What happened to her? " "She had doting parents and they took her east." He let a pointed moment elapse before enquiring, "Do you hold it against me?" "Not really. An affair always takes two, and I can't believe she took you seriously. Probably the broken engagement was a blow to her pride." "For an innocent, you're wise. I wish you'd take a chance with me. She smiled. "That's what I'm doing! You've been driving on a rocky road for miles with one hand. Does the side still ache?" "Don't ditch the subject; I'll marry you right away if you'll have me," "That's not the way to go into marriage," she told him severely. "You're not in love with me, Wade - you just don't care for the idea of going back to the farm with your uncle. With a wife there, you'd have a better time." "I admit it. I used to think about it in hospital and try to pick out a nurse who'd fit the part. I even ran an eye over the other chaps' visitors, but I didn't see anyone I'd fancy marrying till I met you. Don't you think this undying love stuff is overrated? With an endless future in front of you, at best you can only hope to remain friends, and with you I'd find that easy."

"I'm afraid I want something better or nothing at all," she said a little abruptly. And to change the topic: "What's the name of the river down there ? " He laughed good-humouredly, told her it- was the Tipicua and that it wouldn't be long before they reached his cousin's farm. After that he was silent for a while, and Loraine looked down at the river, lying dark in the twisting valleys, its outline clear because of the sandy banks. In the distance there were hills beyond hills, and the ultimate was a series of peaks that were invisible on a grey day. They had started out after lunch. Wade had not arrived at the schoolhouse till noon, and had easily been persuaded to take lunch with Mollie and Loraine; he had even stated his willingness to postpone the trip, if Loraine would rather wait for brilliant weather. But she had reminded him that she wouldn't be here for ever, and they had taken leave of Mollie just before two. They had not driven really fast; it had only seemed so over the rough road; the eighty miles to Tipicua had taken over two hours. Farmsteads were dotted about on the other side of the river, tiny blobs that were houses, patches of crops, a landing-stage here and there with a couple of boats bobbing near the bank. They rounded a bend, came to a dilapidated log archway and turned in under it. At the end of a dusty drive stood a frame house of modest dimensions, but before they reached it a shambling little man in overalls waved at them to stop. He recognized Wade. "So they didn't finish you off down in that hospital," he said genially. "Heard all about you from your cousin. Your unlucky he's out for the day, but he'd sure be glad for me to give you coffee and cakes. Should have let him know you were coming." Wade introduced Loraine, said she was English and that the coffee had better be tea, and then moved on to stop the car in front of the

house. Jim Devine was there, too, opening the door and propping it wide. He left them in the living-room and went through to the kitchen. Loraine looked about her. Wade's cousin, she could see, was fairly' prosperous, but among the polished and finely upholstered furniture stood an incongruous piece or two; a milking- stool, a plain chair, a low table, all of them hewn from rough logs and much worn. "Pioneer stuff," Wade explained, "to remind the present generation that they have it soft because their grandfather lived hard and fought Indians. A lot of Indian relics were found in the hills - a few belonging to white people, too. Sit down and leave the tea to Jim. He's used to doing chores around here." After so long in the car Loraine would have liked to explore, but Wade had already sunk lazily into a chair, so she sat down near a window, through which she could see apple trees coming into blossom. The handyman brought tea and huge slabs of home-made cake, and he lingered to talk to Wade. It was after six when he said the animals had to be fed, and that Wade had better show the young lady round, if that was what they had come for. Wade seemed to have become either bored or fed up with the jaunt. While Loraine exclaimed at the extensive cages of standard and mutation minks and peered with awe into the chinchilla enclosure, he leaned against a tree and smoked. On the way back to the house she asked if there were any trappers these days, but his reply was short and unsatisfactory. As they set out again the sky was greyer than ever, and the hills seemed to be huddling together in slowly approaching darkness. "Don't you think we ought to go back the way we came?" she asked.

"Now we're near you may as well see the mountains. I more or less promised Mollie I'd take you to the foot of Birdeye Peak. It'll be fully an hour before it's quite dark. Remember the driving lesson I gave you near the hotel? Would you like to have a try now?" "Good heavens, no. Not on this road!" She looked at him curiously. "Has something annoyed you?" "No, angel, I'm plumb tired." "It would, tire you much more to watch my driving. I really think you should have gone the quickest way home." "Too late now." "they had come down closer to the river, and he nodded up at the pine-stacked mountain to the left. "That's the lower part of the Birdeye. You'll see it properly just round the bend." In, bright daylight the mountain would have been a majestic sight. A rocky pinnacle and the needle-furze of pines against summer blue, the great river in the valley and waterfalls at different heights on the slopes, would have composed a breathtaking picture. Now, though, there was menace in the dark craggy outline, and the freshets, audible when Wade switched off the engine, were not melted snows but unseen forces at work. He drove on for half a mile, and halted the car again. He leaned forward and pointed up to a stony eminence surmounted by the outline of a hut which jutted a stone cross into the heavens. "That's a chapel," he said, "a well-known landmark. It was erected as a memorial to two men who scaled the Birdeye and got themselves trapped in a fall of rock." "Mollie mentioned it. She said I ought to go up and have a look at it. We won't bother, though. Wade. Let's move on."

But he was opening his door. "No, Mollie's right - you should go up. You may never come this way again." She got out of the car quickly, faced him across the bonnet. "I'd like to go, but there's no need for you to sweat up there with me. You look quite groggy. Please sit in the car, Wade." "I can't let you go up there alone." "Then I won't go at all," she said flatly. "Okay," he acquiesced suddenly. "I'll sit in the car. I can see you all the way." She buttoned her tweed jacket and set off up the footpath. It was a climb of about five hundred feet, rough going but not difficult because so many had made the pilgrimage before that the grass on each side was flat, and pleasurable to walk on till the shoes became slippery with the rain that had fallen earlier in the day on this particular mountain. The chapel, she discovered, was built of the surrounding stone, and it had a heavy oaken door on the river side. The door was locked, and she was on the point of regretting that she had made the climb for nothing when a stone tablet fixed to the wall drew her close, to read it. Plainly, poignantly, the exploit Wade had told her about was described and the two names given, both of them French- Canadian. Below, in smaller, newer letters it said: "Also lost his ' life while attempting the Birdeye Peak, Patrick Farnley of Sainte Beauve." After the first prickle of shock, Loraine stood very still. This was what Mollie had meant her to see; Wade, too. Somehow, she had never thought a concrete reminder such as this could exist, but the fact that it did made her glad. She came a little way down the path and looked up at the mountain. It had still been snow-capped when

Patrick attempted it, the ascent wet and dangerous from melting snows. He was in brave company. Tears stung her eyelids, blurring her vision. She would never understand why Patrick, who had been quiet and careful, should have chosen to go mountain-climbing alone in the earliest days of the Canadian spring, but now at last she could accept that he had found it necessary. She wished her mother had known about the little chapel and his name on the tablet. By now it was so dark that she had to descend more slowly than she had come up, but the car's side lights were a help, and at last she reached the door and opened it. She gave a startled exclamation, leaned forward to look at Wade's white face against the leather, his crumpled body in her seat. "Wade! Wade, what's happened?" With a caught breath of relief she saw him move, and then she steadied her voice to normal. "Why didn't you tell me you felt this bad? Is it your side?" "Yes, but don't worry," he said in a whisper. "I tried to make Pete jump this morning, but he's not a jumper and I pitched out of the saddle. It was Andra! ..." Andra! Loraine clamped her jaws; this was no time for rage. "I have to get you to a doctor," she said. "I must find a house and get help." "There's not a house in miles. Loraine, you ... you'll have to drive." "Drive!" she said, aghast. "You can't drive in the dark on this sort of road after one lesson!" "You must try. There's no danger from traffic." His eyes closed and his white lips scarcely moved. "Do exactly as I told you the other day. I can't stand this. For God's sake get the car moving."

Shaking from head to foot, she closed the door and went round to the driver's seat. Her fevered mind re-enacted the lesson he had given her, the sequence of movements she had to make. Numbly, she made them, but her heart was in her throat as the car moved slowly forward. The sense of being in charge of something powerful and lethal was so great that she knew she would never have the courage to change gear. But they were moving, and she would stop as soon as she sighted the lights of a house. It was" eerie, nightmarish, and it seemed to go on for hours. The fact that Wade made no comment upon the roaring of the engine probably meant he Was unconscious, which was frightening, but just as well. A big antlered deer loomed suddenly, stark in the centre of the road, and transfixed by the lights. Loraine swerved frantically, heard the animal thunder away and felt the wheels of the car churn into loose wet sand. The whole body of the car shuddered, the engine stopped of its own accord, and night pressed in, cool, black and enveloping. She heard a rushing stream, the flutter of wild fowl, a plaintive cry that could have come from a bird or beast. An uncomfortable thudding in her chest, she got out of the car and walked a couple of hundred yards along the road. No light anywhere. She went back and looked at the car wheels, knew they were so deeply sunk in the sand that only with boards or with a superhuman weight pushing at the back could the car be freed. She looked in at Wade, spoke his name softly, felt his pulse. For a panicky moment she railed against his stupidity in bringing her out while in pain, but in her next breath she wondered how much damage he had done to those ribs and the new scar over them. What an utter fool he could be!

The next time she looked at her watch it said nine twenty- five. Above the sound of the stream she heard a car, her heart leapt and she stood out on the road, hoping she wouldn't cause the car to swerve and bed down in sand. She was caught in headlights, the car stopped, and Loraine saw it was a ramshackle vehicle with only one occupant, who did not get out. He was a foreigner of some sort, probably one of a refugee contingent from Eastern Europe. He listened to Loraine's hurried sentences, nodded as if he understood but refused to look at Wade. "I will send a doctor to you," he said, and managed to make his car shoot away at an amazing speed. Comforted, she slipped back into the seat behind the wheel. She tried to ease Wade's position without rousing him, and when at last she sat back she was panting but gripping his hand as if to will her own vitality into him. Another car passed and she was angry with herself for not having stopped that, too, because fleetingly she had glimpsed a woman beside the driver. A little later she was more scared than annoyed, because it seemed that that was to be the extent of the night's traffic. Farming folk went to bed early, and that man who had promised to send a doctor might have wondered, after leaving her, whether there might not be something peculiar about a sick man in a car. Possibly he had not lived in the-country long enough to be a Canadian national, and was reluctant to risk being mixed up in any affairs but his own. The car seemed to be a prison. She leaned towards Wade and heard him breathing regularly, as though he had slipped from unconsciousness into an ordinary sleep. She made a sound of thankfulness in her throat that was like a sob, and gently got out on to the road once more. Since the shattering half-hour of driving in

low gear her nerves seemed terribly exposed. Even the cool wind sent a sharp pain over her skin and there was a concentrated ache like neuralgia each side of her face. She sat down in the sand and grass behind the car, shivered, and then lay flat with her face pressed into her forearm. Even in times of stress one remembers trifles. Loraine remembered she was wearing her tweed suit, the good old standby which mustn't be too badly-used because it would be a long time before she would be able to replace it with one of similar quality. * Mollie expected her brother home for a late dinner that night. The journey to Tipicua and back .to the mountain road would take about four hours, and allowing two more hours for tea at the fur farm brought the time for their return to eight o'clock. An hour for dawdling - say nine at the latest. Wade had definitely promised they would have dinner here tonight. She opened a can of soup and mixed it With cream, trimmed the fish cutlets and mixed flapjacks. At nine-thirty she ate some of the soup and a roll and made some coffee. By ten, she had shoved everything into the cold oven and was walking about the living-room. "There's never any reason to be anxious about Wade," she said aloud. "He always gets through. Loraine will be all right with him." But she was recalling that jaded smile of his at lunch and the sling he had worn the other day. She picked up the telephone and rang the lakeside hotel. No, Mr. Blain wasn't back yet. Any message? She dropped back the receiver and lit a cigarette, walked out into the night and stared up at the starless sky. Down the street most of the lights had gone out, so that there were merely degrees of blackness:

the shapes of the houses, the tops of trees, the road centre and the sky. If she made a big fuss he would turn up in the middle of it and laugh at her, but she was arriving at a mood in which she wouldn't care, so long as he was there with Loraine. She had to admit that since the business over the girl Nesta her trust in Wade had never been quite, complete, but she felt that Loraine, because of her innocence and candour, was safe with him. Her criticisms grew harsh. It was thoughtless of him to stay away like this, without telephoning. Even if he'd had a breakdown there'd be someone willing to pass on a message. Loraine would certainly have sent word if she'd had the chance. But didn't that mean.... Mollie went indoors to the telephone, got through once more to the hotel and asked for Mrs. Mackenzie. She explained her predicament. "Just a minute, Mollie," said Mrs. Mackenzie. "Bret's here and he'd like a word with you." With a throb of relief Mollie heard his voice. "I may be fussing over nothing," she said. "It's possible they stayed late at my cousin's, though I hardly think so. I've never known Wade to stick out my cousin for more than an hour or two, and he certainly promised to be back for dinner." "Loraine's with him?" came his sharp enquiry. "Yes, and that's another thing that makes me sure he'd come if he could. She'd know I'd be getting dinner and wouldn't let me down." "Stay at the schoolhouse," he said crisply. "I'll be with you in five minutes."

Bret was in charge, thought Mollie thankfully as she stood in the open doorway; he'd know what to do, whom to contact. The very fact of Bret being on the job meant action. His car came down the street so fast that she was sure he'd overshoot the schoolhouse. But there he was, right at the porch and pushing her inside. "You say they set out meaning to go to Tipicua and home by the mountain road," he said at once. "Obviously, we should set out towards them, but I'd better talk to John Carland first." "John? Why?" "He may be needed." "Oh, no! Let's find Wade first. If they've had a - crash, he'll be in some other doctor's hands. Please don't disturb John." "What makes you think they might have had a crash?" he demanded grimly. "There's almost no traffic on that road on a Monday." "You mill around and wonder." Mollie was perplexed by the hardness in Bret. She'd imagined he would soothe her, tell her there probably wasn't a thing to worry about but they might as well go out and meet those two. But he was looking through her as if it were all her fault. "The car's a bit erratic. They're probably stuck somewhere, cold and hungry." "That's my opinion, too," he said abruptly. "I've got a flask of whisky and a thermos of hot milk in the car. Let's get going." As she moved towards the door, he almost bit out, "Bring her coat. Wade can have mine if he needs one. There's a rug in the back seat." It was a long time since Mollie had driven with Bret, and during that journey she felt she would never wish to drive with him again. She

saw now what it was that had sent him swiftly and securely to the top of his profession. On the way to a given point he was merciless with everything and everyone. "You don't really like Wade", do you?" she ventured, after they had left the tarmac and were on the graded mountain road. "It doesn't seem fair to me to hold his weaknesses against him. In most ways he's as good a man as the rest." "It doesn't matter whether I like him or not," he answered briefly. "It does, really. You've been kind to him - you got him one of the best cabins, lent him a horse, and even got us the cheapest possible rate for that party we gave at the hotel. Oh yes, you did, Bret," as he made to refute it. "Mr. Mackenzie's bill was far much less than he'd quoted, and I didn't have to reason why. Do you still have contempt for Wade because of that girl eighteen months ago?" "A certain amount, I suppose," he admitted, staring through the windscreen at the illumined road ahead. "But you can forgive a man just one such incident in his life." "I'm sure it cured him. As a matter of fact he - he wants to marry." "But meanwhile he's willing to play around." "You mean Loraine?" "Loraine - and Andra Farnley. It would take someone stronger than Wade to make a lasting impression on Andra, but Loraine's liable to get hurt if she stays much longer in Sainte Beauve." "I don't think that's true," Mollie said unhappily. "Loraine is young and inexperienced, but she does have a sense of values and Wade has been honest with her. I particularly asked him that."

He shot a quick look. "So you've reason to believe there's something serious between them ? " She sighed. "This business of her sister-in-law and the little boy comes first with Loraine, but she does like Wade. If the other were settled..." "Well, we may find them both smashed up," he cut in savagely, "in which case there will be no problems at all. On the other hand, Wade may have reverted to his former habits and arranged this little hitch. We ought to know soon!" The brief conversation, coupled with her anxieties, quite exhausted Mollie. She looked out of the window and up at the dark firs she knew so well, and thought how strange it was that Loraine's coming should have altered the course even of her own tranquil life. But, strangely, Loraine had caused changes, right from the day they had met; small changes which had subtly altered the atmosphere of the schoolhouse because of the feeling that almost anything could happen. There were Andra Farnley and Wade, Bret Winthrop and John Carland; all of them a little different, a little more important, because of Loraine, who a few weeks ago hadn't known one of them. Loraine, who was unassuming but firm-willed, who roused a protective instinct in Wade, annoyed Bret and brought a smile to the tired eyes of John Carland. A protective instinct in Wade? Mollie shivered inside her coat and prayed that she was right.

CHAPTER VII LORAINE lay in the sandy grass till she was chilled. At no time was she near sleep, but after the first half-hour, when she was straining to catch the first distant sound of a car, she found herself slipping into a queer state of semi-consciousness in which she felt half drugged. She was unaware of the chill in her limbs till Wade called her name; then she stumbled to feet that were numb to the bone, and leaned to his window. "Are you better, Wade?" she asked, quickly. "Gosh, I'm sorry," he said, his tones thick. "What time is it?" "Getting towards midnight. Mollie will be worrying. Did you know the car was bogged down in sand?" "I believe I realized it when it first happened, but couldn't shake myself alive. We don't stand a chance of help at this time of night. I'll have to get you out of this." "Can you move ? " "I must. Don't let me pass out again. Come round to the other side and help me into the driving-seat." "The car won't move in this sand. I've tried it." He was gasping a little. "My damned bravado got you into this," he said jerkily, "but I promise to get you out of it. Come on." She hobbled round to the other door, opened it and leaned in to him. She lent him all. her strength, heard him grunt with pain as he moved and saw the sweat on his face. He rested hard on the wheel, and she stood there at his side, literally wringing her hands because of her own helplessness.

"If only I'd stopped instead of swerving away from that deer!" "You couldn't possibly have reacted to an emergency. I might have swerved myself. Loraine," he sounded worn, "take a look at the wheels and tell me how deep they're in." She had already examined them a dozen times. "The nearside wheels are well down, and these this side are less so." "The tools in the boot are wrapped in a corn sack. Scrape away the sand from the front nearside wheel and push the sack as far under as you can get it. I hate asking you to do it, but we must get moving." Hope gave her strength. She did as he requested, but the wheels spun without shifting the car. Wade, with his head in one hand, said the back wheel also needed something upon which it could take hold; Loraine would have to help him off with his jacket. "You'll keep that on," she said as decisively as she was able. "I won't have you catch cold on top of whatever else is wrong with you. You're warm now, aren't you ? " "Fairly. What about you ? " "Not too bad since I've used some energy." With a gesture almost of renunciation she slipped off her own jacket and folded it lengthwise, scooped mud and sand from the second wheel and thrust the edge of the jacket as far under it as she could. Wade pressed the accelerator, the wheels took hold, and as Loraine watched the car move a sick dizziness made her press a hand to her forehead. She felt the cold night breeze through the silk of her shirt, but she couldn't pick up the jacket, couldn't even look at it. She followed the car on to the road, got in beside Wade, and slumped in the corner.

