Wilfred turned again toward her. "Hit's only London, Miss Vane," he managed to say.

"You, Wilfred? What are you doing here? What am I doing here? Where are we?"

"Hin the summer'ouse, Miss Vane. You were sleepin' 'ere, han' I came in.

Hi didn't know you was 'ere, Miss Vane, honest, Hi didn't, han' Hi tried to leave without wakin' yuh."

She drew her fingers across her eyes. "I begin to remember," she said.

"I must have been dreaming. I thought-oh! a lot of strange things. But what are you doing here? Have you never gone home?"

"No, Miss Vane. That is, Hi 'ave no 'ome to go to, any more. Hi 'ave left Riles, left 'im for good an' all. Hi 'ave left 'im, han' I am goin'

away to the West to be a farmer myself. Han' before Hi went Hi thought Hi would come along this wy han' maybe Hi would see-that is, maybe Hi could sy good-bye to the boys."

Myrtle rose and walked the few steps to where the boy stood leaning against the door. She looked very close in his face before speaking.

"Wilfred, do you mean this? Have you thought it all over? Are you sure of yourself?"

"Yes, Miss Vane, Hi am. Hi am goin' to be a man, has other boys are men, Wy shouldn't Hi? Hi am goin' to the new land, w'ere the Gover'ment gives farms to those as will work 'em, han' Hi am goin' to work hout for money to do the himprovements. Hin three years Hi will 'ave a farm of my hown, han' be has good a man has 'Iram Riles." He ended with a defiant snap at those last words.

"A great deal better man, I hope," she said. "The goodness of a man is not measured by his possessions, although that seems one of the hardest lessons for people to learn. Some One has said that he who ruleth his own spirit is greater than he who taketh a city. To control one's ambition is greater than to realise one's ambition. In the home of Riles I am afraid you have seen but little self-control in any form. Can you measure up to it when it is required of you?"

She had no inkling of the great test from which he had just come out victorious. And he answered modestly, "Hi think Hi can."

"But why do you leave in this way?" she asked, a new thought presenting itself. "You are not-not running away, are you?"

"Well, Hi guess you would call hit that. Hi'd a row with Riles, an' Hi'm goin'."

There was a silence that lengthened into minutes. The boy shifted from one foot to another, powerless to tear himself away, and yet without an excuse for remaining longer.

"Well, good-bye, Miss Vane," he said at length.

She started as the words recalled her. "Not yet, Wilfred," she said.

"Not yet, for a little while," and there was something akin to pleading in her voice. "Wilfred, I believe you are an honest boy. I believe I can trust you. Can I trust you, Wilfred?"

And again he answered modestly, "Hi think you can."

"Well, I am going to trust you. I am going to tell you a secret, a secret that no one in the world must know but our two selves. And most of all, if you meet _him_ he must not know I told you this. But somewhere in the great West, I believe there is one who is more to me than-than--" She stopped for a term of comparison. "You can't understand, Wilfred, yet, but some day you will know. You will know what it is to find your life revolving around one great thought, as the earth circles the sun, and to know that that thought springs from one Source, for which you were created, which is the end and purpose of your existence. And for me that Centre has been removed-has been torn out of my plan of life. I may find another Centre, but I can never describe a true circle about it. It will always be an elliptic, an eccentric, drawn and pushed by other forces to which I know I should not respond."

"Hi 'ardly know hall you mean, Miss Vane, but--"

"I don't know all I mean myself, least of all what I mean by talking to you in this way, but I _must_ talk to some one. The worst loneliness in the world is to have no one to talk to, no one who can understand you.

Talk is putting thoughts into words and draining them out of your stormy brain, as the great thunderclouds, when they become overloaded, find relief in rain, and out of their wild bursts of pa.s.sion emerges a cloudless sky. But you know who I mean, don't you?"

"Ray Burton."

"Yes. You may find him in that great country. If he lives I look for him back here to stand his trial. You can tell him that much, Wilfred. And if he does not live ... earth has lost another n.o.ble soul."

