The prairie was bright with sunshine, and the boisterous west wind was cut off by a bluff where Harding sat amid a litter of dismantled machinery. Behind him the newly opened birch leaves showed specks of glowing green, and a jack-rabbit, which had put off its winter coat and was now dappled white and gray, fed quietly, with a watchful eye turned toward the unconscious man; in front, the vast sweep of grass that flashed with a silvery gleam as it bowed to the wind was broken by the warm chocolate hue of a broad strip of plowing. The rows of clods, with their polished faces, stretched across the foreground; and on their outer edge Devine, dressed in overalls the color of the soil, drove a team of big, red oxen.

Harding, however, was absorbed in the study of several brass rings and coils of packing that had formed the gland of a pump. Near by stood a giant plow with a row of shares, looking out of place among the earth and grass with its glaring paint, its ugly boiler, and its sooty stack, though the work that it had done was obvious. Something had gone wrong, and Harding was trying to locate the trouble. The delay was embarrassing, for he had a wide stretch of land to break, and the loss of even an hour was serious. There was not a trained mechanic in the neighborhood; and if the plow were likely to give him trouble, the sooner he learned to master it the better. Every part of the machine seemed to be perfect; yet the steam had gone down on the previous evening, and he must find out the reason. It was exasperating work.

While Harding was struggling with the pump, Beatrice came along the trail through the bluff. Her companion, Banff, one of Lance's many dogs, had trailed off through the bushes, his nose to the ground, and she was, for the moment, alone. When she caught sight of Harding she stopped irresolutely. She felt that it might be wiser to pass on without disturbing him; yet something compelled her to wait.

She stood watching him. He attracted her—that much she admitted; but she persuaded herself that it was only because he was interesting to talk to and, unlike the other men she knew, he said things that made one think.

Harding was so deep in his machinery problem that he did not see her. He was once more fitting the different parts together, when Banff came bounding out of the bushes with a glad bark and the little gray rabbit scuttled off through the briars.

Harding turned quickly; and Beatrice saw his eyes light up.

"I'm glad you've come," he said, emptying a box of tools and turning it upside down. "That isn't a bad seat—and the sun's pleasant here."

Beatrice noticed that he took it for granted that she would remain; but, after all, he had some reason for this, for they seldom passed without stopping to speak when they met."Has the machine gone wrong?" she asked, sitting down where the sunlight fell upon her.

"Yes, pretty badly. I can't find out what's the matter. I suppose you think it's a just punishment for bringing such things to Allenwood?"

She laughed.

"Well, you gave our friends some offense when you brought your plow over and broke Kenwyne's land."

"I expected that. There'll no doubt be more remarks when I break the piece of stiff gumbo on Lance's holding."

Beatrice looked up sharply.

"You mean to do that? You must know it will cause trouble," she said with a frown.

"I'm sorry to displease you; but this is something that must be done."

"Why must it? Do you wish Lance to offend his father?"

"No; but Colonel Mowbray has no cause for complaint. He gave the land to Lance on the understanding that he worked it; there's no reason why he should object to his using the best implements. Then, Lance is your brother and I don't want to see him ruined."

Beatrice blushed under his frank gaze; and because she was annoyed at doing so, she flung out a taunt:

"Do you think the only way of escaping ruin is to copy you?"

Harding laughed. He loved her in that mood. She looked so alluring with a little frown between her brows and just the suspicion of a pout on her lips.

"You see," he explained, in a voice that he might have used to an offended child, "your Allenwood friends will have to make a change soon, or they'll suffer. And their attitude is not logical. Your father doesn't ask them to cultivate with the spade; they've dropped the ox-teams and bought Clydesdales; they've given up the single furrow and use the gang-plow. Why not go on to steam? After all, you're not standing still: you're moving forward a little behind the times. Why not keep abreast of them, or push on ahead?"

"It sounds plausible," she admitted. "In a way, perhaps, you're right; but——"

"I know. There's much that's fine and graceful in the customs of the past. But you can't preserve them without some adaptation. We're a new nation working in the melting pot. All the scum and dross comes to the top and makes an ugly mess, but the frothing up clarifies the rest. By and by the product will be run out, hard, true metal."