He drove slowly, using one hand, for about five miles. They were on a mountain side with a sheer drop at one edge of the road when car beams became visible ahead. Wade slowed to a crawl, the other car came level and Loraine's heart plunged. "It's Bret," she whispered, "and Mollie's with him. Pull in, Wade." The next few minutes were confusing. There was Bret, so steelyeyed that she couldn't look at him, forcing whisky down Wade's throat and demanding that she drink the whisky and milk that Mollie had poured; there was Mollie chafing a wrist of each and saying yes, she could drive the car - it had been the family coupe before it was Wade's. And there was herself being shoved into the sheep-lined ski-jacket that was warm from Bret's shoulders, and being entwined like a mummy in his car-rug before he deposited her, as though she were a featherweight, into the front seat of his own car. "Wade's comfortable in that corner," she heard him say to Mollie. "Drive straight to John' Carland. I'll knock up someone on the road who has a phone and ring him to expect you, then I'll take Loraine to my house, and come down to you." "Loraine... to your house ? " Mollie echoed. "It's the only thing to do late at night. Wade may need the bedroom at the schoolhouse." "Bret, let me ask Loraine what happened to him, please!" "Get him to a doctor," he said brusquely. "Loraine's all in." He watched them start, then got into his own car and passed them. He drove grimly, looking straight ahead, and after a while he took a side road which led down to a handful of houses. There were no lights anywhere, but he stopped outside one which was wired for the telephone. He walked up the path, pressed something which

produced a chime in the house, and lights went on. Loraine saw him in a small lobby with a man in a dressing-gown standing behind him, saw him come out again, thank the man and receive a homely, "You're welcome. Sure hope that feller's goin' to be all right." And then they were on their way- to Wincona Lodge. If Bret hadn't spoken first, Loraine wouldn't have talked at all. She rested in her corner with closed eyes, and her hair lay like a pale light across the back of the seat. In the cocoon of warmth she looked fragile, her temples delicately hollowed, her lashes lying darkly against the pallor of her skin. He switched off the interior light and she opened her eyes. He gave her a fleeting glance. "It won't be long before you're in bed," he said. She roused from a welter of weariness to answer him. "Please take me to the schoolhouse. I can sleep tonight in the living- room." "Mollie will have enough on her hands. We'll make other arrangements tomorrow." "What made you come out to find us ? " "Mollie rang the hotel and I happened to be there." With Andra, she thought; and didn't care. "I'm awfully afraid that Wade is badly hurt," she said thinly. "He passed out once." She couldn't see his mouth but she knew it had tightened. "He should never have attempted the drive," he said, "Aren't you curious as to how he hurt himself?" "I'm pretty sure I know. Ted Muraille told me only today that Wade had been riding the horse too hard. He was concerned for Pete, not for Wade, but I know Wade has been going at it too recklessly for a

chap just out of hospital. He's probably re-torn the tissues around those ribs." His tone stung her into wakefulness. "Finish it off," she said. "Say it serves him right." "Candidly," he replied, "I don't care what happens to Wade. He's asked for trouble so many times that he's bound to get a double dose of it some time. Do you realize what this thoughtlessness has done tonight? It's had Mollie worried stiff, dragged the doctor from his well-earned rest - and we're not sure yet what it's done to you." He paused, then added quite viciously, "That's the sort of man you've let yourself get interested in. You can imagine the husband he'll make." "It seems hard to talk about him like that, when he's down." "I'm doing it for your sake. Where Wade's concerned I've no feelings. Whatever you do, don't pity the man!" Inside the rug Loraine's hands had been clasped tightly. Now, she loosed them and mechanically rubbed her wrists; she rubbed again ... and found it true. Her wrist-watch was missing. It was back there in the sand somewhere near the tweed jacket, and she knew, fatally, that she would never see either again. Except for the light in the porch Wincona Lodge was in darkness. As soon as Bret stopped the car, Loraine unwound herself from the rug, so that when her door opened she was able to step out on to the drive. He used his key in the house door, switched on the light and motioned towards the lounge. "Gaby will have left me a tray - she always does. When did you last eat?" "We had tea and cake at Tipicua." How very long ago that seemed; like something that had happened in another life.

She. zipped open the ski-jacket and he took it from her shoulders. With his toe he kicked together the dying logs in the fire-place, and then he drew the low table nearer to the warmth. He removed the napkin which covered the tray, lifted the thermos jug and took out the- stopper. "The coffee's good and hot," he said. "Try a sandwich." But she bit into an olive first. She wasn't hungry, only stiff and very tired and downhearted. In different circumstances she would have loved this being alone with Bret at a time when most people slept. Even as things were she could have savoured it, treasured it as a memory for the future, had there been some gentler feeling between them. "I'll get you some night things," he said offhandedly. "Hadn't you better call the doctor again?" "He promised to call me." He looked cynical. "Don't worry. Carland will do all he can for Wade." He walked out and Loraine dejectedly drank some nearly black coffee. Her eyes were hot and heavy, her brain woolly, as she stared at those logs which gave off heat without flame. Bret came back with a suit of pink cotton pyjamas and a large tweed dressing-gown. "I didn't waken Gaby," he said. "The pyjamas are hers; I found them in the linen cupboard. The dressing-robe is one of mine." "Won't Mrs. Muraille have heard us?" "She may have heard me moving about, but she won't get up. I'm often home later than this when I go out to the research station." He looked at the tray. "Can't you eat a sandwich?"

She shook her head. "I'm awfully sorry," she answered quietly. "The coffee was good." "I'll show you your bedroom and the bathroom," he said. Obediently she stood up and went with him. In the bedroom she was aware only of a natural linen bed-cover embroidered in bright colours and the chair upon which he put the pyjamas and robe. In the bathroom doorway she passed him, coming near to him for the first time in a good light. He let out a brief exclamation, took both her hands and gazed at the fingernails with a mixture of anger and horror. "What the devil have you been doing to get your nails broken and caked with mud! What are these grazes down the backs of your fingers? Why on earth didn't you tell me your hands were in this state!" "They're not so bad as they look," she replied unsteadily. "You'll learn it sooner or later, so I may as well tell you what happened. But don't have it in for Wade. He did try to put me off going - I see that now - but I thought his reluctance was because of the weather." "Well?" he prompted her sharply, as he half-filled the bowl with warm water. She told him a spare outline of the day's happenings. Her hands were in the bowl and he was sponging them gently, but his face, not far from her own, was a hard mask. When she came to the detail of the jacket a corner of his lip drew in, but he let her finish and dried each of her hands, separately, before he spoke. "It's as pretty, a story as I've heard in a long time," he said curtly. "With a knowledge of driving hardly above nil you took the car along the mountain road in the dark. You were scared by a deer, stuck in the wet sand and spent a couple of hours with an

unconscious man. Then he came to and had the nerve to suggest that he'd get you out of it -" he broke off, but added swiftly, "It's the most sickening thing I've ever heard of. Look at your hands. And you still defend him!" "They'll heal," she said ruefully, "but my tweed suit is done in - even the skirt has ripped at the side. It couldn't be helped, though. It was just one of those incidents." He had taken a bottle from the white cabinet on the wall, and with a wad of cotton-wool was dabbing at the scratches and redness on her fingers. The liquid stung slightly, his fingers under hers were warm and vibrant. "I haven't washed my face yet," she said. "I'll wash it for you." By now she knew better than to demur. She submitted without a word while he used the sponge. He wetted the collar of her shirt, but she didn't complain. The whole scene was incredible to Loraine, and when she found that he was looking down at her with the ghost of a smile on his lips, it was more unbelievable and heartbreaking than ever. "Like that, you look about ten," he said. She lowered her lashes. "I don't want to look ten, and anyway, I feel horribly old." "That's not surprising. Don't you like Canadians? " "Of course I like them. I prefer you that way."

"What you mean," he said sardonically, "is that you're frightened of me when I'm not. Well, I don't frighten little girls before they go to bed. Sleep well, honey." He was gone, the door closed, almost before she could answer him. For a foolish, yearning moment Loraine felt as if she had been cheated. Then the telephone rang and she heard him answer it and speak for a few minutes. Bret came to the bedroom door and said softly, "Loraine! Wade and Mollie are staying at the doctor's house for the night. Wade will have to be X-rayed tomorrow at the Twin Rivers clinic." "Thanks," she whispered. "Good night." It was some time before Loraine got into bed. Her emotion was a queer mixture of exhilaration and desperation. In one breath she was almost grateful to Wade for landing her in this position, and in the next she knew she should not be here, that from now on life would be ten times harder because she had had this glimpse of what it might be like to live under the same roof with Bret. When at last she did fold away the bed-cover and slip between the sheets, she lay wide-eyed, hearing noises peculiar to the timber forest and the lake below. There was a night-bird that whistled, the tang of pines and the scent of the budding wild heliotropes that grew in clumps among the rocks. There was a breeze so sweet and pure that she was reminded of the majesty of the mountains and the many waterfalls that froze in winter but bounced with glee in summer sunshine. And inevitably, mountains reminded her of Birdeye Peak and the little chapel with the cross on top and Patrick's name on the wall tablet. She hadn't told Bret about that, but now she imagined herself describing it quietly, and Bret's silent sympathy. Her bemused wits wandered, as she would never have permitted them to do in broad

daylight. In a feverish half-dream she even felt his arms about her, his lips upon hers. Small wonder that she slept uneasily that night! * Loraine had no idea what the time was when she awoke next morning. The sun was fairly high, birds screeched and chirruped, woodsmoke drifted in together with the smell of newly baked bread. She lay luxuriously between sleeping and waking, conscious of bounding life beyond the wide windows and the gentle movements of the curtains in the breeze. It was a large room, the furniture of golden birch, the cushions on the two chairs as brilliantly embroidered in Indian designs as the folded bed-cover which lay on the stool in front of the dressingchest. The curtains and rugs were dark chocolate, the floor as golden as the furniture, and the walls were a soft turquoise. Except for the walls, the theme was warmth and cheer, both necessary in a guestroom. The door of the room was apart a couple of inches, and someone knocked smartly. Gaby entered, plump and dark in her usual skirt and white blouse, and she set the tray she brought on the bedside table. In her inscrutable fashion she looked at Loraine's face, at her shoulders clad in the pink cotton pyjamas. "The breakfast," she said in her slightly French accent. "Good morning." "Good morning, Mrs. Muraille. You shouldn't have waited on me." "You are a guest," said the woman with a shrug, "though you will pardon me if I mention that you are an unconventional one." She moved a silver bowl of grapes and apples on the tray. "Mr. Winthrop said you would need waffles and ham, but I have brought

fruit and rolls because I am more acquainted with a woman's needs in the morning than he is." "I hope you didn't mind my wearing your pyjamas." "It is not for me to mind if Mr. Winthrop gave them to you." Loraine wondered if there was any way of softening that formidable exterior. "You do know how I come to be here, don't you ? " she asked tentatively. "It is not my business, Miss Farnley. It is enough that for the first time we have had a young unmarried woman in the house overnight." "You make it sound rather raw. I'm no threat, I assure you!" Loraine smiled. "It isn't only because I've slept here that you disapprove of me, is it? You disliked me when I came here before. I wonder why ?" "Perhaps I have been a little wrong about you," Gaby admitted grudgingly, "but I must say that I do not care for the idea . of a young woman coming home late with a man and sleeping in his house. Not only is it indiscreet, but it puts the man in a false position. Most women would take advantage of such a happening, but you would be too proud to do that, and I respect you for it. You are not like that woman who also bears your name - Mrs. Farnley." The new ease in the atmosphere faded slightly. "Does my sister-inlaw come here often ? " "Every day, and nearly always late in the afternoon, so that she is asked to stay for drinks. She is making it so that he looks for her when he comes home, and so that he goes to the hotel with her for dinner nearly every night. She would rather stay here, I think," with

a flash of the dark eyes, "but Mr. Winthrop is careful about such things." "He doesn't want her to misconstrue?" asked Loraine hopefully. "I do not know," said Gaby shortly. "The woman is a danger. With him she is prim and sweet; outwardly she sparkles as if from inner warmth, but inside she is cold as ice. But he sees the outside, the promise, and I think that for once he is deceived as only a man in love can be deceived." "Oh." It was a small sound of pain. Gaby said inexorably, "Mrs. Farnley is aware that I know she is vicious and selfish and mean, that I am not taken in by the velvet voice and expensive furs." "Bret is a shrewd man," said Loraine thinly. "He may not be taken in, either." "You do not know this business as I know it," replied Gaby, and she went out. Loraine pushed herself up in the bed, and tented her knees and rested her elbows on them. She pressed back her. hair with a shaking hand and thought of those last few minutes with Bret in this room, his lean strong hands holding hers, his face softened slightly and mocking. Was it because she had been tired to the point of exhaustion that she had felt a tenuous link between them? Had she imagined the gentleness of his touch? Yes, she must have. Or else she had imagined something into the gentleness that wasn't really there. After all, he had said she looked a ten-year-old, and that must be how he thought of her - negligible, somewhat to be pitied. In the sanity of morning light everything was back where it had been. Andra was in possession here, and she had both the means and

the will to hold him. In any case, a man like Bret was never possessed against his inclination. Andra had boasted that she always saw several moves ahead in her plans, and in Bret she had a kindred spirit; except that he was probably the wiser. They knew what they were doing - both of them. She stirred herself and looked at the tray. The coffee smelled richly fragrant, the rolls were still warm and the butter was yellow and patterned, like fancy half-crowns. The grapes still had their bloom, and she wondered how far they had come; the Canadian grapecountry was only just awakening. The apples were local, though, from cold storage; they had been in the fridge and were filmed with dew. With scarcely a rap at the door Gaby came in again, this time holding a blue dress over her arm. "Mr. Winthrop got this for you this morning, from the schoolhouse. If you will leave your skirt I will see if I can repair it for you." "No, you mustn't. I'll have a go at it myself, some time. Is - is Mr. Winthrop here?" "Yes, he is here," tartly, "and it is after nine. He is waiting to see you." "Then I'll get up at once." "You have not touched the tray," said Gaby, offended. "Please pour me some coffee," begged Loraine contritely, "and I'll try to eat while I'm dressing. I'm really very sorry to give you all this trouble, Mrs. Muraille." "It is not the trouble," said Gaby, with inexplicable magnanimity, "but the fact that you have not eaten. I am to blame, am I not?"

"You?" Loraine was already standing on the rug and reaching for her underwear. "Of course you're not." "Oh, yes." The dark glance roved the slim figure. "I watched the morning brightness leave your eyes as I spoke of Mrs. Farnley. You, too, would like to see her go from this district, I believe." "I'm afraid I would." "Never be afraid of what is good," said Gaby severely. Then she busied herself with the coffee, murmuring over her shoulder. "You can help me to get rid of her. But first tell me something. Is it true that you are leaving Canada very soon?" "I think so." "You cannot tell me for sure?" Loraine's sigh was hardly audible, but it was wrung from the heart. "I shall leave as soon as I possibly can." "That is good enough. I must think this over. There is your coffee, and do not be long. You have already kept Mr." Winthrop from his work." After which she again went from the room. - In less than fifteen minutes Loraine made her way to the lounge. She wore the blue dress and no make-up, but the hair was soft and light about her face and her calf shoes had been brightly polished. She tapped nervously on the door and walked in, to find Bret at the desk writing a letter. He got up at once, and no sooner had their eyes met than she sensed a mocking malice in him. Normally this was the sort of mood which would have both relieved her and put her on her mettle, but well down in her mind dwelt a series of pictures of Bret and Andra, having intimate drinks together, going over to the hotel for dinner, taking moonlight drives through the pines above the lake,

linking arms when they walked over a bluff and perhaps stopping of mutual accord to admire... and kiss. "Good morning," he said. "How are the hands?" "Much better, thanks. They'll be fine after a manicure. It was very good of you to go down to the schoolhouse for my dress, and I can't tell you how sorry I am to have kept you from Twin Rivers." "Who gave you that line - Gaby? Don't take too much notice of her; as she likes to be the only woman around here. Sit down, Loraine." She did sit down, but not in the easy chair he had indicated. Instead, she took a hard chair at the side of the open french door. He gave her a cigarette, held his fighter to it, then lit up for himself. He seemed to be in no hurry at all. In fact, he lazily took up a position in the open doorway and lounged there for fully two minutes while he smoked and apparently ruminated. "Got some news for you," he said at last. "Mollie Blain has sent word to her uncle up at the farm about Wade's - mishap, shall we call it? She's asked the uncle to send down one of the hands to drive Wade back in his own car. Believe it or not, Wade's keen to go." "I'm not surprised," she said evenly. "He came here to convalesce, but he's in worse shape than when he arrived. I feel rather downcast about it, because in a way I'm responsible." "That's a neat way of looking at it," he commented with sarcasm. "How could you influence a chap like Wade?" "I might even do that," she replied with spirit, "if I set my mind to it. But I didn't mean that I'd influence Wade." A name stuck in her throat but she had to voice it. "It was through me that Andra Farnley came to these parts, and she's the reason Wade had that collapse yesterday. She kept daring him to do wild tricks on the horse -"

"Wade's twenty-seven," he reminded her coolly, "and he knew Pete's limitations as well as his own. Andra only did what any highspirited young horsewoman might do, but Wade was foolish enough to take up the challenge." "You know all about it, then?" "I saw Andra last night and she told me Wade had come off the horse. She said it had worried her a little, but Wade had only grinned and got back into the saddle." "No man would show his weaknesses to a woman like Andra." He looked down at her, curiously. "Why do you hate her so much? She doesn't hate you." Loraine could have said: "She only hates people who threaten her, and I'm not likely to come into that category. In her opinion I'm merely the nuisance who brought you two together." But she didn't. She tapped ash into the little brown bowl he held towards her.- "I'd dislike anyone who blackened Patrick's name." "She didn't do that," he said sharply. "She did it by implication. Oh, I'm over that, now, but you can't expect me to forget so easily." She moistened her lips, looked up at him appealingly. "Do you remember I was once on the point of asking you another favour?" "Ah, so we come to it now. I thought we might, if I ignored it. Let's hear more." She looked at the point of her cigarette. "You're the closest friend Andra has here. She answered your letter because she sensed

something different about you, and she - she trusts and admires you." "I wouldn't mind having a spot of trust and admiration from you, too," he put in tersely. Loraine quelled an inward quiver. You have my love, she thought, and it covers everything. With almost perfect control she said. "I came to Canada to see both Andra and her son, but she says she won't let me see little Pat." Impatiently he stubbed out his cigarette. "Aren't you fed up with this damned quest of yours! You've goaded yourself into it without deriving the smallest spark of satisfaction. You've met Andra, and wished to heaven you hadn't, and now you're still harping on it. You've got to see the boy or disintegrate in the attempt!" He was much more furious than the topic should have made him, and Loraine seemed to know why, with a fatal certainty. He couldn't bear to be reminded that Andra already had a son. He knew he could keep her away from the boy, but the child existed, a spear in his too masculine flesh. Perhaps if he married her and there were other children.... Loraine gasped, and flung her cigarette out into the garden. She pressed her palms together, covering the burn that had been selfinflicted during sudden anguish. She said quickly, "I don't have to explain my motives all over again. I'm a little disappointed in Andra, and I may be disappointed in the child, but once I've seen them both I shall be free - quite free." "Free to go back ? " he asked casually. "And to start some sort of life of my own," she nodded. "Alone, I seem unable to do anything at all with Andra, but - but she'll listen

to you." Again she met his grey glance, entreatingly. "Please ask her, Bret, and I swear I'll never beg another service of you." His smile was pleasant. "That should persuade me if nothing else will. I never knew anyone so capable as you are of probing at raw spots." "What do you mean?" He gestured impatiently. "Oh, let it lie. I'll tell Andra that she should let you see the boy." "I shall always be grateful." "Hell, keep it." He straightened irascibly away from the door frame, but had no time to say more before Gaby Murialle rapped discreetly and came into the room. "Want something, Gaby?" "Only to know if you'll be here to lunch, Mr. Winthrop." He almost glowered at her, thoroughly out of humour. "What' have I done now?" "Done?" echoed Gaby innocently. "I'm only Mr. Winthrop when you're on your highest horse." "You didn't say about lunch," she persisted sweetly. "I won't be here," he said savagely, "but Miss Farnley will. I'll take her down to the schoolhouse this evening." Without another word he went out through the french window and strode round towards the garage.

Gaby gave a prodigious shrug. "We have made him angry, you and I. With me, it was intentional, because I do not think he should bring a woman into the house to sleep without rousing me. It is not against you, you understand ? " "He's very easily angered." "No, you are wrong. Ted and I have known Bret for many years. There was a time," she rested a surprisingly white forefinger against her chin, remembering, "when he was engaged in very secret work up in the woods - this atom business - and we three lived in a hidden shack. It lasted two years and we were like a family, He has always been very good to me, sometimes like a brother, but of late he is what you call - touchy, quick to take annoyance." This long speech, Loraine realized, was a huge concession from Gaby. It meant that the other woman had convinced herself that the young Englishwoman was no danger to the household of three. Gaby was almost on the point of conspiring with Loraine to keep it that way. Against her will, Loraine asked, "Would it really hurt you very much if Bret were to marry?" Gaby had obviously already given this matter earnest consideration. "It would not matter so much if the wife were good for him. All my life I have polished and scrubbed and cooked, and I could do that as well for two as for one." Her shoulders lifted. "The pity of it is, there is not a woman good enough for Bret." "Oh, come now," said Loraine, with a return of spirit. "He's only a man!" "Well; he is too good for that woman who is your sister-in- law ! When he brings her here as his wife I shall walk out."

