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by, and one of them threw Weston a couple of letters.

      "Mail-carrier rode in before we left, and I guessed I'd bring them along," he said.

      There was scarcely light enough to see by, and Weston had some little difficulty in reading the letters. One was from Stirling and ran:

       "Start on Monday for Winnipeg. I want a talk with you and may make a proposition. Enclose order that will frank you over the C.P.R."

       Weston gazed at it with a thoughtful face. Winnipeg was a very long way off, and it was tolerably clear that Stirling, perhaps influenced by something his daughter or Major Kinnaird had said, meant to offer him promotion. Still, though he did not know exactly why, he shrank from accepting any favor from Miss Stirling's father, and, besides that, he had already pledged himself to Grenfell. He laid down the letter and opened the second one. Out of this he took an order on one of the H.B.C. settlement stores, dated at the Vancouver station. It was marked duplicate, and read:

       "To Agent, Anson's Forks station:

      "Provide Mr. Weston with whatever he may require in the shape of blankets, provisions, and any sundries in your stock for a prospecting trip."

       A sheet of paper had been laid beside it, and Weston's face flushed as he read, "Won't you accept this with the good wishes of your late companions?"

      It was evidently from Miss Stirling, for it was a woman's writing, and he did not think an Englishwoman would have said "Won't you," as she had done. He could recognize the delicacy with which she had refrained from offering him money, or even stipulating any definite sum in the order, and it was evident that she had taken some trouble to arrange the matter with the H. BC agent at Vancouver. The thing had been done in kindness, and yet it hurt him. He could have accepted it more readily from anybody else. On the other hand, he remembered that she had known him only as a track-grader, and that he was, as a matter of fact, nothing else. He could not send the order back without appearing ungracious or disposed to assert that he was of her own station. Then another thought struck him.

      "I don't think they knew my name. They called me Clarence," he said. "Somebody must have thought it worth while to write Cassidy."

      He had forgotten his companions, and when Grenfell looked at him inquiringly, he laughed.

      "It's something I was thinking of," he said, handing the order across. Grenfell gazed at it with unqualified satisfaction.

      "This straightens everything out," he said.

      "I'm not quite sure it does," returned Weston, dryly. "In fact in some respects it rather complicates the thing. That, however, is a point that doesn't concern you."

      His companion, who appeared to concur in this, glanced with evident regret at the six dollars which still lay beside him.

      "If I'd known that the order was in the mail, the boys would have had to carry me every rod of the way back to camp," he said. "It's not the first time that I've been sorry I practiced economy."

      Weston left him shortly afterward, and went back with the other man toward the shanty.

      "The chances seem too steep for you?" suggested Weston.

      "Well, I guess he did strike that gold; but I shouldn't be too sure of it. It's quite likely that he fancied the whole thing. You can't count on the notions of that kind of man."

      He broke off for a moment, and appeared to consider.

      "There's another point. The old tank has no nerves left, and he's no use on his legs. Guess, you'll have to carry him over the range."

      Weston fancied that this was probable, and the track-grader, who turned away to speak to another man, left him in a thoughtful mood.

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