It was a still, clear evening of spring when Wyllard, unstrapping the rÜcksack from his shoulders, sat down beside a frothing stream in a dale of Northern England. On his arrival in London a week or two earlier he had found awaiting him a letter from Mrs. Hastings, who was then in Paris, in which she said that she could not at the moment say when she would go home again, but that she expected to advise him shortly.

After answering the letter Wyllard started North, and, obtaining Agatha’s address from Miss Rawlinson, went on again to a certain little town, which, encircled by towering fells, stands beside a lake in the North Country. He had already recognized that his mission was rather a delicate one, and he decided that it would be advisable to wait until he heard from Mrs. Hastings before calling upon Miss Ismay. There remained the question, what to do with the next few days. A conversation with several pedestrian tourists whom he met at his hotel, and a glance at a map of the hill-tracks decided him. Remembering that he had on several occasions kept the trail in Canada for close on forty miles, he bought a Swiss pattern rÜcksack, and set out on foot through the fells.

Incidentally, he saw scenery that gave him a new conception of the Old Country. He astonished his new friends, the tourists, who volunteered to show him the way over what they considered a difficult pass. To their great astonishment the brown-faced stranger, who wore ordinary tight-fitting American attire and rather pointed American shoes, went up the mountainside apparently without an effort, and for the credit of the clubs to which they belonged it was incumbent on them to keep pace with him. They did not know that he had carried bags of flour and mining tools over very much higher passes, close up to the limit of eternal snow, but they did know that he set them a difficult pace, and after two days’ climbing they were relieved to part company with him.

A professional guide who overtook them recognized the capabilities of the man when he noticed the way in which he lifted his feet and how he set them down. This, the guide decided, was a man accustomed to walking among the heather, but he was wrong; for it was the trick the bushman learns when he plods through leagues of undergrowth and fallen branches, or the tall grass of the swamps; and it is a memorable experience to make a day’s journey with such a man. For the first hour the thing seems easy, as the pace is never forced, but the speed never slackens; and as the hours go by the novice, who flounders and stumbles, grows horribly weary of trying to keep up with the steady, persistent swing.

Wyllard had traveled since morning along a ridge of fells when he sat down beside the water and contentedly filled his pipe. On the one hand, a wall of crags high above was growing black against the evening light, and the stream, clear as crystal, came boiling down among great boulders. But the young man had wandered through many a grander and more savage scene of rocky desolation, and it impressed him less than the green valley in front of him. He had never seen anything like that either on the Pacific slope or in Western Canada.

Early as it was in the season, the meadows between rock and water were green as emerald, and the hedge-rows, just flushed with verdure, were clipped and trimmed as if their owner loved them. There was not a dead tree in the larch copse which dipped to the stream, and all its feathery tassels were sprinkled with tiny flecks of crimson and wondrous green. Great oaks dotted the meadows, each one perfect in symmetry. It seemed that the men who held this land cared for single trees. The sleek, tame cattle that rubbed their necks on the level hedge-top and gazed at him ruminatively were very different from the wild, long-horned creatures whose furious stampede he had now and then headed off, riding hard while the roar of hoofs rang through the dust-cloud that floated like a sea fog across the sun-scorched prairie. Here, in the quiet vale, all was peace and tranquillity.

Wyllard noticed the pale primroses that pushed their yellow flowers up among the withered leaves, and he took account of the faint blue sheen beneath the beech trunks not far away. There was a vein of artistic feeling in him, and the elusive beauty of these things curiously appealed to him. He had seen the riotous, sensuous blaze of flowers kissed by Pacific breezes, and the burnished gold of wheat that rolled in mile-long waves; but it seemed to him that the wild things of the English North were, after all, more wonderful. They harmonized with the country’s deep peacefulness; their beauty was chaste, fairy-like and ethereal.

By and by a wood pigeon cooed softly somewhere in the shadows, and a brown thrush perched on a bare oak bough began to sing. The broken, repeated melody went curiously well with the rippling murmur of sliding water, and Wyllard, though he could not remember ever having done anything of that sort before, leaned back with a smile to listen. His life had been a strenuous one, passed for the most part in the driving-seat of great plows that rent their ample furrows through virgin prairie, guiding the clinking binders through the wheat under a blazing sun, or driving the plunging dories through the clammy fog over short, slopping seas. Now, however, the tranquillity of the English valley stole in on him, and he began to understand how the love of that well-trimmed land clung to the men out West, who spoke of it tenderly as the “Old Country.”

Then, for he was in an unusually susceptible mood, he took from his pocket a little deerhide case, artistically made by a Blackfoot Indian, and removed from it the faded photograph of an English girl. He had obtained the photograph from the lad who had died among the ranges of the Pacific slope, and it had been his companion in many a desolate camp and on many a weary journey. The face was delicately modeled, and there was a freshness in it which is seldom seen outside the Old Country; but what pleased him most was the serenity in the clear, innocent eyes.