"When," not "if." Loraine felt an ache like tears in her throat, and involuntarily she made a nervous movement, combing back the hair from her temples with slow fingertips. Perhaps Gaby noticed the vulnerable look of the bared temples, the quiver of naturally red lips; at any rate, her voice was softer when she said: "Bret is a product of this big wild country. There is not much one can do with such a man, but that little one can try." She added nothing to this enigmatic utterance, and Loraine did not answer it. So Gaby began to talk about Quebec, where she was born of FrenchCanadian parents, and of Ted, who was slightly more Canadian than French and happy all winter as a lumberjack. Since coming to Sainte Beauve, Ted had been able to come down from the timberlands most week-ends, and in the summer, of course, he did the outdoor work of Wincona Lodge and was now engaged on repairing and painting up the canoes, both for Bret and for the hotel across the lake. Mention of the hotel brought shadow back into the room. Gaby's forbidding manner returned, and she said, quite coldly, that she would prepare a steak for lunch. "Not for me," said Loraine. "I've decided to go back to the schoolhouse this morning." "Ted has our two-seater, but he will not take you if I tell him it is against Bret's wishes." "Then I must walk across to the hotel and get a lift down from there." "You English are strange," said Gaby. "You show no feelings, only this front of reserve. Even in this country you yourself do not change, but your children grow up Canadians."

"I'm not an immigrant," said Loraine. "I'll go now, if you don't mind." "Wait, I will tell Ted to take you," Gaby commanded crossly. From the door she looked back over her shoulder. "And whatever comes of this night you have spent at Wincona Lodge - do not hold me responsible!" Loraine went to her bedroom, folded yesterday's blouse inside the ripped and muddy skirt and carried the bundle out to the porch. Within five minutes Ted Muraille drove his two-seater to the foot of the steps, and Loraine got into it beside him. Gaby determinedly kept out of sight and Ted set the car moving round the drive. Under the big log archway he had to brake suddenly, for a long scarlet roadster swung in from the road and passed him at speed. "That's Mrs. Farnley," he said unnecessarily, and drove down on to the road. She put a question about his logging operations, and the ensuing monologue helped them to cover the distance. He set her down at the schoolhouse, waved a friendly "So-long, miss," and headed back for home. The schoolhouse was quiet except for a muted mumbling from next door. Loraine stood in the living-room, feeling again that a whole epoch had passed since she had set out yesterday with Wade. The place was tidy, a little dusty and very cool. In Mollie's bedroom a dress and a pair of stockings lay over the bed, as if hastily discarded this morning. Loraine hung the dress and washed the stockings, used a duster and decided that lunch would have to be tinned sweetcorn on toast, and fruit. She would do the shopping this afternoon and prepare a more balanced dinner.

When Mollie came in the table was set with a check cloth and the hot course was ready to eat. Raised eyebrows expressed her surprise. "Didn't expect you till tonight. How did you get on?" "I'd rather have been here. Two rounds of toast?" "Please." Mollie forked corn from the bowl over her toast, took a generous knob of butter and used pepper and salt. "I suppose Bret told you Wade and I slept at John's house? I insisted on staying with Wade, so that John could rest. This morning, at about six-thirty, we took Wade to the clinic at Twin Rivers, and he's there now. John thinks those ribs will need strapping for a month or so, but Wade won't have to lie up. He's going back to the farm." "Yes, I heard." Loraine tried the sweet corn and found it tasteless. "Did Wade tell you what happened to us?" A nod. "He was unusually talkative. I'm terribly sorry about your suit." "Maybe it's time I stepped out of colourless tweeds. I lost my watch, too." "No! My, that's a blow." Mollie paused. "We'll get you a new one. Wade and I." "You're not to. It was partly my own fault. The catch on the strap was weak and I should have had it repaired. I'll buy a new one in England. They're cheaper there." She ate some toast. "Last night decided my career for me. I'm going to train as a nurse and learn to drive." Mollie laughed. "You could do that without going back to England. Talk to John about it." Her head turned, and she looked through the

window, as if thinking. "John was wonderful last night, and quite touchingly grateful when I made tea and boiled eggs so that he shouldn't go out empty this morning. At heart he's a very simple man." "How did Wade react to being attended by him?" "He was morose at first, kept his eyes closed and probably pretended it was all happening to two other men. But after a while, when the pain had gone and he was thoroughly comfortable, he said that Doc. Carland might be a stuffed shirt but he knew his job. We didn't speak much, John and I, but I did feel that most of the bitterness was gone." "A little good, from evil," remarked Loraine. Mollie pushed her plate aside and took an apple. "Do you mind if I'm frank?" "About what?" "My brother - and you. Was there anything between you, Loraine? Or rather is there?" "No, nothing at all." Mollie let out a sigh. "I'm glad and sorry. I'm sure Wade would marry you and he'd be good to you, but he wouldn't make you happy. We Blains don't seem to mate easily." The rest of that day was calm as a summer breeze. Loraine shopped and prepared a steak pie for dinner, she did some mending, read a little without remembering a word, and took a walk among the trees. John Carland called to tell Mollie that the X-ray had revealed no new complications, and was persuaded to share the pie. He left

straight after dinner, and it was not long before Mollie and Loraine decided to make up for the sleep they had missed last night. Back in her small bedroom, Loraine thought of that other with pale blue walls and golden wood. She thought of Bret coming home to find her gone, his shrug of exasperation and dismissal. In spirit she felt inexpressibly weary and hopeless. Bret would succeed with Andra, Loraine would be allowed to see little Pat; her task in Canada would be done. She was close to the end.

CHAPTER VIII THE next two days passed as quietly as the hours before a storm. On Thursday, a note from Bret was delivered to Mollie, in which he invited her "and Loraine, if she is free," to join a canoe party the following Saturday. They would leave at eleven in the morning and move down-lake till they found a picnic spot; he was inviting about twenty, and perhaps Mollie would let him know whether they would both be there, so that he could arrange about picking them up. Mollie was mystified but fairly happy about it. Almost without consulting Loraine she accepted for the two of them. The sense of impending climax became strong in Loraine, yet she could not for the life of her imagine what form such a climax would take. There were moments when she was merely relieved and expectant, others when she was palpitant and dreamy, and once or twice she had shivered with a nameless dread. On the whole, though, she was calm, because restraint was natural to her, whatever of unease and intensity might dwell within. She was unprepared, however, for the shattering scene on Friday morning. From the kitchen she heard the tap at the outer door, and thinking it might be a delivery boy too lazy to come round to the back, she called, "Come in!" But instead of a nasal, "Morn- in', ma'am!" she heard the rustle of a full skirt and a discreet click as the door closed. She moved forward to see who it might be, and in a reflex action her fingers curled tightly into her palms. Her gaze was caught and held by the unyielding eyes of Andra. She managed to end the almost palpable silence. "Good morning. It's good of you to call." "Is it?" The tones were smooth as ever, but not silky. "I want to talk with you. Are we likely to be interrupted? "

"I don't think so. Will you have a chair?" Andra ignored this. She was wearing a deceptively simple dress in her favourite scarlet, the material a thin wool, with a high neck, and each cuff caught together with a chunky silver-gilt ornament. The dark hair was slicked back in one shallow wave from her forehead, making her features prominent, the line of her neck graceful. By the accident of birth she was Canadian; as a woman she was of no race, no creed but the belief in herself. Her personality in that small room was strong and almost terrifying. "We won't bother with the conversation, Loraine. I dare say you've guessed why I'm here." "Yes, but I'm not sure whether you come as friend or enemy," said Loraine above the heavy beating of her heart. "Let's skip the skirmishing. Bret Winthrop told me last night that you had asked him to plead with me. Being Bret, he didn't plead but merely told me to give in gracefully and let you see Pat. For the first time in my life I was so angry that I daren't trust myself .to answer. So he took it that I'd capitulated." "And you're telling me now that you haven't?" said Loraine quietly. "I'm telling you to get out, Loraine! I've never permitted any person to cause me so much annoyance as you have, and now I've come to the end of my patience. Had you kept this affair from Bret I would have tolerated you till you grew tired or penniless. But since I saw you last you've been for quite a hay ride, haven't you!" The words were stones dropped upon smooth steel. "The brave little woman valiantly striving with a car and a sick man on a dark mountain road; the pale innocent spending a night at Wincona Lodge." She blazed suddenly, with a cold metallic flame. "It's been the talk of the hotel,

and all because you fawned around that damned dark horse of a housekeeper ! How much did you pay the woman, Loraine?" Perhaps because the accusation was so fantastic, Loraine was not angered. She was bewildered, though; for a long moment, while she strove to adjust her mental processes to Andra's, she just stood there, staring at the tight, beautiful face, at those eyes which were so worldly wise, so utterly incapable of tenderness. "You don't believe I'd do that," she managed at last. "No, I don't. I've known all along that that woman hates me and I've promised myself a riotous moment when I shall throw her out of Wincona Lodge for good. But in essentials she was right. You did arrive at Bret's house at something after midnight, and you did sleep there, without her knowing about it till breakfast time. You can't deny it!" "Of course I can't, but there was nothing else to it." The thin red lips curled downwards contemptuously. "I'm quite sure there was nothing else to it, because I happen to know that Bret considers you too naive for words! But Gaby Muraille is savouring it as if it were a good French wine, and she's doing it in public. So now you know why I won't have you around any longer!" Loraine's brain was clearing. She began to realize what had been in Gaby's mind that morning at the Lodge, and she couldn't help feeling that it had been rather silly of the woman to antagonize Andra still further. Andra was a match for Gaby any day. "Gossip always dies," she said, "but if you so desperately want me to leave Sainte Beauve you have only to give me permission to go to your ranch."

"I'll never do that!" said Andra, and those slightly flaring nostrils were white. "Not even for Bret?" "I don't have to do it for Bret. You thought that asking him to intercede for you was mighty clever, but all it did was to assure me that however gentle and unassuming you may seem, you're a menace. I know your character pretty well, because Patrick's was similar. He got ideas and clung to them, and he had a mistaken sense of loyalty, too - though I'll admit I was grateful for it sometimes." Loraine's heart contracted. "It's a pity loyalty isn't infectious. Where his memory is concerned you could do with some. Have you ever been to the chapel at Birdeye Peak?" "I never look back," said Andra, "and it's beside the point, anyway. I came here to warn you there'll be trouble if you come between me and Bret Winthrop." "Nothing's ever come between you and the object of your ambition, has it?" said Loraine bitterly. "I wonder how many meannesses you've committed, how many lies you've told, how many people you've wounded, to get what you've wanted? I only hope that one day you'll sprout a conscience; if you do, it'll tear you apart." Andra was not accustomed to using her emotions, but sudden fury tinned her into a leashed tigress. Her pale hand clenched upon the table, her eyes narrowed and glittered and her mouth became a thin red line which scarcely moved as she spoke. "You might be Patrick himself speaking," she said. "So you'd like my conscience to tear me apart? Well, let your sentimental little soul get hold of this, and maybe you'll be the one in torment, not I. You know already that I never loved Patrick, but what you haven't yet found out is why I married him. Seeing that you're a gourmand for

the truth, I'll give it to you straight." Her breath drew audibly between her teeth. "When I met your brother at that party in Winnipeg I was poverty-poor, but a house guest in a palatial mansion. I'd just learned the contents of my stepfather's will. He had no children of his own and he was a rich man. He left his money to me and my heirs, on certain conditions. I had to marry and have a son before I could touch a cent." "But - but you had other men friends," said Loraine desperately. "You needn't have chosen Patrick!" A kind of molten malice seethed briefly in the depths of Andra's eyes. "Patrick knew nothing of the' will and he had fallen in love with me. Others fell in love with my prospects. Any other man would have clung, for what he could wrest from my fortune, but Patrick hated it from the moment I told him, soon after the baby came. By then we knew each other, and I was pleased that my earlier judgement of him had been so correct. It was good to know that the child would inherit stern principles as well as my love of good things." "You're incredible," breathed Loraine. "No wonder Patrick took to walking in the woods alone. He got you everything you wanted and you let him know that he was of no further use, didn't you? If only he'd given us an inkling of what was happening!" Andra gave a brief, cold laugh. "The suffering in silence was typically Patrick. I believe he hoped I'd change. But I'd been living for the day when that money would be mine. The child was nearly a year old before the first cheque came through from the attorney." Loraine stood still, hardly daring to breathe. She could hear her own heart beating as she waited for Andra's next remark; but the silence went on, unbearably, and in the end she heard her own husky voice saying,

"You may as well tell me the rest." "No," said Andra, her composure intact once more. "I'll keep it. All that I've told you now you could have learned if you'd gone to the ranch, because the woman who has charge of my son knows the whole of it, and is not absolutely to be trusted with secrets. The other was between- Patrick and me, and no one else will ever know it." Loraine seemed to see herself standing apart and looking upon the two of them. This woman in red was so diabolically self- centred that she would sacrifice anyone or anything to get what she wanted; and herself in the grey frock with a high collar, full of horror for what had been done to Patrick. Patrick, who had been dogged and good-natured, unimaginative yet soft enough at the core to be mortally wounded by the woman he loved. She tensed herself, as if his pain were now her own. "You're cured of the urge to see little Pat, aren't you?" said Andra. "I'm sorry for him;" answered Loraine bleakly. "I'm even sorry for you." "Keep your pity. He's going to have a grand life - and so am I." "You do realize that I could pass on to Bret all this you've told me?" "Of course," negligently, "but you won't ... because you're in love with him." Something died within Loraine. Her jaw went stiff, her hands icy. "What in the world gave you ... that idea?" "Your looks and evasions. I'm not a kitten in the ways of the world, you know, and you are. It was inevitable, just as it was inevitable that your brother should fall for me. You Farnleys do have the

effrontery to fall for folks who are right out of reach, but fortunately you yourself have good sense. You get the drift?" Loraine said, "Yes, I get it. I go to Bret with the truth, you'll tell him and everyone else that I'm doing my girlish best to make an impression." "I should put it rather more strongly than that." She shrugged indolently, and moved towards the door. "I'm pretty sure we understand one another now, Loraine.' You haven't much alternative but to get out on the next train south, have you? I believe there's one on Sunday night." Without haste and almost noiselessly, she was gone. The red roadster roared and its sounds diminished. Loraine pressed a trembling hand to her cheek, turned as if to subside into a chair, and then resolutely went back to the kitchen. She must hurry with Mollie's lunch. * Luckily, the rest of that' day was fairly busy. Mollie had decided to work off old invitations by having a few friends to a buffet supper, and the preparations for it took up most of 'the afternoon. There were savouries to make - tiny pies and sausage rolls, toasted cheese biscuits, mock oysters, bean cakes and fish balls - and the livingroom had to be polished till surfaces gleamed like glass. There were white narcissi in the bright Indian-ware bowl, logs piled in the fireplace and an old beribboned hat at rakish angle upon the moose head over the door. Mollie arranged this last. "Someone who packed up and moved away from Sainte Beauve gave me that head, so I've never like to throw it out," she said. "The only way to live with it is to insult it sometimes. Looks randy, doesn't he?"

It was she who mixed a punch of canned fruit-juices and gin. "Tastes like the kick of a mule, but is only as potent as a cat- lick," she remarked with a wink. Mollie had been different these last few days. Now, she had on the new silk print and her hair was dressed more loosely than she wore it for school, so that the homely contours of her face were less pronounced. The superb nose and a happy expression made her good-looking, and when Loraine told her so the resultant flush was even more enhancing. Mollie expressed her disbelief in her usual cynical fashion, but it didn't occur to her to take a good look at Loraine. As far as she knew this had so far been as uneventful a day as yesterday, and the day before. Around six o'clock the guests arrived, more or less in a bunch. A few were parents of some of Mollie's school-children, but most belonged to the various clubs which flourished in the town and of which Mollie was an indefatigable member. Eating and drinking were well under way when John Carland arrived. He gave Loraine a smile, obediently sat where Mollie indicated and took his glass and plate. Loraine didn't manage to get near him, but she thought that in his quiet fashion he enjoyed it as much as the rest did. Mollie plied him with food, and presently squeezed on to a stool beside him. "Is Wade still gaining pep ? " she asked. "Yes. I told him this afternoon that the farm-hand had arrived to drive him home, and he's decided to go tomorrow." She looked a little downcast. "We don't seem to have had any time together, but I shall miss him." "Your uncle will see that Wade takes care of himself. He's leaving Twin Rivers at nine, and will call here to say good-bye on his way

out. He's so tightly strapped that the journey can't possibly harm him. I've given him a letter to his own doctor." Mollie said simply, "I don't have to tell you how thankful I am for all you've done for Wade. To you, it was merely routine, but you could have turned him over to Dr. Xavier if you'd liked." "My dear," said the doctor, rather more casually than his wont, "you brought him to me, and that was enough. I don't have to repeat how pleased I am that there's no longer a bone of contention between us." But there was still a barrier between them; Mollie felt it. "I expect you're looking forward to your trip to England," she said noncommittally. "In a way," he admitted, "though I've been away too long to pick up the threads. I'm afraid I'm not giving much thought to it." "You're very busy?" "It's not that." He sighed. "I'm never my best when I'm uncertain. Remember the good talks we used to have, years ago? It's a long time since you and I were alone, for strictly social purposes." She smiled guardedly. "You haven't time for the schoolteacher now. I hear Mrs. Winster is a very good hostess." "Yes, she is," he said. "Which reminds me that I have to call at her house tonight. She's had a sudden attack of neuritis in her forearm, and I promised to look in between nine and ten. You won't mind if I leave early?" "Certainly not," she said levelly. "After all, Mrs. Winster is a power at the paper mill."

His look at her was shrewd, a little surprised, but instead of commenting upon her remark, he said, "You're looking well, Mollie, and very feminine in the green thing. It's sophisticated but nice." "Compliment Loraine," she said brusquely, standing up. "She chose and designed the thing. Will you try a fish roll?" Mollie moved away and started up the record player. She and Loraine brought in fresh dishes of food and encouraged hilarity. Dr. Carland left almost unnoticed amid the fun and games, and the party went on till twelve. In the unnatural quiet that followed the departure of the last guests, Mollie and Loraine stacked the dishes till morning, brushed up crumbs and candy papers and emptied ashtrays. "Good party, uh?" asked Mollie. Loraine nodded. "I like your people, Mollie." "So do I." But she sounded morose. "But sometimes I wonder why I don't put in for a transfer. A move to Toronto or Montreal would brighten me no end. The upper layer here send their children away to school." "Those who stay need education just as badly." "The teacher doesn't have to be me," said Mollie a little sourly. "Some ruts grow on you, but mine's becoming a tight fit." "You're just sleepy." "We both are. We'll lie late tomorrow. Thank goodness I don't have to ask if I have a clean blouse for Bret's picnic. Since you've been with me I'm as trim as a yacht."

They said good night and went to their bedrooms. In her small sanctum Loraine undressed and creamed the light makeup from her face, leaving cheeks white and lips colourless. She looked at herself, keeping her mouth firm and her head thrown back. Nothing was any different, she reminded herself. She was merely finding things out, things which had existed long before she came to Sainte Beauve. If the discoveries were painful, she was capable of bearing them. The point to remember was the old one - that it had all been there before she came. * She awoke to the pale rose light of the morning sun, and got up to lean out of the window. The day as yet was unblemished, the air cool and invigorating, and Loraine wondered if anyone else ever felt as she did - that she would give almost anything to preserve this brittle, crystal perfection of the morning. Loraine drew back into the room to face the day. Bret's picnic she thought; she would see him today, watch that ruthless charm of his at work upon other women - upon Andra. And it would be of no use to torture herself, either. Life, it seemed, was a series of disillusionments, but each jolt hardened and conditioned one for the next. One had to try to get through without becoming cynical. Most women wore denims and shirts to a picnic, but Loraine had never felt comfortable in the denims she had bought; she decided on an old dark green skirt, a white T-shirt and the gay jacket she had bought with the denims. It was about half-past ten when Wade came. He walked in as nonchalantly as ever, responded to their enquiries with a flip of his fingers and a grin.

"I'm fine. There's a darned pretty nurse over at Twin Rivers, and the week passed on wheels." "If she was that good, you could have stayed on there," suggested Mollie. "You know how it is," he said breezily. "A few days and you know all about each other; a few more and you're both completely bored. It was never like that with us, was it, Loraine?" "That was because you never have known all about Loraine," said Mollie knowledgeably, "and probably because she wouldn't ever be comprehensible to your one-horse mind, anyway." "I wonder who's stooging for Andra Farnley now that I'm out of it?" he said, unperturbed. "She certainly gave me a workout." Mollie was unsympathetic. "You should have left her alone. Women like Andra never give." "That's what makes them so interesting," he said. He turned to Loraine. "You're very quiet - don't look too rosy, either. They told me you took no ill effect from that night. You believe I'm sorry about it, don't you? " "Of course. I'm only glad your injury was no worse." "Were you frightened?" "Naturally - and furious with that car driver who decided to forget he'd seen us." "It was a filthy ending for your tweed jacket - and then to lose your wrist-watch." Already he was slipping the catch on the band of his own gold watch. "I want you to have this, Loraine. When I can get

to a jeweller I'll buy you a watch to replace the other, but wear this until then." "No, really! It was an old one - used to let me down. Please!" She was pushing his watch back across the table. "I'll get another in England." Wade was serious now, sincere. He didn't even seem to care that Mollie was staring at him with raised brows and a crooked smile. "I was responsible for everything that happened that night. It wouldn't mean anything - my buying you a wrist- watch - not if you didn't want it to mean anything. Honestly, Loraine, I'd feel a heap better if you'd let me." "I can't, Wade." Her tones were definite. "I suppose to you my principles seem a little archaic, but I couldn't accept from you anything of such value. Thanks... but no." "You must miss having a watch," he persisted. "Yes, I do, but-" "Then wear this, just while you're here. If, when you go, you care to keep it, I shall be happy. If you don't, leave it with Mollie." Loraine looked quickly at Mollie, saw her nod almost imperceptibly. "What about you?" she asked Wade. "You'll be without one yourself." "I've another at the farm." He smiled, flippant again. "Wear it by day and slip it under your pillow at night. Maybe I'll tick my way into your heart." "I'm only borrowing it," she said.

