Next morning, the mail-carrier, who, half-frozen and white all over, drove up to the homestead out of a haze of falling snow, brought Agatha a note from Gregory. The note was brief, and Agatha read it with a smile of half-amused contempt, though she admitted that, considering everything, he had handled the embarrassing situation gracefully. This attitude, however, was only what she had expected, and she recognized that it was characteristic of Hawtrey that he had written releasing her from her engagement instead of seeking an interview. Gregory, as she realized now, had always taken the easiest way, and it was evident that he had not even the courage to face her. She quietly dropped the note—it did not seem worth while to fling it—into the stove.

Agatha could forgive Gregory for choosing Sally. Though she was very human in most respects, that scarcely troubled her, but she could not forgive him for persisting in his claim to her while he was philandering—and this seemed the most fitting term—with her rival. Had he only been honest, she would not have let Wyllard go away without some assurance of her regard which would have cheered the brave seafarer on his perilous journey. And it was clear to her that Wyllard might never come back again! Her face grew hard when she thought of it, and she had thought of it frequently. For that double-dealing she felt she almost hated Gregory.

A month passed drearily, with Arctic frost outside on the prairie, and little to do inside the homestead except to cook and gorge the stove, and endeavor to keep warmth in one’s body. Water froze solid inside the house, stinging draughts crept in through the double windows, and there were evenings when Mrs. Hastings and Agatha, shivering close beside the stove, waited anxiously for the first sign of Hastings and the hired man, who were bringing back a sled loaded with birch logs from a neighboring bluff. The bluff was only a few miles away, but men sent out to cut fuel in the awful cold snaps in that country have now and then sunk down in the snow with the life frozen out of them. There were other days when the wooden building seemed to rock beneath the buffeting of the icy hurricane, and it was a perilous matter to cross the narrow open space between it and the stables through the haze of swirling snow.

The weather moderated a little by and by, and one afternoon Mrs. Hastings drove off to Lander’s with the one hired man that they kept through the winter. Mr. Hastings had set out earlier for the bluff, and as the Scandinavian maid had been married and had gone away, Agatha was left in the house with the little girls.

It was bitterly cold, even inside the dwelling, but Agatha was busy baking, and she failed to notice that the temperature had become almost Arctic, until she stood beside a window as evening was closing in. A low, dingy sky hung over the narrowing sweep of prairie which stretched back, gleaming lividly, into the creeping dusk, but a few minutes later a haze of snow whirled across it and cut off the dreary scene.

The light died out suddenly, and Agatha and the little girls drew their chairs close up to the stove. The house was very quiet, and Agatha could hear the mournful wailing of the wind about it, with now and then the soft swish of driven snow upon the walls and roofing shingles.

The table was laid for supper, and the kettle was singing cheerfully upon the stove, but there was no sign of the other members of the family, and presently Agatha began to feel a little anxious. Mrs. Hastings, she fancied, would stay one night at Lander’s, if there was any unfavorable change in the weather, but she wondered what could be detaining Hastings. It was not very far to the bluff, and as he could not have continued chopping in the darkness it seemed to her that he should have reached the homestead.

He did not come, however, and she grew more uneasy as the time slipped by. The wail of the wind grew louder and the stove crackled more noisily. At last one of the little girls rose with a cry that she thought she heard the beat of hoofs. The impression grew more distinct until she was sure that some one was riding toward the homestead, and Agatha heard the hoofbeats, but soon after that the sound ceased abruptly, and she could not hear the rattle of flung-down logs which she had expected. This struck Agatha as curious, since she knew that Hastings generally unloaded the sled before he led the team to the stable. She waited a moment or two, but except for the doleful wind nothing broke the silence now, and when the stillness became oppressive she moved towards the door.

The wind tore the door from her grasp when she opened it, and flung it against the wall with a jarring crash, while a fine powder that stung the skin unbearably drove into her face. For a few moments she could see nothing but a whirling haze, and then, as her eyes became accustomed to the change of light, she dimly made out the blurred white figures of the horses standing still, with the load of birch logs rising a shapeless mass behind them. There seemed to be nobody with the team, and, though she twice called sharply, no answer came out of the falling snow. Then she recognized the significant fact that the team had come home alone.