"You're an optimist."

Harding laughed.

"I'm talking at random; it's a weakness of mine."

Beatrice sat silent a moment, looking out over the stretch of brown furrows.

"Do you intend to continue the breaking to where your partner is at work?" she asked, putting her thoughts into words.

"I'm going farther back. You can see our guide-poles on the top of the last ridge."

"But isn't it rash to sow so much, unless you have a reserve to carry you over a bad harvest? Suppose the summer's dry or we get autumn frost?"

"Then," said Harding grimly, "there'll be a disastrous smash. I've no reserve: I'm plowing under every cent I have—staking all upon the chances of the weather."

"But why do you take such a risk? Doesn't it daunt you?"

He saw a gleam of sympathetic approval in her eyes. She had courage: it was in the blood of those who stood for lost causes. Suddenly swept off his feet, he determined to follow the lead she unconsciously had given him.

"Well," he said, leaning forward on the big plow, "I'll tell you."

He paused with a smile, for he saw that the position he accidentally had taken was unfortunate. He had associated himself with the machine which, in a sense, materialized the difference between her people and him. He did not change his position; instead, one hand moved caressingly over the clumsy plow while he spoke.

"One gets easily nothing that's worth having; it must be worked and schemed and fought for. I took the risk for you!"

Beatrice started and an indignant flush suffused her face. She was alarmed and angry, and yet the shock she felt was not surprise. He had once given her a plain warning, and she had continued to see him. Her traditions took arms against him, old prejudices revived, and her pride was wounded, but something in her turned traitor, and she felt a strange responsive thrill.

"You do not know what you are saying," she said haughtily, rising from the tool-box and turning toward a spot of bare ground where the dog was digging energetically. "Here, Banff!" Then, obeying some impulse which she did not understand, she added to Harding: "You scarcely know anything about me!"

"When I met you that night at the river and saw your face in the moonlight, I knew all that was needful."

The answer moved the girl. She wondered whether one could fall in love that way. But she must end the interview and escape from an embarrassing position.

"I am sorry our acquaintance has led to this; I would have prevented it if I could," she said. "And now, good-afternoon!"

Harding straightened up, and one hand clenched.

"Stop! We're going to thrash this matter out."

His manner was commanding and Beatrice waited, although she was not used to obeying.

"You were angry at first," he said. "You are rather angry now; but I did you no wrong."

"I admit that. But I wish this hadn't happened. It has spoiled everything."

"Then you liked me as a friend?"

"Yes," Beatrice answered hesitatingly; "I'll be frank. You are different from the men I know."

"Then what have you against me as a lover? Character, person, manners, or opinions?"

She was silent a moment, feeling that she ought to go away. In staying she was trifling with danger; but after all he had a right to be heard.

"Oh, I know your people's point of view," he went on; "but I think it is not altogether yours. In one respect, they're wrong. My mother was the daughter of a bush pioneer, and in all that's most important I'm her son; but my father belonged to your own rank. He was brought up as an English gentleman. I'll show you the evidence I have of this some day, though it makes no difference."

"It must make a difference," Beatrice insisted with a surprised look.

"It can make none. For some reason his relatives cast him off, and declined to claim me. I don't know why, and I shall never trouble to find out. I tell you this because I think you ought to know. It is as Craig Harding, the prairie farmer, that I stand or fall; my own faults and merits are the only things that count."

"It's a bold claim you make."

"Well," he said, "so far, I've been clearing the ground. The sure foundation is the bed-rock of human nature, and we must settle this as man and woman. I know what you are; I knew when I first saw you; and I want you. I need you, Beatrice. My love is great enough to master any doubt you may have, and to hold you safe from all harm. Then, if all goes well, I can give you what you wish, and put you where you want to be. The woman I marry will have a wider influence than the wife of any man at Allenwood; a small matter in the real scale of things, but with so much against me I must urge all I can." He paused and stretched out his hands. "You are not afraid, Beatrice. It is not too great a venture for you?"