"Okay, stickler, have it your way. Well, I suppose I'd better breeze." He got up stiffly, gave his side a rueful slap. "I'll take this up to the farm and cure it." . "And don't forget Uncle's fond of you," admonished Mollie severely. "I bet he'll kill the calf for you." "Prairie chickens and champagne," said Wade, "and a bunch of cooing neighbours. Say, d'you suppose the Ransomes' daughter will be home from college yet?" Mollie laughed, scoffingly. "If she's any sense she'll stay away from you! But good luck with her, anyway!" They were all in the porch when Loraine asked carelessly, "Wade, did you ever hear the address of Andra's ranch?" "I saw it by accident once, on a letter she left at the hotel counter for posting. The Leigh-Colton Ranch, Cherrington, Alberta." He looked at her curiously. "It's a whale of a hike from here." "Yes, I suppose so," she said without emotion. "I'm not even sure I want to go, but I may write to the person who has charge of Andra's son." "That's probably the woman Andra had written to there - a Miss Smitherson. The ranch would be some way out of Cherrington, but it would be a good size, and known locally." "Is Cherrington well known?" "Gosh, no. I'd never heard of it before. It'll be a postal and railway depot for the cattle ranches in the district. By rail, you'd take the local to the south, get the main line to Calgary and change again. With stops, it'd take all of three days."

Mollie said, "Maybe Andra will relent and run you across country in her car. If she doesn't, you Could write to this Miss Smitherson and ask her for a photo of the boy." Loraine nodded, but had no time to speak before Bret's big car pulled in behind Wade's modest coupe, and he got out and came up the path. "The grand farewell," said Wade. "You're just in time. Bret." Bret was tall and broad-shouldered in heavy blue flannels and a corded white shirt. His smile was companionable, his glance comprehensive. "How are you feeling, Wade?" "As if I'd just missed a thousand dollars and made a dozen. Goodbye, Mollie, old pinto." Agreeably he returned her kiss. "Good-bye, Loraine. You write first, and here's something to keep you going." He bent forward and gave her a short firm kiss. "Mmm. Nice," he commented, and lifted a hand towards Bret. But Bret wasn't there; he was at Wade's car, opening the door, and somehow he contrived not to shake Wade's hand at all. He didn't even help him into the seat, but merely closed the door after Wade had managed alone, and half-raised a hand in farewell. The farmhand who was driving waved good-bye and the car gathered speed. "If you're both ready," said Bret a little crisply, "we'll go at once. I'm picking up Rex and Trudy as well." The day's pleasure really started on the stone terrace outside Wincona Lodge. There were coffee and cakes, stronger drinks and cheese straws, boxes of cigarettes and candies. The canoes were lined up at the landing-stage, newly painted in different colours, and the one which Gaby and Ted would share was also loaded with gear

and supplies. Gaby had at last got out of her black skirt; she sported a skirt of unearthly tartan and had brightened the white blouse with a yellow scarf, but somehow she still contrived to look forbidding. Most of the rest wore the usual trousers and bright shirts. The men stowed fishing-rods and guitars. The women talked and laughed in soft, drawling voices; all except Andra, who sat with them and yet alone, her elegant legs in their black trousers extended before her, and the scarlet-tipped fingers holding a cigarette. The black sweater was chic French sportswear, the small round blobs in her ears were pure gold. She looked withdrawn and serene, and totally unaware of Loraine. Loraine shared a canoe with Mollie and two of the senior staff at Twin Rivers. They were Sven Norlund from Oslo and Bob Conroy of Toronto, and both had something which lifted them out of the ordinary. Mollie rather took to Sven's deceptive simplicity; they jested endlessly. The canoes moved smoothly down the lake. Loraine did not look at the sleek silver and white one which held Andra and Bret; she took a determined interest in this part of the lake which she had never seen before. She had been told how huge was Lake Wincona, had even traced it on a local map, yet she had never quite believed in its apparent limitlessness. They were skimming through blue water, past headlands and rocky beaches and thickly wooded islands. Wild duck flew up in myriads and made for the creeks, and an occasional pike could be seen alongside the canoe but well down. Grouse beat their wings among the trees, a waterfall threw its bounty from a rocky ledge a hundred feet above the lake causing some small rapids, and the layers of ever-present pines stretched up and up, their needle-fuzz bright against the blue of the sky.

The bank at which they tied up rose gently from the water's edge. It was grass-clad and sheltered by a surround of trees from the wind which always blew high above the lake. Some of the men at once set about baiting their lines, Ted and others gathered wood for the fire, and women took off their shoes and waded, or .found an interest in the birds and marsh tortoises, the rock plants and the rocks themselves, which were often streaked with quartz. There must have been more than thirty round the camp-fire. Gaby turned the steaks on a grid set above the fiercest heat, she cooked chops and thick slices of bacon, heated cans of beans and warmed a pan of little twisted golden rolls. Ted made coffee and poured lager, Bret gave out plates and napkins and kept everyone supplied with food. There was banter, most of it directed at Gaby. "Another cutlet, Gaby, there's a pal. This time I'll have it with mushrooms and onion sauce." "Look at my omelette! It's like a Valentine I had last year." "That's a fancy wrap-me-round, Gaby. Did you bring the bagpipes?" Gaby smiled and took her time about replying. "You are all very funny, but I do not fight my own battles. On my behalf, Ted will challenge any one of you to a tree-felling." Groans greeted this. "I knew it," said one. "Lucky we didn't bring any big axes." "Oh, but we did," said Gaby. "Bret remembered them." "Traitor!" Bret laughed. "Come on, Rex, pass it off with music. Give us a sad song."

Rex was thirtyish and fair and pleasantly ugly. He pinged nostalgically on his guitar and sang a song about an old prospector who went through many vicissitudes before he "up and died". This tragedy was received with laughter and clapping, so Rex ate some fried chicken and again plucked the strings. His light voice was just right for yodelling mountain ballads. He closed his eyes and probably imagined himself homing on a tired cow-pony and passing effortlessly from song to song. Oh, London is a man's town, there's power in the air; And Paris is a woman's town, with flowers in her hair; And it's sweet to dream in Venice, and it's great to study Rome. But when it comes to living there is no place like home. In the midst of their fruit eating the other men joined in, and several songs later all of them were singing, even Gaby. Oh, the buzzin' of the bees in the cigarette trees, Near the soda-water fountain At the lemonade springs Where the blue bird sings In that big Rock Candy Mountain! At last they turned to smoking and reminiscing. The fishing enthusiasts pushed out in their canoes, an athletic young man turned double somersaults, and some of the women went housewifely and exchanged recipes. Loraine was sitting with , Mrs. Mackenzie, but they were not talking; nor did there seem to be much conversation between the rest of those who still lounged. Perhaps that was why Gaby's sudden remark seemed to drop straight into a silence. "This, I suppose," she said clearly, "could be a celebration. I feel we have a newly engaged couple among us. Do not you others feel it also?"

The only movement, during the next few seconds, was that of Andra lifting her head like a deer on the scent. Her expression was calm, if a little tight, and because she loathed Gaby and was distrusted in return, she was obviously ready for whatever the woman might spring. In swift panic Loraine told herself that Gaby might be referring to any two of these people here. Rex and Trudy, for instance; they weren't engaged yet. With an effort of will she looked sideways, beyond Mollie and the Norwegian, at Bret. He was resting back on one elbow, his mouth a little set, his eyes narrowed at Gaby, but when he spoke his tones were level and mocking. "Gaby's inherited a French sense of drama," he said, "and believe it or not, she's incurably romantic." "There is nothing wrong with a little romance," she stated, looking at the dying fire, "but my concern is more for the conventions. It is all very well for you, Bret. You are a man at the top of your profession and it is said that even bigger honours are coming your way...." "Now, Gaby, you've eaten too much!" "You will please listen, Bret - and without levity. I have said it is all very well for you because you are a man!" Gaby's gaze at the fire had become more concentrated. "It is not so happy for the girl who spent Monday night with us at Wincona Lodge." There was another silence, shorter than the last. Then Mr. Mackenzie said mildly, "We all know about it, Gaby. You don't have to inflate it while we're on a picnic?' "It is important," said Gaby stubbornly. "The young Miss Farnley is a stranger here, and unless her position is made clear people may say things about her."

"And how, exactly," asked Bret very evenly, "would you suggest I make her position clear?" "It is not for me to suggest," Gaby answered blandly, "but if you two are engaged this is a good time to make it known - when a harmless incident has given rise to talk. It is only fair to the girl." The blood had drained completely from Loraine's face and her eyes were wide and dark. She felt them looking at her, some of them kindly, some with curiosity, but none them mattered. None except Bret, who was taking his time before voicing something diplomatic and amusing which would put an end to the horror. But it seemed that he wasn't amused. "Don't you think," he said, a steely quality in his tones, "that this publicity is a trifle hard on Loraine? I can't say I care for it much myself, either, but you can set your sense of propriety at rest, Gaby." The woman beamed upon him and clapped her hands. "Then it is true!" she burst out rapidly. "Why should you not tell us, then? We are all happy for you, Bret. Would you deny us a toast? Ted! See if we have champagne among the bottles, and hurry with the wiping of those glasses. Bret has chosen his wife!" She swung round, fixed Andra with a penetrating dark stare and waved a merry hand. "Well, Mrs. Farnley, I am sure you would like to be the first to congratulate your sister- in-law. It is wonderful news, is it not, Mrs. Farnley? " Loraine didn't remember getting to her feet, and she was aware of the upturned faces only as a blur. With fingers that shook she drew her jacket together, and then she turned and stumbled up the slope. She did hear Gaby's next words, though. "Let her go - the child is shy. We will postpone the toast till later." And Bret's savage reply: "What's come over you, Gaby? Why don't you mind your own damned business!"

He stood there for a moment, anger in every taut line of him, and a glittering in his eyes. Then he swung about, and without haste strode up the slope to disappear where Loraine had disappeared, among the trees. Andra's fingers were clenched like a vice about her own slim ankle. Her face must have lost colour because it had the appearance of a painted mask, but otherwise there was little to show of the almost uncontrollable rage which had gripped her a few minutes ago. Others were talking among themselves, and under cover of their noise Andra spoke up to the standing Gaby, spoke softly, dangerously. "I wouldn't be surprised," she said, "if you haven't cooked your own sweet goose. You've miscalculated both of them. Bret doesn't want her, and Loraine has the thick-skinned pride of the British. You're practically finished as housekeeper at Wincona Lodge." Gaby dispassionately surveyed the hard, beautiful features, the faultless elegance of the slim, sportily-clad figure. She shrugged philosophically. "It was worth a try," she said, "and I am willing to suffer the consequences. You will excuse me?" And Gaby walked with an unconcern she did not quite feel to the green canoe which was hers and Ted's.

CHAPTER IX THE air was cool and sweet among the trees, the ground soft with pine needles, but Loraine noticed neither. She knew Bret was only a few yards behind, that he was deliberately keeping his distance till that swift, clever mind of his had decided the course he would take with her. She was breathing heavily with the pace she had set herself, knew only the urge to get away from those people who had been part of the humiliating episode. She felt she would never be able to face even Mollie again. Bret must have made up his mind, for he came beside her, shortening his pace. "It's not a matter of life and death," he said. "We'll probably both survive it." "You will," she-said in a small dry voice, "and you're the one who lives here. It seems to me you should have treated Mrs. Muraille more as a housekeeper and less as a friend." "That's where you're wrong. That was an act Gaby put on - not natural to her at all. But I'll deal with her later." Abruptly, he added, "You must know I wouldn't have had it happen for anything." She stopped suddenly, her eyes blazing up at him from a white face. "I do know it, but why didn't you stop her! Why didn't you refute it the moment it was spoken? " "I'll tell you why," he said sharply. "It took me completely by surprise. I had no idea that more than two or three people knew you'd come to my house Monday night. Not that it matters if the whole district knows; almost any man would have done what I did that night. The point is that people do know, and that Gaby, apparently, is helping them to put a romantic construction upon it." "I've never known you to be so slow about anything before," she said bitterly.

"I hesitated for your sake," he told her roughly. "Do you suppose I intended them to believe we're engaged? I can't scotch it quickly without making you an object of pity." "I don't think you could worsen matters very much!" "How right you are," he said, with a tightness about his mouth that was almost a sneer. "I can perhaps gloss them a little, though - act the gentleman. When you're back on an even keel you can deny it yourself. To save your face, you can say I asked you to marry me and that you refused." She stared at him, her throat constricted. "You actually consent to this farce?" "I don't consent," he said. "I'm more or less forced to acquiesce, that's all. If I had, in effect, called Gaby a liar down there, all eyes would have been on you, to see how you were taking it. Maybe you're not aware that you looked shattered and absolutely at their mercy. It just isn't in me to let that happen to any woman!" "I see." She looked down at the golden carpet of pine needles. "I still think you could have laughed it off, and helped me to do the same. I'm in a horribly false position." "So am I," he said with irony. She thought she knew what he meant. "What will you tell Andra?" He shoved his hands rather forcibly into his pockets. "Don't pretend to worry about Andra. What you're really concerned about is Wade Blain's reaction, if he hears about it. That's it, isn't it?" "Why should I care what Wade thinks?"

His mouth twisted, as if with distaste. "In your vocabulary kisses and caring go together. Not secretly promised to Wade, are you?" "I shall probably never see him again." "Is that why you fell all of a heap when Gaby set off the firecracker?" he demanded mercilessly. "Was the whole thing too bitter to be borne?" "Leave me alone," said Loraine. "I must find some way of getting back to Sainte Beauve. I won't go down to those people again." "Oh, yes, you will!" "I won't! I don't belong here and when I'm gone they'll forget my existence. Except Mollie, they're not my friends. You've only to go back to them and use some of the famous charm and the whole thing will be seen for the joke it is." Her voice cracked, rose slightly. "They've had their spot of excitement, and now you can tell them the squib was a damp one. They'll laugh themselves sick!" He bent towards her. "Get hysterical and, I warn you - I'll shake you, hard. Whether you like it or not, we're together in this, and we'll deal with it my way, without melodramatics. You're definitely not running away!" ' "I won't face their silent criticism!" "There's not going to be any criticism," he said sternly. "It would never occur to one of them to criticize my fiancee, and that's what you've got to tolerate being for a while. When you leave Sainte Beauve," he finished deliberately, "the thing will peter out, but if you wish to end it before then we'll do it by mutual consent." "I couldn't possibly act a lie!"

"Then try to believe it's true," he returned with cold satire. "Pretend that you love me, just as you pretend you don't love Wade. You don't deceive me, but others aren't so discerning." She drew a long quivering breath. "You care so little what you say to me that I'll never understand why you're doing this." "You may be right - you never will," he conceded. "But if you ever again reach a normal state of mind you might consider it objectively, and eventually be grateful. Are you going to behave sensibly?" "What's sensible about a counterfeit engagement?" "Perhaps," he said cynically, "it's the only sensible type of engagement. Just realize that you haven't much alternative. We'll stroll down to the canoes, and you can leave all the answers to me." He looked into her face, studying her. In an odd voice he said, "You've changed since you first came - and not as I thought you might. That armour of reserve you wore was slightly ridiculous but individual. I knew it would have to crack wide open some day, but my guess was wrong about what was inside." "You're... disappointed?" "I'll tell you some other time," he said curtly. Loraine became conscious of their surroundings, the infinity of treetrunks and overhead branches, the movements of the birds, the dry rustle of the breeze. She was here alone with Bret, engaged to him, and yet it was the most desolating moment of her life, because by the fact of his consenting to the farce he admitted how little she really meant to him. Chivalry was innate in him; so was masterfulness. He had pitied her around the camp-fire with those people, felt responsible for the blow

she had received at Gaby's hands. He had misconstrued her pallor, taken it for a British abhorrence of such a situation and perhaps a kind of fear because of Wade. No, surely he didn't believe she had any intimate feeling for Wade? Yet how could she ask him now, without revealing herself? Now, more than ever, she must keep the rein taut. She noticed that the hard lines of his face had relaxed a little, and she felt the easing of her own tension. "If we have to go into battle," she said, "let's do it now." "It won't be as bad as that. The slant you have to get is that between ourselves it's a joke." "You don't think it's a joke. You look austere." "Perhaps even a temporary engagement is ageing," he said tersely, as they moved. "Mind your step." "I feel so miserable about it," she said forlornly. "Well, for heaven's sake try not to look it!" Without speaking again they walked together down the path through the trees. They came to the expanse of grass, saw that the camp-fire had been abandoned for a spot closer to the lake. Gaby was nowhere to be seen. Casually, as they neared the scattered group, Bret took her elbow. Loraine trembled. If only this were real! Bret's proprietorial hold, the smiling glances of belief that were turned their way, the knowledge they exuded of what must have happened up there in the woods. Her mouth was dry, her smiling expression painfully set.

"Is it official?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie. "Are we in order to hand out congratulations and blessings ? " Bret was calm, imperturbable. "Is any engagement official without a ring?" "I suppose not. Was that why you didn't tell us - because you hadn't had time to go south and get one?" "It could be a reason," he admitted, getting out cigarettes. "Got any matches, Mac? I forgot to fill my lighter." "But, Bret," said the girl named Trudy, "if s not fair to Loraine to be so matter-of-fact. If someone else suddenly announced that Rex and I were engaged, I'd make him give me a big kiss, right in front of everybody." "Ah, but you're an uninhibited Irish-Canadian," said Bret. "Loraine is phlegmatic English. She'd be terribly mortified if she were kissed in public." "She doesn't really looked kissed at all," said Andra very softly, "even among the trees." Loraine's cheeks burned. She wished she had torn away from Bret and climbed somehow to the road which must run along the ridge above the lake. Or that she had had the courage to run down ahead of him and tell them it was all a mistake. Anything rather than this gentle inquisition spiced with deadly malice from Andra. Suddenly, at a distance of at least fifteen feet, her eyes met Mollie's. Mollie wasn't smiling; she looked puzzled and thoughtful, and after a second or two she averted her gaze. "If you're all rested after lunch," said Bret, "what about some canoe races? Girl and boy to each canoe, boxes of candy and champagne

as prizes. I'm not eligible, so I'd better be the winning-post. Will you organize, Mac?" "Loraine had better go with Bret," said Mrs. Mackenzie. "We must remember to pair you two, from now on." The wind had dropped and it was warmer on the lake than it had been among the trees. The sun sent an apricot glow over the pinetops and cast a deeper, more virile heat over the water, where it became imprisoned as in a bowl. Bret had rolled his sleeves above his elbow and was canoeing with long powerful strokes. Loraine sat opposite him, looking resolutely at the steep green bank to the left. She felt the canoe swerve, and Bret stopped using the paddle. "That boulder at the edge of the water can be the winning post," he said. Then: "Wasn't such an ordeal, was it?" "It was bad enough," she said quietly. "The worst is over. I suggested this racing so that you could rest. Take off your jacket and relax." She slipped the jacket from her shoulders and laid it on the seat beside her, loosened the crew neck of her shirt and sat forward, with her arms along her knees. Bret bent towards her, his mouth suddenly drawn into a thin, cruel smile. "Is that Wade's watch you're wearing?" "Yes, he lent it to me this morning because I lost mine during the jaunt last Monday." Bret's hand was on her arm, his fingers bit deeply into her flesh, but he was still smiling. "You did have an understanding with him, then? Does it comfort you to wear something valuable that was his?"