They faced each other in the brightening dawn. Suddenly, as if almost overwhelmed by a great thought that had nearly escaped him, Wilfred staggered forward, clutching Miss Vane by the shoulders.

"Oh! Miss Vane," he cried, "Hi know 'oo took the money. Hi know 'oo took it."

It was her turn to stagger. "You know, Wilfred! Speak! Quick, tell me all!"

"Hit was Riles. 'E threw the bottle that might 'a killed Burton-'e hadmitted it-han' 'e took the money, too. Hi haccused 'im of it, han'

the wy 'e acted Hi know 'e did."

"But can you prove it? Give me your proof," she demanded.

"Hi 'ave no proof, but Hi 'ave told yuh 'oo took the money. P'raps the proof 'ull turn hup yet."

"G.o.d grant it so," exclaimed the girl fervently. "At least, now I _know_ that Burton is innocent."

"Yuh don't mean tuh sy yuh ever thought hit was Burton, do yuh?"

demanded the boy, and there was a reproach in his tone that cut. "Yuh never thought that, did yuh?"

"No, I never thought him guilty. But if I could prove him innocent it would make a great difference to me-and to one or two others. The fact is I find myself in a rather embarra.s.sing position. But you don't understand, and I can't ex--"

"Yes Hi do, though. Hit's about that dog Gardiner. 'E's worse'n Riles."

"Wilfred!"

"Hi mean it, han' Hi can't prove it hit, either."

"But you must be wrong in this case. Mr. Gardiner has been a good friend, but that is all. That is the trouble. Why can't a good friend remain a friend instead of spoiling it by wanting to be-something more?"

The boy flushed, but it was with the pride of victory. "Hit's gettin'

light," he said. "Hi must be goin' now. Hif Hi see _'im_, is there hany message; hanything more than you 'ave said?"

She thought for a moment. "Only this," she said, reaching for the little book of poems. It opened at a well-thumbed spot and she tore a leaf from the binding. She folded it twice and pressed it into his palm. "Give him that," she said.

He took her hand. "Good-bye, Miss Vane," he said.

She pressed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Good-bye. G.o.d bless you."

And he walked st.u.r.dily away, carrying unspoken the secret tragedy of his young life.

CHAPTER XV-STILL PLAYING THE GAME

"We have smelt the smoke-wraith flying in the hot October wind, And have fought the fiery demon that came raging down behind."

_Prairie Born._

The harvest was at its height. Blood-red the sun rose every morning to plough its silent way across an ocean of polished steel, while white cloud-swans, with ruffled plumage, floated on its gla.s.sy bosom; blood-red it sank to rest every night behind the dim haze of harvest dust. The smell of ripe wheat filled the air, and where the binders clattered into fields of rusty oats a red cloud marked their pilgrimage as a modern people fought its slow way out of the land of bondage. The great, white, dangerous full moon of August had left the fields unharmed, and men and women and horses and steam and gasoline were deep in their pitched battle against time and the steadily shortening day and approaching winter.

Work on the Grant homestead was in full swing. From the earliest moment that the dew would permit operations until the stooks stood eerie and indistinct in the thickening dusk the boys broadsided their two binders into the ranks of the standing grain. Four heavy horses swung on the tugs of each binder, their heads swaying to the slow time of their s.h.a.ggy feet. After the first day the rattle of the machinery had no terrors for them and they plodded sullenly along with equine resignation, but their sly eyes missed no standing stalk that came within the license of their check-reins, and occasionally the off animal would desert the path made by the drive-wheel on the previous round to make a hurried grab at a stook which appeared to be within reach. Mr.

Grant found his time fully occupied arranging the relays, as the practical farmer plans that during good weather his binder must never stop except to change horses and oil the machinery. Twenty thousand harvesters from the eastern provinces had poured into the country in ten days, and it was on this imported help the farmers depended for the stooking. It was work, hard work and long hours, for everybody, but it was work with a spirit for all. The fruit of the year's labour now stood within measureable distance; victory was within their grasp.