The long train was speeding smoothly across the vast white levels of Assiniboia, when Agatha, who sat by a window, looked up as the conductor strode through the car. Mrs. Hastings asked him a question, and he stopped a moment.

“Yes,” he said, “we’ll be in Clermont inside half an hour.”

He went on, and Mrs. Hastings smiled at Agatha.

“We’re a little late, and Gregory will be waiting for us in the station now,” she announced. “No doubt he’s got the wagon fixed up right, but I’d like to feel sure of it. There’s a long drive before us, and I want to reach the homestead before it’s dark.”

Agatha said nothing, but a faint tinge of color crept into her cheeks, and Mrs. Hastings was glad to see it, for she had noticed that the girl was looking pale and haggard. The strain of the last few months that she had spent in England was beginning to tell on her. She had borne it courageously, but a reaction had set in, and the trip had been fatiguing. The Scarrowmania had plunged along, bows under, against fresh northwesterly gales most of the way across the Atlantic, and there is very little comfort on board a small, deeply-loaded steamer when she rolls her rails in, and lurches with thudding screw swung clear over big, steep-sided combers. Moreover, Agatha had scarcely slept during the few days and nights that she had spent in the train. It takes time to become accustomed to the atmosphere of a heated sleeper, and since she had landed she had been in a state of not unnatural nervous tension.

She had found it difficult to preserve an outward serenity, the previous day. When, at last, the great train ran into the depÔt at Winnipeg, where Gregory had arranged to meet them, it was with a thrill of expectancy and relief that she stood upon the car platform. There was, however, no sign of Gregory, and, though Wyllard handed her a telegram from him a few minutes later, the fact that he had not arrived had a depressing effect on her. Quiet as she usually was, the girl was highly strung. Something had gone wrong with Hawtrey’s wagon while he was driving in to the railroad, and as the result of it he had missed the Atlantic train. She could not blame him for the accident, but for all that his absence was an unpleasant shock.

Feeling that her companions’ eyes were upon her, she turned, and looking out of the window found no encouragement in what she saw. The snow had gone, and a vast expanse of grass ran back to the horizon! But it was a dingy, grayish-white, and not green, as it had been in England. The sky was low and gray, too, and the only thing that broke the dreary monotony of lifeless color was the formless, darker smear of a birch bluff that rose out of the empty levels. Her heart throbbed unpleasantly fast as the few remaining minutes slipped away. She started when a dingy mass of something that looked like buildings lifted itself above the prairie.

“The Clermont elevators,” said Mrs. Hastings. “We’ll be in directly.”

The mass separated itself into two or three tall component blocks. A huddle of little wooden houses grew into shape beneath them, and a shrill whistle came ringing back above the slowing cars. A willow bluff, half filled with old cans and garbage, flitted by, a big bell began tolling, and Agatha rose when Mrs. Hastings took up her furs from a seat close by. After that, the girl found herself standing on the platform of the car, though she did not quite know how she got there, for she was sensible only of the fact that in another moment or two she would greet the lover whom she had not seen for four years.

Though she paid no great attention to them the surroundings had a depressing effect on her. There was, however, very little to see. The mass of the great elevators that were silhouetted against a lowering sky, the little cluster of houses, and the sea of churned-up mire between them and the track comprised Clermont. There appeared to be no station except a big water tank and a rather unsightly shed, about which stood a group of blurred and shapeless figures. It seemed very cold, and Agatha shivered as she felt the raw wind strike through her.

One of the figures detached itself from the rest and grew clearer. The man wore an old skin coat spattered with flakes of mire, and his long boots were covered with clots of mud. His fur cap looked greasy, and the fur had been rubbed off it in patches. But while Agatha noticed these things it was Hawtrey’s face that struck her most distinctly, and she became conscious of an astonishment which was mixed with vague misgivings as she gazed at it, for it had subtly changed since she had last seen it. The joyous sparkle that she remembered had gone out of the eyes. They were harder, bolder, than they used to be. The mouth was slack—it looked almost sensual—and the man’s whole personality seemed to have grown coarser. As she thrust the disconcerting fancies from her the car stopped.

In another moment Hawtrey sprang up on the platform, and his arms were about her. That brought the blood to her face, but she felt none of the thrill that she had expected. Indeed, she was conscious of a certain shrinking from his embrace. He must have lifted her down, for, when she was next aware of the presence of the friends with whom she had traveled, she stood beside the track with Mrs. Hastings, a man whom she supposed to be Mr. Hastings, Winifred and Wyllard about her. Another man also was standing close by, apparently waiting until they noticed him. He was covered with mire, his skin coat was very dilapidated, and Agatha thought that his boots never had been cleaned. His hair, which had evidently been badly cut, straggled out from under his old fur cap.

Gregory apparently explained something to Mrs. Hastings. “No,” he said, “I’m sorry it can’t be for another week. Horribly unfortunate. It seems they’ve sent the Methodist on down the line, and we’ll have to wait for the Episcopalian. He’ll be at Lander’s for a few days.”