"Bret," she said tremulously, "I don't feel I can go through anymore." "It's funny, but I feel about the same," he answered coolly. His fingers slipped under the loose band of the watch and he jerked it free. "Be too bad if after all my strategy someone recognized this as Wade's," he added, and dropped the watch straight into the lake. With fascinated horror, Loraine gazed at the spot where it had disappeared, then at last she glanced at Bret. He looked contemptuous and full of hate, and she knew with fatal certainty that the gesture he had made to save her humiliation had cost him far more than she could ever guess. * It was about five when they finished their canoeing and fishing and log-felling and met together for a cup of tea, and only half an hour later that they set off on the return trip to Wincona Lodge, all of them travelling in the canoes in which they had come. Mollie exchanged a few words with the Norwegian and Bob Gonroy, and the men occasionally spoke to Loraine, but the two women avoided addressing each other. There was badinage across the lake with other canoes, and when they arrived there were drinks again, and Gaby went off to the kitchen. "Why don't we all dine together at the hotel?" someone suggested. "Could you manage us this late, Mrs. Mackenzie?" "Yes, I think so. Mac and I will leave at once to make sure. How many?" Mollie said, "I'm awfully sorry, but I have a committee meeting tonight." Low-toned, Loraine said, "I'm afraid I must go, too:"

"Oh, but you mustn't," declared Trudy. "Bret's coming to the hotel, aren't you, Bret?" "Make it about twenty-five of us, Mac," he said. "Eight- thirty?" There was a general move. Andra decided to go back to the hotel with the Mackenzies, and several others thought they had time to slip home and change. Ted Muraille said he would gladly drive Miss Blain to the schoolhouse, and if Loraine liked, she could go as well, and get into a fresh dress; he'd wait and bring her back. But Bret said, "Loraine isn't wearing trousers. She can clean up here." So, aware of an electricity in the atmosphere that she would rather avoid, Mollie got into Ted's car and was driven home. In the schoolhouse she brewed fresh coffee and put on her navy linen dress. She cooked a couple of eggs and ate them with buckwheat biscuits, and because she still had half an hour to spare she opened the weekend newspaper and began reading, the condensed novel in the magazine section. She heard a car stop outside and looked up, unaccountably expecting Loraine. But whoever knocked waited for her invitation before entering. John Carland came in; a little hesitantly, but his smile was normal and undemanding. "I thought I'd find you here at this time," he said. "Am I in the way?" "No, I'm glad to see you." Mollie folded the newspaper, waved to a chair. "But I'm afraid I'm not in my best mood." John sat down. "Didn't you have a good day, after all?" "It was all right," she said with a sigh. "Can I do something for you?"

He nodded. "But there's no hurry. This hour on a Saturday is surprisingly peaceful, isn't it?" "Will you have some coffee?" "No, thanks." He paused, leaned forward and looked at her more keenly. "You may have been low in spirit many times, but I don't believe I've noticed you look it more than you do this evening. Not worried about Wade, are you?" She shook her head. "He went off this morning chirpy as a cricket. He'll be all right." She stopped, pondering; then said abruptly, "Bret Winthrop and Loraine are engaged to be married." Being a doctor, John Carland did not let out one of the many exclamations of astonishment. He merely sank back in his chair., staring at her. ""Engaged? Are you sure?" Briefly, she told him of the scene around the camp-fire, of Bret's return from the woods with Loraine. "It was all so uncanny," she said. "Bret picked us up here this morning, and he hardly spoke once to Loraine before Gaby started being indiscreet; in fact, I thought they must have had a past that I knew nothing about. Then Gaby goes all French and conventional and before you know it the two of them are engaged." "It all points to a previous understanding between them," "I don't think so. Loraine was knocked cold. Bret, of course, was suave as silk." "Do you think Loraine loves him?" The direct question brought faint colour into Mollie's cheeks. She hadn't imagined that John ever saw romance as anything but a houseful of children needing occasional medical attention.

"I think it's very possible," she said. "I wish you'd been there, John. I couldn't watch everyone at once, but the impression I got was that Gaby had something up her sleeve. Andra Farnley appeared to be entirely unmoved, and she seemed happy enough after coming back in the canoe with Bret, so I expect he did some explaining." "Isn't it probable that Bret considered it would be less humiliating for Loraine if he admitted they were unofficially engaged? After all, she's not likely to be here much longer. Still, knowing Bret, I can't conceive of his doing a thing like that lightly." "Bret could do anything," said Mollie in a hard voice. "That's what's so detestable about it. None of it would matter a scrap if Loraine had no feeling for him." John said curiously, "You seem mighty sure that Bret's emotions aren't involved." "Bret's emotions are never involved," she answered scathingly. "You should have heard him parry the teasing remarks! You should have seen him log-felling! You should have seen him dispensing drinks at his own house when we got back! I used to like Bret," she ended broodingly, "but after today..." She broke off and drummed two fingers on the table. John looked at her bent head, at the profile which aesthetically was so much more beautiful than the full face. Her anxiety the other night about Wade hadn't made her like this, low-voiced and vulnerable. He felt a pull at his heart, remembered his own errand, then thought of Loraine, who must be suffering torment. "Where is Loraine now? " he asked. "They were all dining at the hotel. Ted brought me down." "Supposing we go up to the hotel, you and I ? "

Mollie wasn't quite sure that she had heard correctly, "It's committee tonight," she reminded him, almost shocked. "What about it? When was the last time you cut a meeting?" "I don't believe I ever have." "Well, then," he said, as if that clinched it. "But they rely on me!" "Tonight, they can rely on someone else." "You're being very masterful, John!" His voice was light, but strong. "It's about time, don't you think? Shall we go now?" "No." Her hands were clasped rather tightly in her lap. "There's nothing we can do at the hotel. I'd rather see Loraine alone when she comes in. John ... what did you come here for, tonight?" "Well." he paused, "it can wait a day or two. I still have a week to go." "What do you mean - a week to go ? " . "Before I have to make the decision. You remember I mentioned it to you before?" "Yes, but I didn't suppose it had anything to do with me." John stood up rather suddenly, and dropped one hand into his pocket. He walked over to the window and looked out into the darkening night. "I've never told you much about my father, Mollie," he said. "There's not much to tell, really. He's the old type

of country practitioner - has been doctor in the same English village for over forty years. This year he's seventy, and he's decided to retire. That's why I'm going over to England." "To- to sell his practice?" "I'm not sure. Sometimes I feel a distinct pull back to England." "I see." Mollie said no more for nearly a minute. Then: "Are you thinking of finishing here, and staying in England?" He half turned from the window. "It's not as simple as that. I can't finish here abruptly. I'd have to break in another doctor, and give the Twin Rivers clinic three months' notice." "Wouldn't it be a wrench," she asked evenly, "to leave it all ? " "Of course, but I've always felt as if I were something of a misfit." He gave a small smile as she made to protest, and Went on, "It's true, Mollie. Your doctors here are mixers, but I don't enjoy mixing. In England doctors are more aloof from their patients; they're friendly without being pally. That's how I am - how I always will be. Still, I'd stay, if ... there were reason for it." This final remark seemed to hang on the air. Mollie thought she knew what it must be like to walk a tight-rope, to be uncertain whether the next step would bear both weight and balance. She said cautiously, "What exactly is it that you have a week to decide?" He seemed even more reluctant to answer than she had been to enquire. He walked slowly round the table and back again to the window, and there he fingered one of the pot plants, rubbing a thumb over the velvety leaves and sniffing to see if his skin had caught the scent.

"You know that old Dr. Xavier is really the doctor for the paper mill. He admitted some time ago that he was past it, but no one was appointed in his place. Lately, I've been called in more and more often, and a short while ago I was asked to take it on officially. I was given till the end of this month to make up my mind, and the month has one more week to go." "I hear they're extending the paper mill," she said, without expression. "They're offering an excellent fee." "With no strings?" He turned and looked down at her. "Why do you dislike Mrs. Winster?" She hardened. "I can't dislike someone I know only by sight." "Let's be truthful, Mollie. You've thought a few times that I was after the rich widow, haven't you ? " "I'd have put it the other way round. However, it's nothing to do with me." "The whole thing has a great deal to do with you," he said. "I'm slow in many ways, but I'm not a fool - not even where women are concerned. I'm not conceited, either. If Mrs. Winster ever thought I might become interested in her personally, it was because she had some plan of her own - not because she had much feeling for me. Heaven knows I don't inspire that sort of reaction in women! And for the sake of my profession, I'm glad." Mollie grasped her courage in both hands. "Would you marry Mrs. Winster if she were willing?"

"I would not!" He gave his slight, sudden smile. "Thanks for the compliment, Mollie. Thanks also for helping me in that decision." "I haven't tried!" she exclaimed hastily. "My dear, you don't have to. I'm turning down the paper mill offer." "But, John," she said distressed, "you may be sorry for ever, and I don't want to be blamed for it." "I shan't be sorry. Are you still wondering what all this has to do with you - why I should come here at a time when I could be pretty sure of finding you alone? " It was years since Mollie had gone scarlet, and she felt it now like a wave of flame over her face. She jumped up, picked up the committee minute book and ledger, and put them down again. "You've gone a bit mad," she said hoarsely. He came and took her fluttering hands, held them firmly. "No, this is sanity," he said. "I've been half dead, but now I'm living. Will you marry me, Mollie? I love you." "You can't!" she protested. "We've known each other for nine years and you've never thought of this before." "Oh, yes, I have! I'm not capable of sudden violent passion. That's probably why I went on for years just knowing that it was good to see you sometimes, and perhaps being subconsciously aware that one day we'd marry. It wasn't until that business of Wade and the girl that I realized how much you meant to me - how bitter it was to have you my enemy. All this time since I've been terribly unhappy. You can't imagine how good it was to have you at my house the other night - you and Wade - and to feel that Wade's resentment was

nearly gone, that you and I might come close again. I knew I couldn't rush things, but... well, you are fond of me, aren't you?" "I'm...afraid I am!" "You're such a dear thing, Mollie. I'll try to deserve you." "Don't be so darned humble," she said crossly, pulling her hands away. There came a sudden noisy rap on the door, and the two gazed at each other in silence. Mollie whispered, "You'd better open it." John moved and turned the handle, pulled the door open about a foot. A youthful voice said, "Oh, it's you, Dr. Carland. We're waiting next door for Mollie. The meeting, you know." "I'm afraid," John said courteously, in his best bedside manner, "that Miss Blain will not be along this evening." "Is she ill?" "No," he said thoughtfully, "but she's running a temperature. She'll be all right tomorrow." "Gosh, I'm sorry. Tell her not to worry. We'll get by. Could you just let me have the committee books? ... Thanks a lot. Good night, Doc." John closed the door, stood with his back to it and smiled with wrinkled nose at Mollie. "Easy, you see? They'll be quiet there tonight, for your sake." "They'll think I'm unwell!"

"I only said you were running a temperature, and so you are, Mollie ..." "Yes?" "All the rest is up to you - whether we stay here in Sainte Beauve and just take the month in England as a honeymoon, or move over there later and take on the practice." "Don't," she begged in a voice that was hardly recognizable. "It's all too much for one day. Besides, when I do realize it I want to feel happy about it, and I can't while Loraine is so uncertain. In a way I wish she'd never come here." He bent and kissed her mouth. "If she hadn't," he said, "I wouldn't be doing this. Because she wouldn't have brought Andra here, and Andra wouldn't have challenged Wade ... and so on- We must try to help Loraine." "She's so proud - and lately she keeps everything to herself." She looked at him shyly, pleadingly. "Couldn't you have a go at Bret?" "Good lord, no," he said soberly. "No man knows what he's doing so well as Bret!" "But I can't believe he'd hurt her deliberately." "Neither can I. But there's very little we can do, Mollie, come home with me for an hour or two." "But supposing the gang sees me from the windows next door!" "I'll tell them you need a change of air," he said with unaccustomed gaiety. "This is our night, Mollie, and I want it away from everyone else!"

* The evening at the hotel was not quite the severe test Loraine had anticipated. No one pressed her to eat a great deal or to be merry, and with Gaby absent there was no question of congratulations and toasts. Probably Bret's attitude had decided his friends on their course of conduct. They winked knowingly, were sweet to her and a little arch with Bret, and generally gave her to understand that if this engagement were unorthodox it was not unwelcome. Loraine ignored the painful weight at her heart. She danced with two or three of the men, sat out with the Mackenzies, and later danced with Bret. Moving round in his arms she knew the' old sensation of unreality. There was an acid sweetness in being held and guided by him, in hearing his voice as they danced. But his politeness was no balm to her cold bruised spirit. Tonight, when everyone thought them intimate as lovers, they were farther apart than ever before. The very thought of all that had happened since her awakening to an inexpressibly beautiful morning made her shiver; her physical being was wounded to the depths. And in her brain this queer sense of unreality, of gliding, drugged and unresisting, in another world. "You're tired," said Bret, as the music ended. "It's nearly eleven I'll take you home." "I'll wait and go down in one of the other cars," she said. His nostrils thinned. "It's no trouble," he commented, with a touch of sarcasm, "and you need only say good night to the Mackenzies. Let's find your jacket." They went out into the cool night. Straight behind Bret's car stood Andra's scarlet affair. Loraine saw him look at it briefly, and

somehow, she knew he would come back to the hotel after he had taken her to the schoolhouse. It was dark but cloudless, the pines were aromatic sentinels strung out in layers down the hillside. The lake was black scattered with silver coins, and Loraine thought, queerly, that this might be the last time she would ever see it. For some reason Bret told the story of a bear-hunt he had experienced some years ago. "It was about this time of the year and we were camping near one of the lakes farther north. A cub came to the camp and we fed it syrup. Normally, when they've had their fill they hurry off, but this one stuck. We couldn't get rid of it. Next day, when we were ready to push on, the bear started to jump madly about. We couldn't take it with us, and didn't like to leave the young thing quite alone, so we went hunting the mother. We found the lair, a huge tunnel that widened into an underground cave about five feet deep, and the mother was in there, dead." "What did you do with the cub? " "With us we had an Indian who was already impatient of our sentimentality. He shot the cub, skinned it and carried the bear meat on his back. That's how it is in the wilds." "Canada's a land of tremendous contrasts, isn't it?" she said, "and it has so much to offer to each new generation. I hoped I'd see more than I have - the lumberjacks pushing logs down the rivers, Niagara Falls, the inside of a paper mill, the prairies ... and an osprey. You do have ospreys here, don't you?" "There's a pair nesting up near the house. I'll show you them. You haven't lost the chance of seeing all you want to," he said noncommittally. "I really don't feel I want to stay much longer."

"You will, when you've got over your disappointments." The ground was too dangerous for her to venture further. She retreated. "It's a lovely night," she said tritely. "Yes, and it may be a lovely day tomorrow," he said with a dry crispness. After which neither spoke till they arrived at the schoolhouse. The whole building was in darkness; there was not even a wisp of smoke from the stove chimney. Loraine went into the porch, tiptoed to reach the ledge above the door. "Mollie must be out," she said. "Here's the key." She pushed it into the lock and turned to him, her pulses hurrying. "I'll manage now, thanks." His hand went to the key and he turned it and pushed open the door. "I'll put the light on for you." "Thanks." She stood blinking in the light, just inside the room. She was frightened, but the need to be normal was so strong that she took off her jacket casually and laid it over the back of 3 chair. Bret was inside, the door nearly closed behind him. His Smile was steely. "Your hair is golden under-the light," he said, "and your eyes are gentian. There's a hammer going just there at the base of your throat," he brushed it lightly with a finger-tip, "because you're terrified of what I may be going to do. What are you expecting?" "I - I wasn't expecting anything," she said in a husky whisper. "But you look... strange."

The cruel slant came to his eyes and mouth. "Come to think of it, I feel a little strange," he said. "This morning I was as free as air, but tonight I find myself engaged to be married." "It's no more strange for you than it is for me," she said. "I'd rather have your friends pity me than have you looking at me like that." "Like what?" "As if I've spoiled ... something you hold sacred." His laugh was brief, unpleasant. "You. have spoiled something, but there may be compensations. After all, an engaged man has privileges, doesn't he? No one could possibly think me a cad if I demanded one of them." He was gripping her shoulders, staring down at her with eyes full of molten violence. "You're wondering now what's been let loose, aren't you!" "Bret.. .please!" "Don't be afraid. I wouldn't do more than kiss you rather thoroughly." She trembled and he swiftly let her go. He said, "And to be honest, I don't even want to do that. I'd hate like hell to kiss lips that had been taught by a couple of men before me, particularly when one of them happens to be Wade Blain." The breath caught in her throat. "Why do you have to keep on at me like this? Surely the one to blame is your own housekeeper. I won't stand it, Bret. I won't!" He looked at her pallor; seemed to see for the first time the youth and unhappiness in her slim bowed shoulders, and his whole demeanour changed. He drew back, put a hand to the door. "You need your bed," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow. Good night." And he was gone.

Loraine slipped down into the chair near the table and rested her head upon her hands. She was loaded down by an unbearable sense of failure, yet she could not think what it was, in particular, that she had failed at. She had had no hand whatever in the circumstances of the day; she had merely been tossed around like a shuttlecock, unable, even had she been willing, to take advantage of a single move. And this phoney engagement to Bret; the bitter irony of being envied by other women, the hollow agony of the reality! But there need be no reality. She could refuse to go again to Wincona Lodge, tell anyone who might be interested that it wouldn't come to an official engagement after all. She didn't live near those other people, those friends of Bret's. They had their houses on the hillsides, their horses, their sports gear and canoes; they were of a different world, one she need never enter again. She got up and walked restlessly about the room. She lit a cigarette and squashed it out a moment later. Irrelevantly she thought of the story he had told her about the bear cub, and she imagined him feeding the furry animal and carrying it to the lair, and perhaps permitting himself a shrug of regret that it had to be killed; the memory of the story hurt like happiness gone by. She knew now that her behaviour had been all wrong this afternoon. Whatever the cost, she should have laughed at Gaby, shouted her down with laughter. Those others would have understood that, even though Bret would have known it out of character. Gaby, apparently, had also counted on its being out of character; in fact she had expected the very result she had achieved. Gaby was shrewd; but was she shrewd enough for Andra? Loraine doubted it. Andra would use every artifice and stratagem at her command, and into the bargain she was young and unusually beautiful.

Even back in the days when she had nursed her mother, Loraine had known that to get along in this world being simple and gentle wasn't enough. You had to use every ounce of personality, every scrap of force, and practise every woman's hopeful magic besides. It was just too bad that she had had too little experience to get anywhere against people like Gaby and Andra. She heard a car door slam, and suddenly she hated this house where every arrival was heralded. Quickly, she gathered her jacket on to her arm, and when Mollie came in, bright-eyed and smiling, she was already near the door which led through to the bedrooms. "Oh, hallo," said Mollie. "Did the party break up early?" "No, I came away. It's been a long day." "Sure has." Mollie looked expectant. "I suppose you're excited." "No, only sleepy." Loraine smiled; it was just a cold bright movement of her mouth. "Luckily tomorrow's Sunday. Good night, Mollie." Mollie answered her, and when Loraine had gone she stood there smoothing with her finger-tips the lips which John had kissed.

CHAPTER X IT rained next morning. There was blue in the sky, but the veil of rain blew past the windows and was vaguely comforting because it shut them in, making the house safe from Sunday morning visitors. Loraine gave Mollie her breakfast in bed, and had the rooms tidied before the other got up. Her instinct was to escape from Mollie, because she was afraid of meeting understanding or compassion in those candid brown eyes. But there were certain things which had to be said. Mollie herself broached the subject. "I must say," she remarked with careful flippancy, "that you're hardly an advertisement for radiant romance. Was Gaby's gambit yesterday a shock to you?" "You must have seen it was," Loraine answered. "I'd really rather not talk about it, Mollie." "I apologize," said Mollie at once. "I'm not telling you to mind your own business," Loraine hastened to assure her. "It's just that I'm not even clear about it myself, and discussing it wouldn't get us anywhere. It's best to regard it as a horrible mistake." "You mean you're not engaged ? " She nodded. "Bret saw I was in a spot and decided to be noble." She added bitterly, "He thought I'd be publicly hurt if he instantly squashed the whole thing, so he decided to inflict private hurt instead. That's all there is to it." "What a mess," Mollie commented, sighing. "But I'm not sorry there's nothing in it. Bret couldn't make any ordinary woman happy unless he were in love with her up to the ears, and seeing that with him love is likely to be conducted scientifically and with the proper

chemical ingredients, it hardly seems that an ordinary woman would measure up. I hate to think it, but Andra does come nearer his set of needs than you do." "You wouldn't say that if you knew as much about Andra as I've learnt recently. I wouldn't wish her on to any man." Loraine paused, looked at Mollie more closely. "You're happy, aren't you ? I saw it when you came in last night." "Does it stand out that far?" queried Mollie. "I didn't want to thrust my good luck at you while you're feeling low." "Good luck? How good?" "Luck isn't the right word. Everything's come round for me, Loraine, and even though I've slept on it, I can't quite believe it." "John Carland," exclaimed Loraine. "He's asked you to marry him!" "Goodness sakes," said Mollie. "How could you guess that?" "Well, it's so right. I'd have thought of it before if I hadn't been so engrossed with my own tribulations. Mollie, I'm so glad! There couldn't possibly be better news than that, from anyone." "You know," said Millie seriously, "you're about the least selfish person I've ever come across, yet you've more reason to be selfish than any of us. You had a rotten life in England, and it's been pretty raw for you here, too. I could do all sorts of things to Andra Farnley and Bret Winthrop for the way they've treated you." "Don't blame Bret," said Loraine quickly, on a note of strain. "He acts according to his own particular masculine conscience. And don't be too sure that I'm unselfish. I give in to circumstances, and maybe that's not so virtuous, after all. When are you and John going to be married?"