She stood still, with a tense expression, struggling against something that drew her toward him. Prudence, training, and prejudice, urged her to resist, and yet she was on the point of yielding.

"I am afraid," she said. "Only one thing could justify such a risk.""That's true; it's what encourages me. You couldn't have made me love you as I do, unless you were able to give love in return."

She was silent, knowing that what he said was true.

He took a step nearer her, and his own face was tense.

"If you can declare you care nothing at all for me, that it would cause you no regret if you never saw me again, I'll make the best fight I can with my trouble and leave you alone for good. You will answer honestly?"

The color swept into her face, for she felt compelled to speak the naked truth.

"I can't go so far as that," she said in a low voice. "I should feel regret."

"Then the rest will follow! Why do you hesitate?"

She smiled, for the matter was too serious for trivial embarrassment, and she knew the man would force her to deal frankly with plain issues.

"You seem so sure?"

"I am, of myself."

"The difficulty is that I'm not an isolated individual, but a member of a family, and belong to a race that has its code of rules. I must think of the shock to my parents and my friends; all the pain that any rash act of mine might give to others. They may be wrong, but what they think I feel, in a half-instinctive way, that reasoning can't change. I should have to stand upon defense against my subconscious self."

"I know," he said gently. "But the choice is one that many have to make. One must often stand alone. It's true that I have all to gain and you all to risk; but, Beatrice——"

He broke off, and held out both hands appealingly to her.

"Beatrice!"

The girl was deeply stirred. She had not expected him to plead like this. In her world one took things for granted and implied instead of asserting them. At Allenwood he was spoken of as a rude, materialistic iconoclast, but she had found him a reckless idealist; although he made her feel that instead of being impractical he was dealing with stern realities. She would have made the great adventure only that she was not sure of her own heart yet. The consequences were too serious for one to risk a mistake.

She stood motionless, her eyes veiled by her dark lashes, and he knew the struggle that was going on within her. In his own eyes there was a great yearning; but a birthright of the pioneer is patience.

"I'm afraid you ask too much," she said at last. "If you like, you may think I am not brave enough." She raised her eyes to his; and winced at the pain she saw there. But she went on bravely: "Had things been different, I might perhaps have married you, but I think our ways are separate. And now you must let me go, and not speak of this again."

He bowed, and it struck Beatrice that there was a great dignity in his bearing.

"Very well," he answered gravely. "I will not trouble you again unless, in one way or another, you give me permission."

She turned away, and he stood still until long after she and the dog had disappeared in the bluff. Then he roused himself with a laugh.

"I won't get her this way!" he said half aloud, and picked up some of the fittings of the pump.

Beatrice went straight to her mother, for there was strong confidence between the two.

"So you refused him!" Mrs. Mowbray said, after listening silently while Beatrice was telling her of the interview. "Did you find it hard?"

"Yes," she answered slowly; "harder than I thought. But it was the only way."

"If you felt that, dear, it certainly was so."

Beatrice looked up in surprise, but her mother's face was quietly thoughtful.

"You can't mean that I did not do right?"

"No; there's a heavy penalty for leaving the circle you were born in and breaking caste. It would have hurt me to see you suffer as you must have done. Only the very brave can take that risk."

The girl was puzzled. Her mother agreed with her, and yet she had faintly reflected Harding's ideas.

"Well," Beatrice said, "I shrink from telling Father."

"I'm not sure that he need know. It would disturb him, and he might do something that we should regret. On the whole, I think you had better visit our friends in Toronto as you were asked. They would be glad to have you for the summer."

"Do you wish me to run away?" Beatrice asked in surprise.

"It might be better for both. Harding is not one of us, but I think he feels things deeply, and his is a stubborn nature. In a sense, it is your duty to make it as easy as you can for him."

Beatrice looked at her mother curiously.

"You seem more concerned about Mr. Harding than I expected."

"He gave your brother his coat in the blizzard and saved his life," Mrs. Mowbray answered. "That counts for something."

The girl hesitated a moment.

"Well, I'll go to Toronto," she promised.