Agatha’s cheeks flamed, for she realized that it was her wedding of which they were speaking; but it brought her a curious relief to hear that it had been deferred. A moment or two later Gregory turned to her with questions about his people in England.

Winifred had separated herself from the group. She was standing near her baggage, which had been flung out beside the track, when Wyllard strode up to her.

“Feeling rather out of it? I do, any way,” he remarked. “Since we appear superfluous, we may as well make the most of the opportunity, especially as it will probably save you a long drive. There’s a man here who wants to see you.”

Winifred had felt forlorn a few moments earlier, but the announcement Wyllard made was reassuring, and she brightened perceptibly as he signaled to a man who was standing a little further along the track. The stranger wore rather good store clothes, and his manner was brisk and wholly business-like. It was a certain relief to the girl to see that he evidently regarded her less as a personality than as a piece of commercial machinery, of which apparently he had been asked to make use. She had found it easier to get on with men who looked upon her as merely part of the office equipment.

“Mr. Hamilton is in charge of the elevator yonder,” explained Wyllard, pointing to one of the huge buildings.

Then he introduced Miss Rawlinson.

The elevator man made her the curtest of bows and proceeded to arrange matters with a rapidity which almost took her breath away.

“Typist and stenographer?” he asked. “Know anything about keeping accounts?”

Winifred admitted that she possessed these qualifications and Hamilton appeared to reflect for a moment or two.

“Well,” he said, “in a fortnight we’ll give you a show. You can start at—” and he mentioned terms which rather astonished Winifred. “If you can keep things straight we may raise you later.”

“Won’t you want to see any testimonials?” she asked.

“No,” answered Hamilton. “I’ve seen a good many and I’m inclined to believe some of the folks who showed them to me must have bought them.” He waved his hand. “Mr. Wyllard assures me that you’ll do, and that’s quite enough for me.”

It struck Winifred as curious that, while Agatha had written to Hawtrey on her behalf, it was Wyllard who had secured her the opportunity for which she had longed.

“There’s another matter,” she said hesitatingly, when she was left with Wyllard, “I’ll have to live here?”

Wyllard smiled. “I’ve seen to that, though if you don’t like my arrangements you can alter them afterwards. Mrs. Sandberg will take you in. She’s a Scotch Calvinist, and even if she isn’t particularly amiable you’ll be in safe hands. We’ll consider it as fixed, but you’re to stay with Mrs. Hastings for a fortnight. Sproatly”—he signed to the man in the skin coat—“will you get Miss Rawlinson’s baggage into your wagon?”

The man took off his fur cap. “If Miss Rawlinson would like to see Mrs. Sandberg, I’ll drive her round,” he suggested. “We’ll catch you in a league or so. Gregory has a bit of patching to do on his off-side trace.”

“He might have had things straight for once,” grumbled Wyllard half-aloud.

Winifred permitted Sproatly to help her into his wagon—a high, narrow-bodied vehicle, mounted on tall, spidery wheels—but she had to hold fast to the seat while they jolted across the track and through a sea of mire into the unpaved street of the little town. She liked Sproatly’s voice and manner, though she was far from prepossessed by his appearance. Two or three minutes later he stopped before a little wooden house, where they were received by a tall, hard-faced woman, who frowned at the man.

“Ye’ll tak’ your patent medicines somewhere else. I’m wanting none,” she said.

Sproatly grinned. “You needn’t be afraid of them. They couldn’t hurt you. I was talking to a Winnipeg doctor who’d a notion of coming out a day or two ago. I told him if he did he’d have to bring an ax along.”

Then he explained that Wyllard had sent Miss Rawlinson there, and the woman favored her with a glance of careful scrutiny.

“Weel,” she said, “ye look quiet, anyway.” She added, as if further satisfied, “I’ll make ye a cup of tea if ye can wait.”

Sproatly assured her that they had not time to accept her hospitality. The girl went into the house for a few moments and returned to the wagon with relief in her face.

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

Sproatly laughed. “You’re not exactly unusual in that respect,” he declared as he started the horses. “But you had better hold tight. These beasts are less than half broken.”

He flicked the horses 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 wagon.

“There’s a Swede down at Branker’s wants a bottle that will limber up a wooden leg,” he said.

Sproatly grinned, and waved his hands to them before he turned to Winifred.

“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 the road was far from good as it was, for spouts of mud flew up beneath the sinking hoofs and wheels, and she was already unpleasantly spattered.

“You think you would have succeeded making a sale?” she asked with amusement in her eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Sproatly answered confidently. “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 two big boxes in the bottom of the wagon. “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 confidently—“is to put on a different label.”

Winifred laughed when she met his eyes.

“What happens to the people who buy it?” she inquired.

“Most of them are bachelors, and tough. They’ve stood their own cooking so long that they ought to be impervious to anything, 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.