"We haven't got that far. I can't leave the school till the long vacation starts, and John has to give notice at the Twin Rivers clinic ... if we decide to leave Sainte Beauve. I'll tell you about it some other time." "What will Wade say about it?" "Frankly, I don't very much care!" "Good for you. Mollie, I lost his wrist-watch yesterday. I... don't seem safe with them any more." "Oh, bad luck." If Mollie was curious for further details she made no sign. "He was anxious for you to keep it, so don't worry." Oddly, conversation seemed to dry up after that. Loraine went into the kitchen to start the lunch, and Mollie got out a pile of written homework to correct. A watery sun shone through the drizzle and a breeze got up. Through the kitchen window Loraine could see the pallid gold on straight-stemmed pines and balsam, and the thin rain drifting like smoke from a far-off camp-fire. She was chopping apples when someone came into the house and spoke to Mollie, and thinking it might be a school child or a parent, she went to close the kitchen door. But Mollie called, "You're wanted, Loraine!" So she wiped her fingers and went into the living-room, to confront Andra. Mollie was sitting back in her chair, her hands clasped loosely on the table in front of her. Andra stood just inside the main door, peeling off brown suede gloves and turning back the collar of a furlined rainproof which was belted at the slim waist; the dark hair was

partly covered by a jaunty rainproof cap. Both women were regarding each other with curiosity and hostility, but Andra's curiosity was cold and aloof. She obviously had no intention of dealing with Mollie. "I'd like to see Loraine alone," she said. Mollie shrugged. "I don't mind,- if Loraine doesn't, but I'll stay if she wants me to." Loraine said, "You can speak in front of Mollie, Andra." "I've no intention of doing so, but as this happens to be her house I'm quite willing to talk to you outside in the car." "What more can you possibly have to say to me?" "Very little. But I mean to say it, here or in the car." Mollie got up. "Go ahead, Loraine. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me." And she vanished and closed the kitchen door. Andra drew the gauntlet gloves slowly through her fingers. Insolently she stared at the thin shadowed face, the squared shoulders in blue linen. "That was a pathetic show you put on yesterday," she said. "I doubt if anyone was deceived into believing in an engagement between you and Bret. You weren't clever enough to use the situation to your benefit." "Is that what you came here to tell me?" asked Loraine. "No, I came to remind you of something I told you the other day. There's a train south this evening, and you'd better be on it."

"Are you threatening me?" "I don't have to," said Andra coolly. "All I have to do is show you the truth of the situation. That delectable piece of acting put on by Gaby yesterday was purely against me." She smiled, tight-lipped. "The woman has disliked me from the day Bret lent me a horse and went riding with me. She's merely a servant but she can't stand being treated as one. To me, she's as transparent as spring water." "How nice for you." "If you're trying to annoy me you aren't succeeding, Loraine. I know too much about the world and the people in it to be ruffled by someone as simple as you are." "In that case you can't possibly object if I remove myself from Sainte Beauve in my own good time." Andra's green eyes glinted a sudden warning. Under the enamelled surface, Loraine guessed, she was not so uncaring as she appeared. Come to think of it, Andra would not have come to the schoolhouse like this unless she were inwardly disturbed. Loraine wished she could feel triumph instead of this emptiness. "You came here," said Andra, her fingers gripped tightly on the gloves she held, "to search for me and my son. If you'd stayed away you could have kept your illusions, but even after you'd found out a few unpleasant facts you were determined to go on. You know my attitude, yet still you stay on in Sainte Beauve, so I can only conclude that you really do think you stand a chance with Bret Winthrop." "I don't care what you conclude," said Loraine stiffly. "Do you still withhold permission for me to see the little boy?" "Yes, I do! I won't have him told that he has Farnley relatives,"

"Supposing I promise..." Two small coins of colour appeared high on Andra's cheeks. "I won't argue about it! Convince yourself that I mean every word I've said, and go." "I'm already convinced. I won't ask you again." "Good! And get the same slant regarding Bret, too. Gaby's act yesterday was against me, not because she had any genuine desire to see you as the lady of Wincona Lodge. She wouldn't have pushed you into that situation if she hadn't been sure you'd soon be leaving the country. In her opinion it was worth a throw. You realize that?" "I've no conceit," said Loraine a little wearily. "In that, too, I'm as my brother was." "No." Andra leaned forward where she stood, the slightly flaring nostrils emphasized by the narrow brilliance of her eyes. "Your brother was conceited. He actually thought himself good enough to be loved for himself ... by Andra Leigh. All during our marriage nearly two years of it - he was quite sure that he was the most important thing in my life. And do you know what happened, Loraine?" "I don't want to know!" cried Loraine, knowing that what must come would be insupportable. "It was between you and him." But Andra was impassioned and not to be halted. "Patrick didn't know much about my correspondence with the lawyer; he tried to forget that I'd become a woman of means. Then the first cheque came through and I showed it to him. He was aghast at the value of it, and when I told him that would be my monthly allowance from the estate he-was despondent." "Any decent man would have been!"

"But not half so despondent," finished Andra with quiet triumph, "as when I asked him for a divorce!" "Just then, it seemed to Loraine that she would never again suffer true mental torture. This was the ultimate, the end. And strangely, she had half known it all along; half known that Andra was directly responsible for the fact that Patrick had gone out that day into the mountains reckless of whether he lived or died. The woman had taken all she needed from him, and decided to cast him off. Poor, dear Patrick. Her throat was choked. "You'd better go," she said. "I hope I never see you again." "At last we agree upon something." Andra opened the door, buttoned the rainproof. "By the way," she said almost airily, in the doorway, "last night I asked Bret why he fell so deliberately into Gaby's trap down there by the camp-fire. He laughed and said he was sorry for you, that he wouldn't have done it if he hadn't known you were leaving soon." The door clicked neatly behind her. Loraine didn't move for a minute. All feeling seemed to have left her, but part of her brain still functioned. She knew with certainty that she would' never see Andra again, and even at such a time there was relief in the knowledge. She turned at a sound from the kitchen door. Mollie stood there, eyes bright with anger, one fist doubled into the other palm. "I shouldn't have listened, but I did. I heard every word, Loraine! We'll get her run out of the district!" Loraine shook her head, leaned back on the edge of the table. "On the whole I think she's her own worst enemy. I can't believe Bret is taken in by her."

"Bret!" said Mollie witheringly. "So that was why he was so darned smooth about this bogus engagement! He knew you were leaving soon. Loraine, why do you have to be such a doormat? Why don't you fight for the things you want?" She stopped in swift contrition. "I'm sorry; it's not fair to speak to you like. that. Heaven knows you've fought hard enough where Andra and her child are concerned. But it all seems to have been so futile." "If I hadn't come, I wouldn't have found it out. I'd still be yearning," said Loraine. "There have been good things in Canada - for me, I mean. It won't seem so remote as it used to, because I know now what the mountains and forests look like and I've had fun on one of the lakes." She hesitated. "You won't tell anyone about that conversation you just heard, will you? Not even John Carland." "I can't promise, Loraine." "It would only make more trouble if you did," she pleaded. "Well, I'll say nothing unless it looks as if Bret may be going to marry that woman. He doesn't deserve to be saved, but he's helped me in several ways and I'd feel it my duty to tell him just what Andra did to your brother." "If he's in love with her he'll believe her version," said Loraine, "and nothing you say will make any difference. I shan't be here, but..." Exasperated, Mollie said, "You're not going to let her stampede you into running away!" "I'm going, Mollie - on tonight's train." "You're leaving everything in the air." "The very fact of my going will straighten out most things."

"Are you going to give up the idea of seeing the boy? " Loraine shook her head. "No. This is between you and me Mollie. I'm going to Andra's ranch and somehow I'll see him. Right after I've seen him I'll make my way back to Toronto and fix up my passage home." "But I can't bear to think of you doing it all alone," said Mollie. "Please let's talk to John first. He's English - he'll understand your viewpoint, and he may be able to suggest an alternative." Loraine felt old and wise. "John couldn't suggest a thing, and you know it. At best, I could get a car to take me there - but that would mean telling someone, and honestly, I don't feel I trust anyone any longer. Only you, Mollie. You're not to be afraid for me. I'll manage." Straight after lunch Loraine set about her packing. She laid away the dresses she had brought from England, the cardigans and sweaters, the couple of odd skirts, her slacks and shirts. The denims and gay jacket she folded and put on a chair. Mollie could give them to the minister's wife to be included among a parcel for one of the poor families who lived out on the smallholdings. She would go back home and start a new life, perhaps contact one of those advisory bureaux. At the moment she didn't care what sphere she might enter; she was merely glad she had a little money left. For the fact that she had not used up all her mother's money she had to thank Mollie, who had taken her in and insisted that she should pay only for the food she ate. Mollie was marvellous, and no one could wish her better than that she should become the wife of Dr. Carland; the pity of it was that they had waited so long. While she folded underwear and wrapped shoes, Loraine thought all these things, mechanically and without zest. The soft melancholy of

the day filled the house and. somehow saved her from completely surrendering to grief. The window was wide, and the rain had released an unidentifiable but lovely perfume, one of those tangy scents that belong neither to winter nor summer, but to the climbing sun, the softer rains, the wide promise of spring. Then she heard John Carland in the living-room, and knew she must meet him with a bright agreeable smile, however tensed and anguished she might be underneath. She used a compact, a touch of lipstick, snapped shut both suitcases and went along the corridor. John greeted her with his usual quiet good humour. "This is your weather, Loraine. I used to enjoy walking in warm rain myself when I lived in England." "I think I will take a walk," she said, "But tea's ready," protested Mollie. "Have it first, anyway." "By then the rain will have stopped." John nodded. "It's going to be a fine evening." He said nothing whatever about the artificial engagement, and Loraine guessed that Mollie had hurriedly warned him. Her own rather shy congratulations he received unselfconsciously. "It's about time Mollie and I married, don't you think? Oddly enough, I don't believe many people will be surprised." "I know you're going to be happy," said Loraine. "I feel we are," said Mollie, and to shift the trend of the conversation, she added, "Will you bring the tray while I get the scones, Loraine?"

In the middle of pouring second cups Mollie raised her head, listening. The unmistakable thud of a car door sent a chill feathering across Loraine's skin, but she was not vulnerable as she had been earlier. She had been expecting this. Bret knocked and walked in with his usual air of owning the place. Mollie said something about getting another cup, and John pulled up a chair. "I forgot to mention that Bret would be here," said John, after they were all reseated. "I was up at Wincona Lodge this morning having a look at a burn on Mrs. Muraille's arm, and he said he'd be down. How is Gaby's arm, Bret?" "All right, I guess." Bret accepted his tea-cup, looked at Loraine. "Been out today?" "Not yet," she answered, quite steadily. "We'll take a run after tea. You look peaky." "She needs a rest," said Mollie quickly. "Driving is restful," he commented casually. "Glad to hear about you and John, Mollie. Persuade him to stay in Canada, won't you?" "We'll go wherever he feels he's most needed," she replied, a little shortly. "Have a scone?" "No, thanks. I'll smoke, if you've no objection." He got out the thin gold case and offered cigarettes. His glance at the others was shrewd, non-committal "Do I sense strain in the atmosphere? Was it there before I came? "

John smiled in his ordinary fashion. "Maybe we're all too much aware that we haven't met before like this. In a way, it's a special occasion." "Even old moose-head up there thinks so - he's blinking," commented Mollie, in an unsuccessful attempt at levity. Then in an effort to keep the conversation rolling, she made a mistake. "That was a mighty piece of log-felling you did yesterday, Bret" He drew in the corner of his lip, speculatively. "The tree was comparatively a sapling, and I was in the mood for it. To do a really good job with an axe you've got to be as angry as hell." He inhaled smoke, lifted his head and blew gently towards the ceiling. "What did you think of the log-felling, Loraine?" "I.... didn't watch it." "Oh, but you should have. Every man is supposed to have his woman cheering him on." "You seem to have done very well without it." His eyes narrowed, and his tone became slightly edged with sarcasm. "You must have been there in spirit. By the way, did you tell Mollie what happened to Wade's wristwatch?" Loraine's finger and thumb tightened on the slender handle of the tea-cup. "I told her I lost it." "I dropped it in the lake," said Bret to Mollie, without expression. "I'm planning to go down to Winnipeg for four days towards the end of the week, and I'll get a jeweller to post a new watch to Wade." "It's not important," murmured Mollie unhappily. In spite of herself she looked at Loraine's wrist, searching for the scratch she thought she remembered seeing there. "Does anyone want any more tea?"

No one did, so Mollie said she was now ready for a cigarette. Bret's case came out again, was offered to Mollie and then to Loraine. Loraine's hand was small and white as she took a cigarette between two fingers and held it to his lighter. She was leaning across the table and Bret held the back of her hand, steadying it. Mollie had never in her life felt so much like screaming. She saw Loraine's pale face, the transparent blue of her eyelids and the thick brown lashes against her skin as she closed her eyes against smoke, or against Bret's nearness. She saw Bret's hand, lean and brown, obliterating Loraine's, his merciless appraisal of the face below his own before he released the hand. By the time they had stubbed out cigarettes Bret was standing. "Thanks for the tea, Mollie," he said. "Get your coat, Loraine." She did not move. "I don't want to go out," she said. "The rain is nearly finished. Fresh air will do you all the good in the world." Without emphasis, she answered, "I'm not going out with you, Bret." John moved awkwardly, made a complication of consulting his watch. "I'll have to go. I'll ring you later, Mollie." "Yes, do." Mollie let him go, then moistened her lips to say offhandedly, "Loraine is much more tired than you think, Bret. We had a party on Friday night and were out all day yesterday." He gestured abruptly. "D'you mind leaving us alone, Mollie?" Bret waited till there was no sound before saying quietly, "I let my sense of humour slip yesterday. I promise. I won't repeat the error

today, and I won't force you to go to Wincona Lodge. Just come for a drive." She shook her head. "It wouldn't help in the least." "It might help considerably, so long as we didn't talk too much." Her glance at him was fleeting. "I knew you'd call here today because you said you would, but ... believe me, I hoped you wouldn't. All day I've dreaded your visit, and now it's more or less over I'm relieved. We've nothing more to say to each other - nothing at all." "In very few words you've said plenty," he answered. "Andra called in on me just before lunch and she told me you were in this mood. She said she was even on the point of offering to drive you into Alberta to see your nephew, but you made any gesture of generosity on her part impossible." Loraine wasn't surprised; or even angry. She was beyond the reach of emotion. "And you believed her?" "I knew how you were last night." On the point of reminding him of an earlier assertion of Andra's, Loraine stopped. What was the good of harking back to the day of Andra's arrival, of repeating Andra's statement that she would have liked to offer Loraine a home in Canada? If he didn't see through the woman he deserved whatever he might receive at her hands! "Did Andra know you were coming to see me this afternoon?" she asked. "I don't suppose so. I didn't mention it."

Which explained why Andra Farnley had been so cocksure. Boldness, in all things had always been her guiding principle. She took chances most women would shudder at, and by sheer nerve she got what she was after. No one could prove that the offer to take Loraine across country to the ranch had not been in Andra's mind, and by voicing it as soon as possible to Bret she had forestalled several eventualities. "Since you asked Andra to let me see the little boy," she said, "she has refused the permission, more than once." "She confessed as much to me," he said curtly. "You're apparently very much as your brother was, and she's afraid of the child transferring his affection." Loraine gave a brief, brittle laugh. "It's all so ingenious that I'm completely powerless against her. I haven't much in the way of weapons against you, either, but it so happens that I've reached a point where I don't care - about either of you. I had to meet Andra because that was what I came here for, but it was purely rotten luck that I should meet you, too. All I can be thankful for now is that you're both on your way out of my life!" He looked at her with eyes gone cold as steel. "Well, that's straight, anyway. Give my regards to Wade when you write." And he dragged open the door and strode out. * By the time Loraine had quite finished her packing the sun was shining gloriously. Raindrops scintillated on the grass and bushes and earthy scents were on the clear sparkling air. Mollie said despondently that the really good weather was just beginning.

Together, they prepared a cold early supper. John Carland telephoned, but Mollie told him she would ring him back later. Loraine was against saying good-bye to him, or to anyone. Loraine said, "You two will be coming to England later on, either for a honeymoon or to settle, and I shall see you again. By that time I'll be feeling normal and probably be established in a job. So don't let's have any good-byes, Mollie. I don't even want you to come to the train." "Whatever you say," nodded Mollie, with a worried frown. "I don't think I'd feel so bad if you were going straight to Toronto. Could you ring me from Calgary after you've been to the ranch?" "It may not be possible, but I'll send you a telegram." "Yes, do, and phone me from Toronto. I can't think how John's going to react to my letting you go like this." "He'll realize you had no option. Mollie, I'm so grateful you let me live with you." A strained pause, then Mollie said, "Here comes that thieving Kennedy. Don't pay him more than a dollar fifty." The cases were stowed. Loraine slipped into her tweed coat, pushed her gloves into her pocket and firmly grasped her handbag. Swiftly, she kissed Mollie's cheek and got into the cab. They were away, speeding down the familiar street into the main thoroughfare, taking a left turn and then a right one which brought them to the wayside halt that was sign-posted "Sainte Beauve." Loraine's cases were put into a little waiting- room, she paid the driver, and wandered a short distance to where a platform stood beside a goods siding.

The train came at last. With a few other people she went aboard, and with a great deal of noise they puffed away from Sainte Beauve. Rigidly, Loraine stared at the back page of a magazine which was being read by a woman who sat two yards away. She did not look up till the pine trees were gone, and only the tiny spears of green corn grew on either side.

CHAPTER XI THE depot at Cherrington was more or less as Wade had pictured it. The station clerk was also postmaster and general transport official, and his very slowness was an indication of the small amount of work he had to do. As soon as the train had gone on its way he sat on an old slatted metal chair and stared over the vast treeless wastes about him. Loraine had put a question but he wasn't quite-ready to answer it. She was worn and exasperated. The journey had seemed endless, and her head ached with two nights on different trains and the final crawl up from Calgary. It was still broad daylight, but the sun had gone and a purple shadow was advancing away to the east. "The Leigh-Colton ranch," said the man ruminatively. "Mighty big place. Friends of yours?" "Not exactly. I just want to know how to get there." "Too bad you didn't get in a couple of hours ago. Jeep went up there past the Leigh-Colton." Loraine kept control- "How far is it?" "About twenty miles. Maybe the manager's a friend of yours?" "No, I'm just... visiting. Can't you suggest any way I could get there tonight?" "Twenty miles ain't all that far." "Haven't you a telephone? Can't you get someone to take me there?"

"You city folks always think there should be a taxi service everywhere. I can phone the Leigh-Colton and get them to send for you." "No. No, don't do that." The heat of the train still throbbed in her temples. "Do you think if I were to wait there might be someone else going that way?" To Loraine, of course, this might mean anything, but she was too spent and too much at his mercy to argue. She nodded vaguely and sat down on the edge of a packing-case. The task she had set herself was no longer formidable; it was uplifting to think that Patrick's son was only twenty miles away. He, a small boy of four, was her journey's end. Surely it would not be too difficult to see him? Thinking about it, she had imagined herself arriving at the ranch in the middle of the morning and leaving before lunch. A train would take her away in the afternoon, and with luck she would board the main line for Toronto the same evening. That could still happen if she found somewhere to sleep tonight. She spoke again to the station official. "There must be a small town somewhere near here." He thought this over. "Sure is - Cherrington. I live there myself." "Is there a hotel?" "No use for one, but you could get a room. Might even dig in with my wife and me for the night." "I'd be awfully glad to." "Sure," he said unmoved. "I'll take you home."