It was difficult to close the door, and before she accomplished what was a feat of strength her hands had stiffened and grown almost useless, and the hall was strewn with snow. It was every evident that there was something for her to do. It cost her three or four minutes to slip on a blanket skirt, and soft hide moccasins, with gum boots over them. Muffled in her furs, she opened the door again. When she had contrived to close it, the cold struck through her to the bone as she floundered towards the team. There was nobody to whom she could look for assistance, but that could not be helped. It was evident that some misfortune had befallen Hastings and that she must act wisely and quickly.

The first thing necessary was to unload the sled, and, though the birches seldom grow to any size in a prairie bluff, some of the logs were heavy. She was gasping with the effort when she had flung a few of them down, after which she discovered that the rest were held up by one or two stout poles let into sockets. Try as she would, she could not get them out, and then she remembered that Hastings kept a whipsaw in a shed close by. She contrived to find it, and attacked the poles in breathless haste, working clumsily with mittened hands, until there was a crash and rattle as she sprang clear. Then she started the team, and the rest of the logs rolled off into the snow.

That was one difficulty overcome, but the next appeared more serious. She must find the bluff as soon as possible, and in the snow-filled darkness she could not tell where it lay. Even if she could have seen anything of the kind, there was no landmark on the desolate level waste between it and the homestead. She, however, remembered that she had one guide.

Hastings and his hired man had recently hauled in a great many loads of birch logs, and as they had made a well-worn trail it seemed to her just possible that she might trace it back to the bluff. No great weight of snow had fallen yet.

Before Agatha set out she had a struggle with the team, for the horses evidently had no intention of making another journey if they could help it, but at last she swung them into the narrow riband of trail, and plodded away into the darkness at their heads. It was then that she first clearly realized what she had undertaken. Very little of her face was left bare between her fur cap and collar, but every inch of uncovered skin tingled as if it had been lashed with thorns or stabbed with innumerable needles. The air was thick with a fine powder that filled her eyes and nostrils, the wind buffeted her, and there was an awful cold—the cold that taxes the utmost strength of mind and body of those who are forced to face it on the shelterless prairie.

Still the girl struggled on, feeling with half-frozen feet for the depression of the trail, and grappling with a horrible dismay when she failed to find it. She was never sure to what extent she guided the team, or how far from mere force of habit they headed for the bluff, but as the time went by, and there was nothing before her but the whirling snow, she grew feverishly apprehensive. The trail was becoming fainter and fainter, and now and then she could find no trace of it for several minutes.

The horses floundered on, blurred shapes as white as the haze they crept through, and at length she felt that they were dipping into a hollow. Then a faint sense of comfort crept into her heart as she remembered that a shallow ravine which seamed the prairie ran through the bluff. She called out, and started at the faintness of her voice. It seemed such a pitifully feeble thing. There was no answer, nothing but the soft fall of the horses’ hoofs and the wail of the wind, but the wind was reassuring, for the volume of sound suggested that it was driving through a bluff close by.

A few minutes later Agatha cried out again, and this time she felt the throbbing of her heart, for a faint sound came out of the whirling haze. She pulled the horses up, and as she stood still listening, a blurred object appeared almost in front of them. It shambled forward in a curious manner, stopped, and moved again, and in another moment or two Hastings lurched by her with a stagger and sank down into a huddled white heap on the sled. She turned back towards him, and he seemed to look up at her.

“Turn the team,” he said.

Agatha obeyed, and sat down beside him when the horses moved on again.

“A small birch I was chopping fell on me,” he said. “I don’t know whether it smashed my ankle, or whether I twisted it wriggling clear—the thing pinned me down. It is badly hurt anyway.”