“No,” replied 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 is rather a pity. It has seemed to me that a man who can work off cough cures and cosmetics on to healthy folks 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 wagons that, several miles away, moved across the gray-white sweep of prairie.

“Shall 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 wagon. Sometimes it makes trouble. I’ve known the team to leave him sitting on the prairie, thinking of endearing names for them, while they came home with the pole.”

“Does he generally let things fall into that state?”

Sproatly was evidently on his guard.

“Well,” he rejoined, “it’s certainly that kind of wagon.”

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 the other vehicles had made.

In the meanwhile, Agatha and Hawtrey had found it almost impossible to sustain a conversation. It was a relief to the girl to be able to sit silent and observant beside the man whom she had promised to marry. The string-patched trace still held, and the wagon pole was a new one. The white grass was tussocky and long, and the trail here and there had been churned into quagmire. Hawtrey had packed the thick driving-robe high about Agatha and had 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 assure 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 that she felt. There was not a tree upon the vast sweep of bleached grass which ran all around her to the horizon. It was inexpressibly lonely, a lifeless desolation, with only the plowed-up trail to show that man had ever traversed it. The raw wind which came across the prairie set her shivering.

She was forced, however, to admit that her weariness and the dreary surroundings did not quite explain everything. Gregory’s first embrace had brought her no happiness, and now the close pressure of his arm left her quite unmoved. This was disconcerting; but while she would admit no definite reason for it, there was creeping upon her a vague consciousness that the man beside her was not the one of whom she had so often thought 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 seemed to her that he was shallow and lacking in comprehension. Once she found herself comparing him with another man. She broke off that train of thought abruptly, and once more endeavored to find the explanation in herself. Weariness had produced this captious, hypercritical fit, and by and by she would become used to him, she said.

Hawtrey was, at least, not effusive, for which she was thankful. When they reached a smoother stretch of road he began to talk of England.

“I suppose you saw a good deal of my folks when you were at the Grange,” he said.

“No,” answered Agatha, “I saw them once or twice.”

“Ah!” he replied, 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 replied candidly.

“One could hardly go quite so far as that,” she told him. “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 weary to be altogether on her guard. His relatives’ attitude 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 relatives, who were naturally acquainted with his character, had not expected him to carry out his promise. She felt that she had been injudicious in what she told him when she heard his harsh laugh.

“I’m afraid they never had a very great opinion of me,” he remarked.

“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. “The land 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 she realized 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 upon him, for when he first saw her he had 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 any response in her. He became uneasily conscious that he could not talk to her as he could to Sally Creighton. There was something wanting in him or her, but he could not at the moment tell what it was. Still, he assured himself, things would be different next day, for the girl was evidently very tired.

The creeping dusk settled down upon the wilderness. The horizon narrowed, and the stretch of grass before them grew dim. The trail they now drove into grew rapidly rougher, and it was quite dark when they came to the brink of a declivity still at least a league from the Hastings homestead. It was one of the steep ravines that seam the prairie. A birch bluff rose on either side, and a little creek flowed through the hollow.

Hawtrey swung the whip when they reached the top, and the team plunged furiously down the slope. He straightened himself in his seat with both hands on the reins, and Agatha held her breath when she felt the light vehicle tilt as the wheels on one side sank deep in a rut. Something seemed to crack, and she saw the off horse stumble and plunge. The other horse flung its head up, Hawtrey shouted something, and there was a great smashing and snapping of undergrowth and fallen branches as they drove in among the birches. The team stopped, and Hawtrey, who sprang down, floundered noisily among the undergrowth, while another thud of hoofs and rattle of wheels grew louder behind them up the trail. In a minute or two Hawtrey came back and lifted Agatha down.

“It’s the trace broken. I had to make the holes with my knife, and the string’s torn through,” he explained. “Voltigeur got it round his feet, and, as usual, tried to bolt. We’ll make the others pull up and take you in.”

They went back to the trail together, and reached it just as Hastings reined in his team. Hastings got down and walked back with Hawtrey to the stalled wagon. It was a minute or two before they reappeared again, and Mrs. Hastings, who had alighted, drew Hawtrey aside.

“I almost think it would be better if you didn’t come any further to-night,” she said.

“Why?” Gregory asked sharply.

“I can’t help thinking that Agatha would prefer it. For one thing, she’s rather jaded, and wants quiet.”

“You feel sure of that?”

There was something in the man’s voice which suggested that he was not quite satisfied, and Mrs. Hastings was silent a moment.

“It’s good advice, Gregory,” she said. “She’ll be better able to face the situation after a night’s rest.”

“Does it require much facing?” Hawtrey asked dryly.

Mrs. Hastings turned from him with a sign of impatience. “Of course it does. Anyway, if you’re wise you’ll do what I suggest, and ask no more questions.”

Then she got into the wagon, and Hawtrey stood still beside the trail, feeling unusually thoughtful as they drove away.