Loraine didn't ask him when, or whether he ought to let his wife know first. She settled herself more comfortably on the packingcase, leaned back against the wooden wall of the office and closed her eyes. Her immediate troubles were over. Looked back upon, that night and the breakfast which followed it always had for Loraine the quality of a dream. She had jogged home beside the man in his very ancient vehicle, had at last seen the outlines of trees in the distance, and eventually been introduced to a plump elderly woman who was anxious, hospitable and talkative. She said their children were grown up now so they had two spare rooms, not of hotel quality, but clean and comfortable; anyone was welcome to a meal and a bed for the night. The sheets were coarse and, Loraine recalled, smelled of genuine old-fashioned verbena. The ceiling sloped down over the bed and there was a large framed text over a white-enamelled dressing-chest: "The Truth Shall Make You Free." It was an innocent little room and Loraine could imagine its cosiness on cold nights. She didn't sleep very well, but there was an undemanding sort of comfort in lying there among kind strangers. Breakfast, like the meal of the night before, was substantial and expertly cooked. The old railroad man and his wife were pleasantly curious about her reasons for visiting the Leigh- Colton ranch, but more interested in the fact that she had come from England and would soon be on her way back there. Loraine gathered that someone named Ned had promised to take her to the ranch and back again to the railway depot for a small charge, but her hostess was shocked at her offer to pay for the night's bed and board. "It's been a pleasure," she said. "We don't get enough folks out here and I only wish you could stay longer."

What the woman thought about having to house a visitor to the rich Leigh-Colton ranch Loraine never knew. She repeated her thanks, got into a big old saloon car with a long, rangy- looking man who was too embarrassed to speak, and was driven out of town on a tancoloured road which ran round a number of low rocky hills before it gave an expansive view of rolling grasslands. There were stone posts at the entrance to the Leigh-Colton ranch, and the name was chipped, into them and painted in black. The road wound between stunted fruit bush and willow, then there were aspens and oaks, a few conifers and more oaks before they came to the great spread of stone-built ranch- house. So this was a luxury ranch, thought Loraine, looking at the great modern windows, the brightly painted lawn furniture, the pergolas dripping with climbers in new leaf. She asked the driver to wait down on the road, and herself took the wide gravel path which led straight up to a big stone porch. She pulled at a long heavy chain which rang a bell, felt a queer leap within as the door opened and a small woman in a blue dress and white apron stared at her in a way that was neither friendly nor truculent. "Come on in," said the woman. "Who are you wanting?" "Miss Smitherson." Loraine took in the countrified elegance of the long room, but it was merely an impression because in her mind was only one thought. This was little Pat's home. "Is she here?" she asked. "Sure. She's probably in her room. What name?" "Tell her... Miss Farnley." The woman raised colourless eyebrows but merely said, "I'll tell Miss Smitherson you're here."

Loraine did not move from the centre of the room. Uneasiness and excitement were gone. She was here, and Andra was not; she had all the time in the world in which to show a good Miss Smitherson that no harm could possibly come of a meeting between Loraine Farnley and her little charge. The woman came in through a veranda door at the other end of the room. She was tall and neat, in her middle forties and apparently quite proud of the fact, for she carried herself with dignity, her hair was sleek and nicely waved and she wore just enough make-up to point the good features of a fairly plain face. Her speech was nearly as English as Loraine's. "I couldn't believe it when Martha said Miss Farnley was here," she said, extending a hand. "I vaguely knew you existed, but never guessed I'd ever see you. Sit down, Miss Farnley." The welcome was somewhat different from the one Loraine had anticipated. She took a chair, but warily, as though this cordiality could only be a trap. "I ought to make it quite clear at once that Mrs. Farnley was against my coming here, and will be furious when she hears about it," she said. "I don't suppose she mentioned me in any of her letters to you from Lake Wincona?" "Not a word. Is that where you saw her?" Loraine nodded. Miss Smitherson looked an efficient and even disarming person, but it was difficult to gauge just where her loyalties lay. Loraine had decided on a policy of frankness, and she still felt it would pay. "It was through me that Andra went up from Winnipeg to Lake Wincona; I'm not sure whether you know all the details of her marriage to my brother...."

v

The other inclined her head briefly. "There's not much you can tell me about Andra, my dear. She married and had a child for the sole purpose of fastening her pretty little claws on the Colton inheritance. Don't look so shocked. I saw it all happening, but at a distance. Let me tell you something." She leaned forward, and her smile at Loraine was experienced, even cynical. "I first came to Canada twenty-four years ago, as secretary to Andra's father. Andra was a tot, a spoiled, precocious brat in a lavish Winnipeg home. When she was fifteen her father died, and a year later her mother, who found herself suddenly poor, married Mr. Colton. The stepfather was fond of Andra, but he saw through her. During those years I ran the household accounts and did secretarial work for Andra's mother. Andra used to seethe because she had no money of her own, no car of her own and not even a dress allowance. She had plenty, you understand - could choose what she liked in the way of clothes and use one of the family cars - but she was without cash. Mr. Colton used to say he didn't want anyone to marry her for money." "His ideas were wrong," said Loraine. "The more you deprive anyone of something the more important that something becomes.." "That's so," agreed Miss Smitherson. "Mr. and Mrs. Colton died within a week of each other, after an auto crash. Andra was over twenty-one, and she thought that at last she would have every single thing she wanted, and a good deal besides. Then she learned the terms of her stepfather's will. Do you know them?" "Yes. They were obviously thought up by a man who put money first He should have let her, have part of the inheritance right away." The other woman's regard was speculative. "To me, you sound rather too understanding. Do you realize what she did to your brother?"

Loraine said, "It was hate of the position into which her stepfather had forced her which made her act as she did - and hate is the cause of most of the nasty crimes, isn't it? I don't forgive her - I'm not that noble - but I do feel a bit sorry for her. She's missed so much that's worth having, simply because money became so important." "That's a new angle on Andra," said Miss Smitherson, as if she were thinking it over. "She wouldn't like it." "As a matter of fact she didn't." The other smiled, almost delightedly. "Did you actually tell her all this? What a pity you're not a man - she Sometimes takes notice of men." A pause, then she added pointedly, "This is a long way from Lake Wincona, Miss Farnley." "It was the only way I could see my brother's son. You ... you will let me see him, won't you ?" "Why, of course. Did you actually come to Canada just for that reason?" she asked interestedly. "Yes. Andra never did write to us, and even Patrick dropped off, and his few letters were unsatisfactory. After he died there was just a blank, and my mother never recovered from it. The money she left was to be used for the purpose of finding Andra and the child. It never once occurred to us they were rich, though I did think she might have married again." Miss Smitherson shook her head. "She's going to be hard to please. She's far too clever to be caught by a fortune-hunter, and the other kind - those with position and integrity - are either married or warned off by the minks and jewels. Her only chance is to get close enough to someone who attracts her and make him want her. Propinquity has caused a good many marriages."

Loraine did not pursue this particular aspect. She said, "I don't feel I should stay here long. Perhaps I should see the boy now." "One of the hands is showing him some newly-born ponies. He'll be in directly. You'll stay to lunch, won't you?" "I'm here against the owner's wishes, so I'd rather not." Loraine smiled faintly. "It's a great relief to find you so sympathetic." "My dear, I know Andra so well that I'm automatically sympathetic to the people she disagrees with. She and I dislike each other quite intensely, but we never quarrel." "Yon don't see a great deal of her, do you?" "She'll be here for a couple of months any time now, but as soon as it cools down she'll go to Miami or Bermuda. While the boy is young she'll trust me; in fact, that's why she keeps me on - because there's no one else she'd trust him with. When he's ten he'll go away to school and I shan't be needed any more." "Won't you mind?" "Of course, a little. But financially I do very well, and I've promised myself a tour of the world when I'm through here. So I never get downhearted about it. What's it like in England now?" It wasn't easy to talk about England while her ears strained towards the outdoors, but Loraine did her best. "The man who brought me is still waiting," said Loraine at last. "Is he? We could have run you into Cherrington in the ranch wagon. However, I'll see what they're up to outside."

While Miss Smitherson was gone Loraine sat limply in her chair, watching the veranda door. But when it opened and a little boy came in followed by the older woman, she leaned forward, her heart beating unevenly, and then stood up. "Why, hallo," she said very softly, because of a lump which had formed in her throat. "I'm very pleased to know you." He was dark and had a good creamy complexion. He wore a denim play-suit with a bright floral shirt and flat, hand-sewn shoes. He looked at Loraine with mild curiosity, spoke in a slightly nasal treble. "Smitty says you're my auntie." "Yes, your daddy's sister. You and I have never seen each other before." He seemed uninterested. "We've got new ponies," he said. "Are they lovely?" "They're wobbly. Next year I'm going to learn to ride." "That should be fun." Loraine's heart steadied, her blood cooled. He was too like Andra; she couldn't see Patrick in him at all. If there had been traces of Farnley characteristics they were now obliterated by the life he led on the wide ranges, the wealth and care that surrounded him. Fleetingly, she wondered if he would change were she herself to have charge of him. Possibly, if she could get to know him, he would show small signs of his origin - maybe Patrick's way of slanting his head, or the habit he had of scratching the tip of his nose when he was engrossed.

But this child couldn't care about his father, nor even, it seemed, about his mother. His associates were the ranch manager and the cowboys, the refining and dependable influence in his life was this woman who knew his mother so well. He wasn't a poor little rich boy; Miss Smitherson saw to that. Nor was he spoiled, unless to deprive a child of fond outward affection is to spoil him. He would grow up self-assured and probably very honest. With the right kind of stepfather.... Loraine shivered, bent down to the boy. "I have to go now, Pat, but I'm very, very glad to have met you." "My name isn't Pat any more," he said. "It's Leigh." He turned to Miss Smitherson. "May I go now?" The older woman glanced quickly at Loraine. She touched the boy's shoulder. "Yes, run along. It's time for your milk." After he had gone there was a silence. Miss Smitherson straightened an ashtray on its tooled leather mat, poked a tulip stem farther into the vase among its fellows. "That was the latest instruction," she said uncomfortably. "Andra wrote that she didn't want him to be called Patrick any longer - that we were to start calling him Leigh while he's still young enough not to resent it. She says if she remarries she'll have his surname changed, too." "It's not really important," said Loraine. "He's still Patrick's son." She moved towards the main door. "Thanks very much for letting me see him, Miss Smitherson. I'm free at last to go back to England." The other woman accompanied her out on to the path. "You've got a long journey," she said abruptly. "I feel you ought to stay overnight

and get to know the boy. Believe it or not, you're the only relative he has." "It wouldn't be fair to stay, and I couldn't accept Andra's hospitality, either. You think I'm disappointed in him, don't you, Miss Smitherson?" "Well, you must be. He's not a warm-hearted child, but he does have some nice ways when you get to know him." "I'm sure of it. I'm not disappointed. How else could he act with a stranger? He's only four." "To you, he must seem very like Andra." "Yes, he does." "But he'll grow up with a different sense of values. I promise you that!" They had reached the old car on the road, and the driver was struggling up out of unconsciousness. Loraine said, "Thanks again. I hope you won't have a bother with Andra over my calling." "Don't let that worry you. I've dealt with Andra since she wore ribbons. I'm really sorry we can't have a good talk." "So am I. Good-bye, Miss Smitherson." No one seemed to be on duty at the railway depot. Loraine's cases were unloaded, the driver was paid, and she was left alone with her luggage and a parcel of sandwiches which had been pressed upon her by the railway clerk's wife that morning. She sat down on a

bench outside the locked office, took off the small felt hat and ran her fingers through the short honey-pale hair. Well, her quest was over. She had seen Andra and little Pat, she knew their circumstances and was pretty sure what would happen to them in the future. If she never saw either of them again it wouldn't matter. Her need now was a quick return to England, but first she had to accomplish the railway journey. It was one o'clock and her train was due about five. It seemed that, apart from goods traffic, Cherrington was accustomed to two trains a day, one up and one down. It was stuck out on a branch line that had been built to carry cattle to city abattoirs ; that was why the railways seemed to reach out to nowhere. Loraine's tired brain thought over this phenomenon of the wide open spaces. She was sitting in the sun, and a breeze swept over her which seemed, to her exhausted senses, to bear the tang of pines. She stirred and looked about her. She was utterly alone. * Monday was the most wretched day Mollie had ever lived through. She got impatient with the children, wrote a letter to the school committee in which she demanded an assistant, and snapped off the head of a neighbour who asked if it was true she had become engaged to the doctor. Monday was one of John's days at Twin Rivers, so there was no chance of seeing him till late in the evening, but by eight o'clock she was so tired of herself and her thoughts that she walked through the town to his house. There had been a flood of troubles over at Twin Rivers, he told her, and he had been home only ten minutes, had in fact been on the point of telephoning her.

He drew her into the brighter light of his sitting-room. "What in the world is wrong?" he asked. "Have you had bad news of Wade?" She shook her head, dropped her coat on one hide chair and sank into another. "Have you eaten?" "There'll be something in the kitchen. Mollie, what is it?" She got up, as if glad to keep on the move. "Then let's go to the kitchen, and you can eat while we talk." He put his hands on her shoulders, "I'd rather know first. Upsets impair digestion - didn't you know that?" He was smiling. "You seem to be all right, so I'm not worried, but you may as well get it off your mind." "The trouble is, I don't know if I ought to... yet." "We're as good as one," John said, "and troubles are halved by sharing. Come to the kitchen, if you'd feel better there, and you can make some coffee." He didn't say anything more till- they were in the small primrosecoloured kitchen. "The coffee's ready in the pot - just switch it on. The cups are in that cupboard." Mollie looked about her, at the check supper-cloth set for one, the twist of golden bread, the covered disc of butter, the two plates between which, presumably, rested his meat and salad. "You can't possibly enjoy coming home to this," she said. "It's a pretty kitchen and pleasant enough, but you ought to have a hot meal in the dining-room every night." "Don't let's go into that now," he said. "Very soon you'll be in full charge. Have you had dinner? "

"I had enough. Do sit down and start." "You sit down, too, and try to relax." He laughed as they faced each other across the table. "Even this isn't so bad, when we're together. Tell me what's on your mind." So she said, "I couldn't tell you this before, John, because I more or less promised not to, but ... well, Loraine's left Sainte Beauve. She went by train last night." His fingers became inactive. He rested his blunt-tipped surgeon's hands on the table and looked at her, and the smile faded from his mouth. "Why did she go like that?" "It's a long story and it's not mine to tell. The reason I feel so badly about it is because we've failed her." "Not you, Mollie. You did all you could." "I could have been more outspoken to one or two people." "That might only have hastened things, without doing good. Do you think she ran away from the engagement to Bret? " "The engagement was partly the cause. She was very unhappy." "Have you told me everything?" "I've told you all I can without breaking confidence. All day I've felt like a cat in a snow storm, It seems so wrong that she should go off like that - alone and miserable." "Was she going straight back to England?" "She hoped to see her nephew first - that's all I can tell you."

"I see." He twisted a knife on the table, and added thoughtfully, "You haven't anything to reproach yourself with, Mollie. I think I understand Loraine - perhaps because she's English. She'll do whatever her conscience dictates and then go home. She got herself here and is capable of getting herself back again. We'll see her when we go over there." "Loraine said that, too." "Did she break finally with Bret before she left?" "She did," Mollie said grimly. "He ranged round my living- room like a tiger, stalked out and drove away at eighty miles an hour. He's the most exhausting man I've ever come across. Once Loraine had fallen for him she didn't stand a chance; every move he made, he seemed to trample all over her." "Poor child," said John. "But we mustn't pity her, Mollie. She has a lot of courage." "You're not a bit angry with Bret, are you?" she challenged him. "I don't think Bret would hurt a woman who hadn't hurt him, and we're both agreed that he's pretty well invulnerable. I'm afraid the unhappiness is inside Loraine, and she's the only one who can eradicate it." After he had taken her home that night and left her, Mollie knew a. sense of rather sorrowful peace. It seemed so unfair that her own happiness should be built upon Loraine's failure, and in a Way she blamed her own inarticulateness in intimate matters. She had found lately that you couldn't get by on cynicism and wisecracking, but she had also discovered that it was terribly difficult to lose the habits of a lifetime. Loraine's reticence hadn't helped, either.

She felt a little strange next morning. The house was so empty and there were, besides, a dozen reminders that Loraine had lived there. The labelled tins, the way she had always bothered to wind the flex about the handle of the iron, the burnished coffee-pot, the new paint on the window-sill, the mended cushions, the washed rugs; even the old moose-head had had a good brushing. She went into the schoolhouse, and to atone for yesterday's sharpness she smiled impartially on the age-groups, and quickly set them all to work. The morning passed uneventfully; she had broth, bread and fruit with the children and gave them a collective talk on hygiene. This was one of her early days, and she got back into her living-room before three, hoping to mark some essays before John arrived, as he had said he would, for tea. She prepared the tea-tray, decided it was a little too early to get the water boiling and looked along the bookshelf for her latest library book. Her forefinger was "actually on the spine of it when the car came, but she withdrew her hand and turned with smiling expectancy towards the door. The door opened. Her smile altered and became set, and she moved away from the bookshelf and stood close to the table, so that it was between herself and Bret. "I thought it was John," she said. "You're home early, aren't you?" Then she saw that his eyes were queerly dark, with little lines at the corners, and that a muscle jerked just below his cheekbone. There was that in his whole expression which made her feel weak and uncertain. She moistened her lips. "Bret, for heaven's sake don't stare at me like that. What's happened?" "Suppose you tell me?" he said without much expression. "An hour ago I phoned John about a case we had at Twin Rivers. Just before we rang off I asked him to bring you to Wincona Lodge for dinner

tonight and said I'd pick up Loraine earlier. You know what he told me, don't you?" In that moment Mollie knew that this was what she had dreaded most, ever since Sunday evening. She had felt reluctance to speak to John about Loraine, but not fear of what he might say or do. With Bret, though, the whole business assumed gigantic proportions. Her only defence against him would be a certain hardness. "You don't have to glare at me as if I sent her away," she said with all the coolness she could summon. "I understood she was a perfectly free agent." "It was mighty sudden, wasn't it? Or were you both enjoying a private joke when I called in on Sunday afternoon?" His tones were clipped, his mouth scarcely moved. "How long did you intend to keep it secret?" "Until you found out. I knew you'd be annoyed, but I had to agree with Loraine that it would be the easiest way to put an end to . . . your engagement." "It seems you both forgot it takes two to do that. But I didn't come here for a drawn-out discussion. Where did she go?" "I can't answer that." His jaw hardened, the grey eyes glittered. "You'll have to answer it, Mollie. Had she a passage home?" "She had her ticket, but wasn't fixed up with any particular ship." "Did she leave for Montreal?" "No."

He came one pace closer; she heard him draw an angry breath. "Look here, Mollie; By clamming up you're not helping Loraine. I could trace her without your help, but would take the hell of a time and almost anything might happen meanwhile. She's alone in a strange country, and if she comes to harm -" He broke off, a little white about the nostrils. "Why did she walk out like that? Where did she go?" Confronted by a Bret she hadn't known existed, Mollie was frightened, but she hadn't lost spirit. Her head went up. "She went for two reasons, Bret. One of them was to get away from you; you might ask Andra Farnley the other." "Andra ? What can she have to do with it? " Mollie gave a brief discordant laugh. "That's funny! Go and ask her." "I'm asking you!" he exclaimed with sudden fury. "We're wasting time! Don't you realize that? Loraine left on Sunday and it's now Tuesday. I intend to find her, Mollie and I also intend to wring the truth out of you, so that there's no time lost. You're blaming me for everything. All right, go ahead! But for the love of Mike give me the details." "You're worried now, aren't you?" said Mollie. "I'm glad. You drove her to it, Bret - you and that beastly woman...." "What is this about Andra?" he demanded. "I've a right to know everything!" His keyed-up rage rocked Mollie, but she was angry, too. The sight of him standing there, tight-jawed, threatening, brought to the surface all the feelings she had had to suppress.

Her teeth snapped. "I'll tell you about Andra!" she said. "She did everything she possibly could to injure Loraine. She told her she would never let her see her son, and to get out. Loraine didn't tell me the whole of this - and I wouldn't have known if Andra hadn't come here on Sunday morning. I wasn't in this room with them, but I'm not ashamed to say I put my ear to the kitchen door and listened hard! I can't give you their conversation word for Word because I was too burned up to remember it, but I do recall Andra's parting remark. It was to the effect that you permitted the fiction of the engagement because you pitied Loraine. I only wish I could hurt your pride as you've damaged Loraine's!" . "Be quiet," he said peremptorily. "Now tell me where she's gone!" Mollie put a hand to her cheek and turned away. She knew she had already said too much to withdraw, that in any case he would set wires humming to find out what he wanted to know. "Leave her alone," she said. "Just leave her alone." "I can't do that, Mollie, for God's sake...." "All right." She turned back to him, pale and resolute. "She's gone to Cherrington - to the Leigh-Colton ranch. She felt she couldn't leave Canada without seeing her small nephew, so she found out the address and decided to go there without Andra's knowing about it and then to leave for Toronto." "Cherrington in Alberta?" "Yes. Do you know the place?" "I've been near to it - to Nauwaskee. I'll find Cherrington on the map. It's the devil of a journey for a woman alone." "Loraine's that sort of person," she said bitterly.

