"Weel," she said, "ye look quiet, anyway." Then she added, as though further satisfied, "I'll make ye a cup of tea if ye can wait."

Sproatly a.s.sured her that this was not the case, and in a few more minutes the girl, who went into the house, got into the waggon again, with relief in her face.

"I think I owe Mr. Wyllard a good deal," she said.

Sproatly laughed. "You're not exactly singular in that respect, but you had better hold tight. These beasts are rather less than half broken."

He flicked them with the whip, and they went across the track at a gallop, hurling great clods of mud left and right, while the group of loungers who still stood about the station raised a shout.

"Got any little pictures with nice motters on them?" asked one, and another flung a piece of information after the jolting waggon.

"There's a Swede down at Branker's wants a bottle that will supple up a wooden leg," he said.

Sproatly grinned, and waved his hand to them before he turned to his companion.

"We have to get through before dark, if possible, or I'd stop and sell them something sure," he said. "Parts of the trail further on are simply horrible."

It occurred to Winifred that it was far from excellent as it was, for spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was already getting unpleasantly spattered.

"You think you would have succeeded?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," said Sproatly. "If I couldn't plant something on to them when they'd given me a lead like that, I'd be no use in this business.

At present, my command of Western phraseology is my fortune."

"You sell things, then?"

Sproatly pointed to a couple of big boxes in the bottom of the waggon.

"Anything from cough cure to hair restorer, besides a general purpose elixir that's specially prepared for me. It's adaptable to any complaint and season. All you have to do"--and he lowered his voice confidentially--"is to put on a different label."

Winifred, who had not felt like it a little earlier, laughed when she met his eyes.

"What happens to the people who buy it?" she asked.

"Most of them are bachelors, and tough. They've stood their own cooking so long that they ought to be, and if anybody's really sick I hold off and tell him to wait until he can get a doctor. A sensitive conscience," he added reflectively, "is quite a handicap in this business."

"You have always been in it?" asked Winifred, who was amused at him.

"No," said Sproatly, "although you mightn't believe it, I was raised with the idea that I should have my choice between the Church and the Bar. The idea, however, proved--impracticable--which, in some respects, is rather a pity. It has seemed to me that a man who can work off cough cures and cosmetics on to healthy folks with a hide like leather, and talk a scoffer off the field, ought to have made his mark in either calling."

He looked at her as if for confirmation of this view, but Winifred, who laughed again, glanced at the two waggons that moved on, perhaps, two miles away across the grey-white sweep of prairie.

"Will we overtake them?" she asked.

"We'll probably come up with Gregory. I'm not sure about Wyllard."

"He drives faster horses?"

"That's not quite the reason. Gregory has patched up one trace with a bit of string, and odd bolts are rather addicted to coming out of his waggon. Sometimes it makes trouble. I've known the team leave him sitting on the prairie, thinking of endearing names for them, and come home with the pole."

"Does he generally let things fall into that state?"

Sproatly, however, was evidently on his guard.

"Well," he said, "it's certainly that kind of waggon."

Then he flicked the team again, and the jolting rendered it difficult for Winifred to ask any more questions. The prairie sod was soft with the thaw, and big lumps of it stuck to the wheels, which every now and then plunged into ruts other vehicles had made.

In the meanwhile, Agatha and Hawtrey found it almost as impossible to sustain a conversation, which was, on the whole, a relief to the girl.

The string-patched trace still held, and the waggon pole was a new one, but where they were just then the white gra.s.s was tussocky and long, and the trail they occasionally plunged into to avoid it had been churned into a quagmire. Hawtrey had packed the thick driving robe high about his companion, and slipped one arm about her waist beneath it; but she was conscious that she rather suffered this than derived any satisfaction from it. She strove to a.s.sure herself that she was jaded with the journey, which was, in fact, the case, and that the lowering sky, and the cheerless waste they were crossing, had occasioned the dejection she felt, which was also possible. There was not a tree upon the vast sweep of bleached gra.s.s which ran all round her to the horizon. It was inexpressibly lonely, a lifeless desolation, with only the ploughed-up trail to show that man had ever traversed it; and the raw wind which swept it set her shivering.

She was, however, forced to admit that her weariness and the dreary surroundings did not quite explain everything. Even her lover's first embrace had brought her no thrill, and now the close pressure of his arm left her quite unmoved. This was almost disconcertingly curious; but while she would admit no definite reason for it, there was creeping upon her a vague consciousness that the man was not the one she had so often thought of in England. He seemed different--almost, in fact, a stranger--though she could not exactly tell where the change in him began. His laughter jarred upon her. Some of the things he said appeared almost inane, and others were tinged with a self-confidence that did not become him. It almost seemed to her that he was shallow, lacking in comprehension, and once she found herself comparing him with another man. She, however, broke off that train of thought abruptly, and once more endeavoured to find the explanation in herself.

Weariness had induced this captious, hypercritical fit, and by and bye she would become used to him, she said.

Hawtrey was, at least, not effusive, for which she was thankful, but when they reached a somewhat smoother surface he commenced to talk of England.

"I suppose you saw a good deal of my folks when you were at the Grange?" he said.

"No," said Agatha, "I saw them once or twice."

"Ah!" said the man, with a trace of sharpness, "then they were not particularly agreeable?"

It seemed to Agatha that he was tactless in suggesting anything of the kind, but she answered candidly.

"One could hardly go quite so far as that," she said. "Still, I couldn't help a feeling that it was rather an effort for them to be gracious to me."

"They did what they could to make things pleasant when they were first told of our engagement."

Agatha was too worn-out to be altogether on her guard, which was partly why she had admitted as much as she had done, though his relatives'

att.i.tude had wounded her, and she answered without reflection.

"I have fancied that was because they never quite believed it would lead to anything."

She knew this was the truth now, though it was the first time the explanation had occurred to her. Gregory's folks, who were naturally acquainted with his character, had, it seemed, not expected him to carry his promise out. She, however, felt that she had been injudicious when she heard his little harsh laugh.

"I'm afraid they never had a very great opinion of me," he said.

"Then," said Agatha, looking up at him, "it will be our business to prove them wrong; but I can't help feeling that you have undertaken a big responsibility, Gregory. There must be so much that I ought to do, and I know so little about your work in this country." She turned, and glanced with a shiver at the dim, white prairie. "It looks so forbidding and unyielding. It must be very hard to turn it into wheat fields--to break it in."

It was merely a hint of what she felt, and it was rather a pity that Hawtrey, who lacked imagination, usually contented himself with the most obvious meaning of the spoken word. Things might have gone differently had he responded with comprehending sympathy.

"Oh," he said, with a laugh that changed her mood, "you'll learn, and I don't suppose it will matter a great deal if you don't do it quickly.

Somehow or other one worries through."

She felt that this was insufficient, though she remembered that his haphazard carelessness had once appealed to her. Now, however, she realised that to undertake a thing light-heartedly was a very different matter from carrying it out successfully. Then it once more occurred to her that she was becoming absurdly hypercritical, and she strove to talk of other things.

She did not find it easy, nor, though he made the effort, did Hawtrey.

There was a restraint that he chafed at upon him, for he had when he first saw her been struck by the change in the girl. She was graver than he remembered her, and, it seemed, very much more reserved. He had tried and failed, as he thought of it, to strike a spark out of her. She did not respond, and he became uneasily conscious that he could not talk to her as he could, for instance, to Sally Creighton.

There was something wanting in him or her, but he could not at the moment tell what it was. Still, he said, things would be different next day, for the girl was evidently very weary.