He was not in love with the picture—he would probably have smiled at the notion—but he had a curious feeling that he would meet the girl some day, and that it would then be a privilege merely to speak to her. This was, after all, not so extravagant a fancy as it might appear, for romance, the mother of chivalry and many graces, still finds shelter in the hearts of men who dwell in the wide spaces of the newer lands. Shrewd and practical as these men are, they see visions now and then, and, what is more, with bleeding hands and toil incredible prove them to be realities.

By and by Wyllard put the photograph back into his pocket, and filled his pipe again. It was almost dark before he had smoked it out. The thrush had gone, and only the ripple of the water broke the silence, until he heard footsteps on the stones behind him. Looking around, he saw a young woman moving towards the river. He watched her with a quiet interest, for his perceptions were sharper than usual, and it seemed to him that she was very much in harmony with what he thought of as the key-tone of the place. She was tall and shapely, and she moved with grace. When, poised upon a shelf of rock as if considering the easiest way to the water, she stopped for a moment, her figure fell into reposeful lines, but that was after all only what he had expected, for he had half-consciously studied the Englishwomen whom he had met in the West.

The Western women usually moved, and certainly spoke, with an almost superfluous vivacity and alertness. There was in them a feverish activity, which contrasted with the English deliberation, which had sometimes exasperated him. Now he felt that this slowness of movement was born of the tranquillity of the well-trimmed land, and he realized that it would have troubled his sense of fitness if this girl had clattered down across the stones hurriedly and noisily.

At first he could not see her face, but when she went on a little further it became evident that she desired to cross the river, and was regarding the row of stepping stones somewhat dubiously. One or two had fallen over, or had been washed away by a flood, for there were several wide gaps between them, through which the stream frothed whitely. As soon as Wyllard noticed her hesitation, he rose and moved towards her.

“You want to get across?” he asked.

She was still glancing at the water, and although he was sure that she had not seen him or heard his approach, she turned towards him quietly. Then a momentary sense of astonishment held him in an embarrassed scrutiny, for it was her picture at which he had gazed scarcely half an hour before, and he would have recognized the face anywhere.

“Yes,” she answered. “It is rather a long way around by the bridge, but some of the stones seem to have disappeared since I last came this way.”

She spoke, as Wyllard had expected, softly and quietly. Because he was first of all a man of action, Wyllard forthwith waded into the river. Then he turned and held out his hand to her.

“It isn’t a very long step. You ought to manage it,” he said.

The girl favored him with a swift glance of uncertainty. At first she had supposed him to be one of the walking tourists or climbers who usually invaded the valleys at Easter; but they were, for the most part, young men from the cities, and this stranger’s face was darkened by the sun. There was also an indefinite suggestion of strength in the poise of his lean, symmetrical figure, which could only have come from strenuous labor in the open air. She noticed that while the average Englishman would have asked permission to help her, or would have deprecated the offer, this stranger did nothing of the kind. He stood with the water frothing about his ankles, holding out his hand.

She had no hesitation about accepting Wyllard’s aid, and, while he waded through the river, she stepped lightly from stone to stone until she came to a wide gap, where the stream was deep. She stopped a moment, gazing at the foaming water, until the man’s hand tightened on her fingers, and she felt his other hand rest upon her waist.

“Now,” he assured her, “I won’t let you fall.”

She was on the other side of the gap in another moment. Wondering uneasily why she had obeyed the compelling pressure, but glad to see that the stranger’s face was perfectly unmoved, and that he was evidently quite unconscious of having done anything unusual, she crossed without mishap. When they stood on the shingle he dropped her hand.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m afraid you got rather wet.”

The man laughed, and he had a pleasant laugh. “Oh,” he replied, “I’m used to it.” There was a little silence and he asked: “Isn’t there a village with a hotel in it, a mile or two from here?”

“Yes,” the girl answered, “this is the way. The path goes up to the highroad through the larch wood.”

She turned into the path, and, though she had not expected him to accompany her, the man walked beside her. Still she did not resent it. His manner was deferential, and she liked his face, while there was, after all, no reason why he should stay behind when he was going the same way. He walked beside her silently for several minutes as they went on through the gloom of the larches, where a sweet, resinous odor crept into the still evening air, and then he looked up as they came to a towering pine.

“Have you many of those trees over here?” he asked.

A light dawned upon the girl, for, though he had spoken without a perceptible accent, she had been slightly puzzled by something in his speech and appearance.

“I believe they’re not uncommon. You are an American?”

Wyllard laughed. “No,” he replied. “I was born in Western Canada, but I think I’m as English as you are, in some respects, though I never quite realized it until to-night. It isn’t exactly because my father came from this country, either.”