"Don't cast stones at me, Mollie; it won't help. Is that all you know?" "She promised to send me a telegram from Calgary after she'd been to the ranch." "She can't have reached Cherrington yet." He looked swiftly at his watch, moved towards the door. "I'll have to do some telephoning and pack a bag." "Are you following her by road?" she asked, startled. "It's the only way." He had the door wide open. "I can do it in less than twenty-four hours." "What about your work?" "I was already arranging for a break in Winnipeg; the arrangements will have to come forward a few days." He flicked his fingers at her impatiently. "I must get going." "You can't drive all that way alone," she protested weakly. "You'll go to sleep at the wheel." But he had got into the car and was moving off. Mollie leaned against the doorframe, feeling almost faint. The car disappeared and at length she moved to sink into a chair and rest her head against its back. What a life, she said to herself. Smooth as silk for years, and now there seemed to be one explosion after another. This last beat the lot. Bret was out to make trouble; she knew it. She had felt that under the cold fury he was in a blazing rage, and fatally she knew that someone would be made to pay for it. He meant to find Loraine, to yank her back to Sainte Beauve for conventional farewells.

Mollie heard John at the door, got quickly to her feet. Before he could say a word she was holding him tightly about the shoulders, and being held in no uncertain manner in return. "I've let Loraine down," she said. "I've just told Bret where she is." "I knew he'd come here after he'd telephoned me," John answered calmly, "and that you wouldn't be able to avoid telling him what you withheld from me. As a matter of fact, I parked at the end of the road till he left!" She laughed, a trifle unsteadily. "You men!" she said, and kissed him.

CHAPTER XII THE sandwiches in her packet were too substantial for Loraine. She bit into one, found it full of strong cheese and dill pickle and had to abandon the attempt to take nourishment. The sun was almost hidden now behind a pall of thick white cloud which had moved sluggishly in from the west. The wind, meeting little resistance in the way of hills and trees, made hardly any sound, but the grass bent with it, and it brought a faint chill. Hours had never passed more slowly for Loraine. At two o'clock a truck pulled up at the depot and unloaded several cases for the train. A little later cattle were driven into a pen at some distance from the building, but no one was left to look after them, and had Loraine been in a different mood she would hardly have welcomed them as companions. For the sake of, something to do she took a look at them, saw they were beef cattle of enormous dimensions. A jeep pulled up, and a man in a plaid jacket asked Loraine if he could help her. He gave her a pocket-sized novel with a lurid cover, and told her in broad accents that the train would sure be late because of trouble on the line higher up. That was why the clerk hadn't arrived on duty; everyone knew about it. Loraine had reached the stage when nothing is really tangible. She walked up the dusty road, looked in vain for wild flowers, and walked back again. She tried the gaudy novel but could not keep her mind on the printed word for more than thirty consecutive seconds. She felt as if she would never leave this place, as though nothing in the world existed but the Cherrington depot in the midst of grasslands. She was hollow with the lack of a good sleep and food, yet if she had been led to a meal and a bed she could not have made use of

either. Should she walk to the village of Cherrington; if so, what would she do when she got there? Now she had accomplished the task which had brought her to Canada, life seemed completely pointless. There had been times, at Sainte Beauve, when she had known enchantment, days when it had seemed impossible that she would soon return to England and the few friends she had managed to keep in spite of her mother's illness and dislike of visitors. But now, the enchantment was gone; there was no sweet uncertainty, not even a spark of hope. Three weeks in Canada had not changed her, as she had once been convinced they would. Perhaps there were outward differences, but inwardly, Loraine felt, she was still the repressed unworldly person who had crossed the Atlantic. In fact, the degree of reserve was greater, because it had become so important to cover up. She hadn't made a huge success of the bright smile, the facade of serenity which enabled one to ride misfortune, but it no longer mattered. She thought again of that little boy up at the ranch, wished futilely that she had remained with him long enough to form some tiny link with him. That was what she missed most - the bond of affection with some other person; it might have helped to diminish the dreadful ache of loss which seemed a physical pain about her heart. A salt dryness came into her throat and once more she snapped shut the little book. She would walk to Cherrington and get a lift back in time for the train. There, she would be able to discover how late the train would be, and to have a cup of tea or coffee. She simply had to have action. She buttoned her coat and tightened the belt and set out once more along the road. There was at least a small balm in having an objective, even if the objective were only a cup of tea. She walked at normal stride, met an oncoming two-seater and shook her head

smilingly at the enquiring tilt of the driver's head. Involuntarily, she remembered that other night when she had crouched beside Wade's car just longing for help. The difference was that this was daylight and she was a lone woman. The memory brought back other moments, but walking helped to lessen their impact. It was long brisk walks, she remembered, which had helped to keep her fairly happy in England. Even at Sainte Beauve.... No, she wouldn't think of Sainte Beauve any more. Not till she was out of the country, anyway. By then she might have attained a more dispassionate viewpoint; people had to have the strength within them to carry their loads, and she did pride herself on possessing her share of courage. She only had to get over the next couple of weeks. Another car was speeding towards her in a cloud of dust. This time she decided to look away over the sloping country towards the horizon and save both the driver and herself an awkward few seconds. But the car was no sooner level with her than it halted with a screeching of brakes. She stopped precipitately, blinked at the veil of dust and felt her heart give a definite sideways lurch. Her skin tightened electrically, a pulse hammered so hard in her throat that she thought she would choke. She couldn't see his face clearly, even when he was standing over her and gazing down at her with devouring intensity. She felt his grip on her shoulder, the curve of his fingers into her flesh, and thought, lightheartedly, Yes, this must be Bret; only he could hold on to anyone like that. "Walking across Alberta," he said somewhat thickly. "Just what I might have expected of you. Come off the road." In a tranced condition she walked with him across springy grass. His hand was vice-like above her elbow; otherwise she would still have doubted her senses. Was it happening - this sudden encounter so far from the big familiar lake in its irregular bowl of pines?

He stopped, and she had to stop with him. She looked up and suddenly saw him as he was, the lines of strain in his face, the faint pink at the rims of his eyes, the bitter pull at his mouth. "You've been driving a long time," she said. "Are you on the way to - to the ranch?" "No, I was on the way to you." No more. "To me?" she said carefully. "Just catching up with you," he said, and though the words sounded level she knew he meant more than they conveyed. She hadn't the faintest notion of how to answer him, but standing there she felt his warmth and vitality seeping into her, and almost with a sense of shock she realized that Bret had followed her! He had been driving for hours, nearly a day perhaps, with the sole purpose of reaching her before she did something almost irrevocable. "It's extraordinary," he said in those queer tones, "but now I've met you I haven't the smallest wish to talk. Let's sit down." She did so quickly, sat very upright while he leaned back on an elbow. She gave him a sideways glance, saw that his half- closed eyes seemed to intent upon the distance, and clenched her hands together in her lap to still their quivering. The pause was interminable, but it was he who at last ended it. "There's one thing I'd better tell you right away," he said, still sounding reluctant to speak. "What Andra told you on Sunday morning wasn't true. I didn't consent to the engagement because I pitied you. If she drew that conclusion it wasn't with my help."

"I'm glad," she said huskily. With some of his old strength in his voice he said, "I remember the time when you were annoyed with me for believing everything Andra trotted out, yet you were willing to believe the worst she could fabricate." "I'm sorry." His head was slightly below hers and she turned suddenly and looked down at him- With difficulty she asked, "How can this possibly help matters, Bret? I've been to the ranch, and everything I came here for is done. You didn't have to come after me; you didn't have a duty towards me." "No? Maybe I felt I had a duty towards myself. Perhaps I even felt you owed me an explanation. During the last few hours I've had time to do plenty of thinking, but none of it got me far because I kept coming up against the physical fact of your roaming the country alone and possibly meeting with all sorts of danger." "People have been marvellous to me." "You were lucky. Like every other country we have our quota of bad men. Besides, it was the -" He broke off, shoved his hair back with an ungentle hand. "Loraine, I'm not in a sparring frame of mind. Why didn't you tell me on Sunday afternoon when I called at the schoolhouse that you intended to leave?" "You'd have stopped me." He looked up at her sharply. "You knew that - and yet you went?" She averted her head. "Have you any idea of how things were between Andra and me?" He made a small sound of exasperation. "Why is Andra so important? When I saw Mollie yesterday she could only keep

babbling about the little I knew of what went on in Andra's mind! The woman's been hurting you, I realize that now; but what in the world has she to do with you and me?" "You - you like Andra, don't you ? " "I don't mind her - not so much as you did. Don't you see that I was an onlooker, and when she said things against your brother I appreciated that they could be true, because she'd been his. wife and you were only his sister." "I knew and I still know they weren't true!" she exclaimed, impassioned. "I've proved she was a liar and a cheat, and she confessed herself that she drove my brother out that day when he died on the mountain, by asking him for a divorce. Mollie heard it..." "Hey, steady, there!" He sat up straight. "Was this the conversation Mollie overheard on Sunday morning?" "Did she tell you about it?" "A little." He paused. "What else did Andra say - about us, I mean?" Loraine's lashes lowered. "Not much. She seemed pretty sure you wouldn't have acquiesced to the engagement if you hadn't been certain I'd soon be leaving Canada. It didn't make things much worse because ... I thought that, too." "How charming!" His tone was caustic. "You gave me reason," she was stung to answer. "It was all to peter out when I left the country." "If I hadn't mentioned something of the sort you wouldn't have agreed. I was anxious to do the thing which would hurt you least."

Leaning towards her, formidably intent, he added, "You must believe me, Loraine! What with one thing and another, I've been through hell, but now I'm determined to get everything straightened out," his fist smote grass, "before we leave this spot!" "All right," she said, her jaw quite hard. "First, you may as well admit that the reason you followed me was because you'd never before had the experience of being walked out on." "Very true!" he took her up grimly. "But there was more to it, because you were the woman who walked out. I won't deny that I hated the dilemma I was shoved into at the picnic; it was the last day I'd have chosen to announce our engagement, but Gaby forced it and I hadn't much option." "I'm still sure that with your reputation you could have laughed it off," she said, low-voiced. His face was close to hers, his eyes narrowed. "You may not remember that I hadn't much cause for humour that day. I'd watched Wade Blain kiss you good-bye and insist that you write to him first!" "Why, you know Wade," she said. "The kiss didn't mean a thing, but I hadn't promised to write to him. It was just one of his silly expressions." "You wore his wrist-watch!" "I've already explained why." Her lips parted, pleadingly. "I can't think what took possession of you on Saturday. You've often been a little like that before, but never so - so ruthlessly savage. That was what made everything so difficult to understand. Bret, we - we're not getting anywhere."

"Oh, yes, we are," he said. "We've just arrived at the reason I felt I couldn't bear you too near me on Saturday. Whittled down it's also the reason I wouldn't deny an engagement between us." He ended roughly, "It has quite a bit to do with my being here with you now, too. I'm not fighting it any longer, Loraine, not even to give you time! You've got to marry me - and soon!" With changing colour she stared at him for a moment. Then in one movement she was on her feet and turning from him. But he was standing also, and gripping so hard on to her elbows that she had to face him. The dark blue eyes were suddenly filled with tears, her mouth quivering. "You've gone too far," she managed. His arms clamped her against him, hard, and his cheek pressed to her hair. "Don't talk, honey," he said indistinctly. "It's been the cause of most of the trouble. Talk!" Loraine drowned in a pool of bliss that was rent by delicious currents. He held her so tightly that she couldn't move her arms, but she trembled nevertheless, trembled with the ecstasy of awareness that he aroused. She questioned nothing, but gave herself. She felt his mouth upon her eyelids, upon her Cheek, and warm and vibrant upon her stretched throat; she was shaken with terror and delight. When their lips met it was journey's end - and the promise of another more turbulent and joyous than she could have dreamed of. He lifted his head and looked at her, his fingers dug into her shoulders in the way she knew, and her faint gasp died beneath more bruising kisses. For a long time afterwards they stood together, just silent and close. His small laugh was slightly shaky when he said at last, "You're even more unexpected than I thought. You couldn't kiss me like that if you weren't in love with me."

"Nor you with me," she whispered. "You don't know what a relief is, Bret." "I hope that's one of those English masterpieces of understatement," he said. "I only wish I'd known yesterday that this would be at the end of the trip. Why didn't you give me a hint - a crumb to a famished man? If I'd suspected that you loved me, even though you hated me as well, I'd have known how to act." "There were times when I was horribly afraid you'd guess!" "I've always thought it was only other people in love who were fools." His smile was still tight. "Come on, we'll go to the car." They mounted the slope together, his arm across her shoulders, but neither spoke. They got into the car and Bret turned it. Loraine sniffed. "It smells of dust." "I expect I do myself. It's been a dusty trip. Do you want to go straight home?" Home! She was so happy she was afraid. "No, you must have a night's rest. Last night I slept at the house of the Cherrington stationmaster. It's possible that -" "We're leaving Cherrington behind," he said flatly. "Nauwaskee is just over forty miles on. I have friends there, and there'll be a garage where I can get the car serviced. We'll set out after breakfast tomorrow and do it in two stages, with a stop tomorrow night. I'll ring Gaby from Nauwaskee." Loraine looked out of her window. "Gaby's not going to like me," she said.

"Gaby does like you," said Bret. "Against her principles, she likes you very much. She and I had an alarming stack-up late on Saturday night. She's crazy, of course. She thought I was falling for Andra." "And weren't you ?" asked Loraine quietly. The car slowed and he looked at her. "No, I wasn't," he replied firmly. "Heaven knows what was in Andra's mind, but she stuck as close to me as she could. At first I was friendly with her for your sake, but then I found her there when I got home in the evenings, and around most of the week-end. Some nights I came home thinking that somehow I might get you to the house alone, but she was always about, and I couldn't get rid of her except by absolute rudeness. She often talked about Wade being lovesick over you...." "But he wasn't!" "I knew that - because I'm very well acquainted with Wade. But you've no idea how that sort of suggestion works on one." "I think I have. It worked on me, too." "Your sister-in-law," he said tersely, "is an unsavoury creature. Gaby called her a name I wouldn't like to repeat, but I'm convinced she was right. You probably understand now why Gaby engineered that engagement." Loraine didn't mention that she had all along. "She thought me the lesser of two evils," she commented. "Gaby wouldn't have done it if she'd imagined I might be staying in Canada." "I think she would. I left her very chastened on Saturday night, and on Sunday morning she reopened the subject herself. She admitted that her whole attitude had been selfish, but excused herself on the grounds that if I were going to take a wife - which, she added free of charge, might do me good - she couldn't choose better herself than

the young Miss Farnley. She didn't know then that I'd already chosen the young Miss Farnley!" "Will you keep Gaby on? I mean," she tacked on, confused, "after we're... when..." He laughed teasingly. "After were married? Don't be scared of it. It's going to be glorious. As for Gaby, you'll decide. I'd like to keep her for a while, anyway, and if she takes to you you'll never find a better friend. But it'll be up to you. I could have strangled Gaby at that picnic, yet in a way I'm grateful to her because her behaviour precipitated everything. After the way you flew at me on Sunday afternoon I let it rest for a few days, but yesterday I decided I'd had enough. That was how I found out about your flight." "How do you mean?" "I knew you wouldn't come to Wincona Lodge alone, so I asked John Carland to bring Mollie to dinner. I wasn't going to invite you just call and pick you up, whether you liked it or not. After dinner I was going to take you to my workroom, and you weren't going to leave till we knew where we were." He breathed sharply. "John told me you'd gone, so I wrung out of Mollie where you had made for." She looked at his lean face, loving it. "I'm so sorry I've given you all this trouble." "It's not so bad now it's over. I'm glad were away from all the people who knew us. The week-end will be time enough to face them." "What about these friends of yours in Nauwaskee?" "We'll just tell them we're engaged - they won't be curious about details. Be good to be accepted as a normal couple in love, won't it?"

"Lovely," she said from the heart. "Bret, I do hope you're sure." "That's one thing you can be certain of," he said. "Since you came I've often remembered the first morning I met you. Only five minutes before you showed up I was congratulating myself on my single state. Then I found you in my living-room, tightly controlled and not very colourful to start with, and one of those chemical reactions you used to be so nasty about began to take place. You left a glove that smelled fresh and very English - lavender, wasn't it ? " She nodded. "I've never had a sophisticated taste for perfumes." "You're woodsy, honey, and I like it." The scenery was changing slightly. The road still ran between wide sweeps of grass, but to the left in the valley a line of shrubs showed where a stream might run, and a bare outcrop of rock here and there promised gulleys and chasms down below. A few birds wheeled overhead, and when a large one touched down, a flock of tiny things with orange bodies and black wings took to the air. "So you saw your nephew," said Bret. "Did you speak to him?" Loraine described her half-hour with Miss Smitherson, and the detachment of the child. Bret shrugged. "It had to be like that. From the very first I knew you'd be sensitive to indifference in those two, and that was why I warned you against delving. All I'm grateful for is that you had the sort of conscience that made you delve!" "Wouldn't it have been dreadful if something had prevented my coming?" she said soberly.

"Nothing would have prevented our meeting," he said. "If you hadn't come here something would have taken me to England, and it comes to the same thing in the end! Think you'll like living in Canada?" "Of course! I'd live anywhere with you." "Good. Because I may have other plans when my five years at Twin Rivers are up. For some reason, since knowing you I've fancied ranching." Her eyes shone. "I'd love that! But it wouldn't be right for you to give up research." "Might do both." A pause. "Did you know that John Carland has given in his notice at Twin Rivers? " "I knew he might. Does that mean he and Mollie will settle permanently in England?" "I hope not. I'm trying to persuade him to get married and go over to England for the month, as he'd planned. I don't see why they can't sell up the father's practice and bring the old chap back here with them. The old boy's quite a character - the sort they breed in English villages. I met him on my last trip over." "At his age he might find it a bit of a wrench to leave England." "He might, but we're only a day away by air. Ever thought of that?" "Yes," she admitted. "Last Sunday I wished I had an air ticket." "If you had had one, it wouldn't have made any difference - except that I might have proposed to you in a London hotel. There wasn't a chance that you could escape me!"

She said, "I'll never know why you happened to fall in love with me." "I'll spend the rest of my life telling you." His appraisal of her was tender. "I'm going to teach you to smile more, too, and give you all the things you've had to do without all your life. The first step is to marry you and make you a Canadian." Hesitantly she asked, "Do you think there'll be any trouble from Andra?" "Somehow, I don't think we'll find her there when we go back; She'll have heard that I chased across country after you, and when I telephone Gaby I'll give her the news that our engagement is official, and she'll spread it - if I know Gaby." "You think it will get rid of Andra - the knowledge that you're no longer free?" "Now, wait a minute." He pulled on the brake and switched off the engine. "Get this straight; there was nothing whatever between Andra and me. I'm not so blind that I didn't see she'd formed a plan in which I had a corner, but I hadn't the least interest in her plan, nor any wish to know more about her. But for you I would never have invited her to Wincona Lodge in the first place, nor would I have lent her the horse. To me she was two things - the only relative you had in this country, and the woman who could grant your request to see your nephew." Loraine thought of the nightmares she had endured, one in particular in which Bret was fiendishly jealous of Andra's possessing a son. She smiled at him tremulously, and as if he felt a little of her remembered pain he slipped his arm about her and kissed her gently. "Drop it, darling," he said softly. "I could torment myself about Wade, if I wanted to."

"But you knew all along that I didn't love Wade." "At times it looked mighty suspicious ! Occasionally when I was working I -got thoroughly rattled because I knew he was free to hang around you at all hours of the day. It's just you and me now, Loraine." He kissed her with more vigour and murmured the words indispensable to such moments. Suddenly, she grasped his cuff. "Bret, my suitcases! They're in the Cherrington waiting- room." He threw back his head and laughed. "Too bad! I refuse to go back. If they're labelled they may follow us. If you haven't even a toothbrush we'd better move on to catch the shops open in Nauwaskee." He touched his lips to her temple, and started the car. "Relax, honey. I'm in charge from this minute, and you come first with me always." And that was the best of all, thought Loraine, as they moved on; the certainty that Bret was in charge. She could think of nothing more delightful than to be moved and managed by Bret for the rest of her life.