LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Didn't you find those sleigh-rides, skating-rinks, and even the trips west in your father's private car, grow exceedingly tame?"

      "Ah," said Ida, "you must remember that I have never known anything else."

      "Then you have only to wait a little. It's quite certain that you won't be able to say that some day."

      It seemed to Ida inadvisable to pursue the subject further, though she was not sure that he wished to do so.

      "How did you expend your energy after you left the track?" she asked.

      "I don't quite remember. Drove horses, went about with a thrashing outfit, hewed logs for bridges—but haven't I talked too long about myself? You have told me nothing of—Montreal."

      Ida risked a chance shot.

      "Don't you know that kind of life? It must be very much the same as the one your people lead in England. It doesn't count that their amusements are slightly different."

      Weston foiled her again.

      "Well," he said, with an air of reflection, "I don't quite think it is; but perhaps I'm prejudiced. I wheeled scrap-iron at the rolling-mills when I was in Montreal."

      He leaned farther back against the tree, with a little whimsical smile. It was pleasant to appear as a modern Ulysses in the eyes of a very pretty girl, but he had, as she was quick to recognize, taken up the role unconsciously.

      "Where are you going next?" she asked.

      "I shall probably go off prospecting if I can raise the money. That is partly why I hope that Major Kinnaird will keep me as long as he camps out in the bush."

      Ida laughed.

      "I think you may count on that. He is rather pleased with you. In fact, I heard him say that if he'd had you in India he would have made a capable sergeant of you."

      She saw a shadow creep into his face, and wondered what had brought it there, for she did not know that in his younger days he had thought of Sandhurst. Then, seeing that he did not answer, she rose.

      "Well," she said, "Arabella is probably wanting me."

      He watched her move away among the great fir trunks, and then took out his pipe with a little sigh. Still he had, or so he fancied, sense enough to refrain from allowing his thoughts to wander in her direction too frequently, and, soothed by the murmur of the river, he presently went to sleep. When he awakened it was time to see that the Indians got supper ready.

      During the evening, Stirling reached the camp; and when the Siwash who had poled his canoe up the river had drawn it out, they sat down somewhat limply on the shingle, for he had as usual traveled with feverish haste. He stayed until the next day, which was rather longer than any of them expected; and it was not by accident that he came upon Weston alone before he went away. The latter was then engaged in lighting a fire, and his employer sat down on a fir branch and quietly looked him over.

      "Foot getting better?" he asked.

      "I think it is," said Weston.

      Stirling nodded.

      "I understand that you have been of some service to these people; and they're my daughter's friends," he said. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

      "No," replied Weston, "I don't think there is."

      The contractor looked at him steadily for a moment or two.

      "Well," he said, "if anything strikes you, there's no reason why you shouldn't let me know. Feeling anxious to get back to the track?"

      Weston's eyes twinkled.

      "I don't think I am."

      "Then you may stay right where you are, and take care of my daughter. If she wants to climb mountains or shoot rapids, it's to be done; but you'll fix things so it can be done safely. You're in charge of this outfit, and not that major man."

      Stirling was never addicted to mincing matters, but Weston could not quite repress a grin.

      "It would make things a little difficult if Major Kinnaird understands that," he said.

      "Then you must see that he doesn't. You can fix it somehow. It's up to you."

      He rose, as if there were nothing more to be said, and then as he moved away he turned and waved his hand.

      "I'll have you moved up a grade on the pay-roll."

      He started down the river in another half-hour, and left Weston thoughtful. He had never seen his employer before; but it was evident that the latter had made a few inquiries concerning him, and had been favorably informed.

      For another fortnight Weston tactfully carried out his somewhat difficult task; and then it was with a curious sense of regret that he stood one evening in a little roadside station. Major Kinnaird was apparently counting the pile of baggage some little distance away, his wife and daughter were in the station-room, and Ida and Weston stood alone where the track came winding out of the misty pines. She glanced from him to the forest, and there was just a perceptible hint of regret in her voice.

      "It has been very pleasant, and in one way I'm almost sorry we are going to Vancouver," she said. "This"—and she indicated the wall of hillside and the shadowy bush—"grows on one."

      Weston nodded gravely.

      "It does," he said. "You have been up among the high peaks, and you'll never quite forget them, even in the cities. Now and then you'll feel them drawing you back again."

      The girl laughed, perhaps because she realized that the memory of the last few weeks would remain with her. She also remembered that he had said that the stillness among the white peaks and in the scented bush was filled with a glamour that seized on one.

      "Well," she confessed, "I may come back with other friends some day; and in that case we shall certainly ask for you as guide. I want to say, as Major Kinnaird did, that we owe a good deal to you. I am only sorry that the trip is over."

      Then her tone changed a little, and Weston supposed that she was unwilling to make too great an admission.

      "There are so many little discomforts you have saved us."

      "Yes," he agreed, a trifle dryly, "I suppose there are. However, I shall probably have gone away when you come back again."

      He broke off for a moment, and then turned toward her quietly.

      "Still," he said, "I seem to feel that I shall see you again some day."

      His voice was perfectly steady, but, though the light was fading fast, Ida saw the glint in his eyes, and she answered conventionally.

      "Of course," she said, "that would be a pleasure."

      Then she spoiled it by a laugh when she saw the smile creep into her companion's eyes; for it was clear to both of them that the formal expression was in their case somewhat out of place. They realized that there was more that might have been said; and it was a slight relief when the shriek of a whistle came ringing down the track and a roar of wheels grew louder among the shadowy pines. Then the great mountain locomotive and the dusty cars came clanking into the station, stopped a few moments, and rolled away again; and Weston was left with the vision of a white-robed figure in a fluttering dress that leaned out from a car platform looking back at the gleaming snow and then turned a moment to wave a hand to him.

      It was an hour later, and the big nickeled lamps were lighted, when Arabella Kinnaird looked up at her companion as she sat in a lurching car while the great train swept furiously down the Fraser gorge.

      "Now," she exclaimed, "I remember! That packer has been puzzling me. His face was familiar. The same thing struck the major, as you heard him say."

      "Well?" inquired Ida, a little too indifferently.

      Her companion laughed.

      "You overdo it. It would be wiser to admit that you are curious. The major said he'd seen him somewhere, and so he has, in a way. You remember

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