The girl was astonished at this answer, and still more at the indefinite something in his manner which seemed to indicate that he expected her to understand, as, indeed, she did. Her only dowry had been an expensive education and she remembered that the influence of the isle she lived in had in turn fastened on Saxons, Norsemen, Normans, and made them Englishmen. What was more, so far as she had read, those who had gone out South or Westwards had carried that influence with them, and, under all their surface changes, and sometimes their grievances against the Motherland, were, in the great essentials, wholly English still.

“But,” she remarked at random, “how can you be sure that I’m English?”

It was quite dark in among the trees, but she fancied there was a smile in her companion’s eyes.

“Oh,” he answered simply, “you couldn’t be anything else!”

She accepted this as a compliment, though she knew that it had not been his intention to flatter her. His general attitude since she had met him scarcely suggested such, a lack of good taste. She was becoming mildly interested in the stranger, but she possessed several essentially English characteristics, and it did not appear advisable to encourage him too much. She said nothing further, and it was he who spoke first.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you knew a young lad who went out to Canada a few years ago. His name was Pattinson—Henry Pattinson.”

“No,” the girl answered quickly. “I certainly did not. But the name is not an uncommon one. There are a good many Pattinsons in the North.”

Wyllard was not surprised by this answer. He had reasons for believing that the name under which the lad he had befriended had enrolled himself was not the correct one. It would, of course, have been easy to describe the boy, but Wyllard was shrewd, and noticing that there was now a restraint in the girl’s manner he could not speak prematurely. He was aware that most of the English are characterized by a certain reserve, and apt to retire into their shells if pressed too hard. He did not, however, mean to let this girl elude him altogether.

“It really doesn’t matter,” he responded. “I shall no doubt get upon his trail in due time.”

They reached the highroad a minute or two later, and the girl turned to him.

“Thank you again,” she said. “If you go straight on you will come to the village in about a quarter of an hour.”

She turned away and left him standing with his soft hat in his hand. He stood quite still for almost a minute after she had gone. When he reached the inn its old-world simplicity delighted him. It was built with thick walls of slate, and roofed with ponderous flags. In Canada, where the frost was Arctic, they used thin cedar shingles. The room in which his meal was spread was paneled with oak that had turned black with age. Great rough-hewn beams of four times the size that anybody would have used for the purpose in the West supported the low ceiling. There was a fire in the wide hearth and the ruddy gleam of burnished copper utensils pierced the shadows. The room was large, but there was only a single candle upon the table. He liked the gloomy interior, and he felt that a garish light would somehow be out of harmony.

By and by his hostess appeared to clear the things away. She was a little, withered old woman, with shrewd, kindly eyes, and a russet tinge in her cheeks.

“There’s a good light, and company in the sitting-room,” she said. “We’ve three young men staying with us. They’ve been up the Pike.”

“I’d sooner stay here, if I may,” replied Wyllard. “I don’t quite know yet if I’ll go on to-morrow. One can get through to Langley Dale by the Hause, as I think you call it?”

The wrinkled dame said that pedestrians often went that way.

“There are some prosperous folks—people of station—living round here?” Wyllard asked casually.

“There’s the vicar. I don’t know that he’s what you’d call prosperous. Then there’s Mr. Martindale, of Rushyholme, and Little, of the Ghyll.”

“Has any of them a daughter of about twenty-four years of age?” Wyllard described the girl he had met to the best of his ability.

It was evident that the landlady did not recognize the description, but she thought a moment.

“No,” she answered, “there’s nobody like that; but I did hear that they’d a young lady staying at the vicarage.”

She changed the subject abruptly, and Wyllard once more decided that the English did not like questions.

“You’re a stranger, sir?” she inquired.

“I am,” said Wyllard. “I’ve some business to attend to further on, but I came along on foot, to see the fells, and I’m glad I did. It’s a great and wonderful country you’re living in. That is,” he added gravely, “when you get outside the towns. There are things in some of the cities that most make one ill.”

He stood up. “That tray’s too heavy for you. Won’t you let me carry it?”

The landlady was plainly amazed at his words, but she made it clear that she desired no assistance. When she went out Wyllard, who sat down again, took out the photograph. He gazed at it steadfastly.

“There’s rather more than mere prettiness there, but I don’t know that I want to keep it now,” he reflected. “It’s way behind the original. She has grown since it was taken—just as one would expect that girl to grow.”

He lighted his pipe and smoked thoughtfully until he arrived at a decision.

“One can’t force the running in this country. They don’t like it,” he said. “I’ll lie by a day or two, and keep an eye on that vicarage.”

In the meanwhile his hostess was discussing him with a niece.

“I’m sure I don’t know what that man is,” she informed the younger woman. “He has got the manners of a gentleman, but he walks like a fell shepherd, and his hands are like a navvy’s. A man’s hands now and then tell you a good deal about him. Besides, of all things, he wanted to carry his tray away. Said it was too heavy for me.”

“Oh,” replied her niece, “he’s an American. There’s no accounting for them.”