He spoke disconnectedly and hoarsely, as if in pain, and Agatha, who noticed that one of his gum boots was almost ripped to pieces, realized part of what he must have suffered. She knew that nobody pinned to the ground and helpless could have withstood that cold for more than a very little while.

“Oh,” she cried, “it must have been dreadful!”

“I found a branch,” Hastings added. “It helped me, but I fell over every now and then. Headed for the homestead. Don’t think I could have made it if you hadn’t come for me!” He stopped abruptly, and turned to her. “You mustn’t sit down. Walk—keep warm—but don’t try to lead the team.”

Agatha struggled forward as far as the near horse’s shoulder. The team slightly sheltered her, and it was a little easier walking with a hand upon a trace. It was a relief to cling to something, for the wind that flung the snow into her face drove her garments against her limbs, so that now and then she could scarcely move. When her strength began to flag, every yard of the homeward journey was made with infinite pain and difficulty. At times she could scarcely see the horses, and again, blinded, breathless and dazed, she stumbled along beside them. She did not know how Hastings was faring, but she half-consciously recognized that if once she let the trace go the sled would slip away from her and she would sink down to freeze.

At last, however, a dim mass crept out of the white haze ahead, and a moment later a man laid hold of her. The man told her that Mrs. Hastings was with him, and that the homestead was close at hand. Agatha learned afterwards that they had reached the house a short time previously and had immediately set out in search of her and Hastings.

She floundered on beside the horses, with another team dimly visible in front of her, until a faint ray of light streamed out into the snow. Then the team stopped, and she had only a hazy recollection of staggering into a lighted room in the homestead and sinking into a chair. What they did with Hastings she did not know, but Mrs. Hastings, who went with her to her room, kissed her before she left her.

Nobody could have faced the snow next morning, and it was several days later when Watson, who had attended Hawtrey after his accident, was brought over. Watson did what he could, but it was several weeks before Hastings could use his injured foot again. Before Hastings recovered, news was sent him of some difficulty in the affairs of a small creamery at a settlement further along the line, in which he and his wife held an interest, and Mrs. Hastings went East to make inquiries respecting it. She took Agatha with her, and one evening after she had finished the business she had in hand they left a little way station by the Pacific train.

The car that they entered was empty except for two persons who sat close together near the middle of it. A big lamp overhead shed a brilliant light, and Agatha started when one of their fellow passengers looked around as she approached him. In another moment she stood face to face with Hawtrey, who had risen, while Sally gazed up at her with a curious expression in her eyes. Agatha was perfectly composed. She felt no sympathy for Hawtrey, who was visibly confused. She was not surprised that he found the situation a somewhat difficult one.

“You have been to Winnipeg?” she asked.

“No,” answered Hawtrey, with evident relief that she had chosen a safe topic, “only to Brandon. Sally has some friends there, and she spends a day or two with them once or twice each winter. Brandon is quite a lively place after the prairie. I went in last night to bring her back.” He turned to his companion, “I think you have met Miss Ismay?”

Agatha was conscious that Sally’s eyes were fixed upon her, and that Mrs. Hastings was watching them all with quiet amusement, but she was a little astonished when the girl moved some wraps from the seat opposite her.

“Yes,” she said, “I have. If Miss Ismay doesn’t mind, I should like to talk to her.”

Hawtrey’s relief was evident, and Agatha glanced at him with a smile that was half-contemptuous. He had carefully kept out of her way since he had written her the note, and now it seemed only natural that if there was anything to be said, he should leave it to Sally.

“I think I’ll go along for a smoke,” he observed with evident impatience to leave them, and he retired precipitately.

Mrs. Hastings looked after him, and laughed in a manner that caused Sally to wince.

“He doesn’t seem anxious to talk to me,” she said. “You can come along to the next car by and by, Agatha.”

She moved away, and Agatha, who sat down opposite Sally, looked at her questioningly.

“Well?” she said.

Sally made a little deprecatory gesture. “I’ve something to say, but it’s hard. To begin with, are you very angry with me?”

“No,” answered Agatha. “I think I really am a little angry with Gregory, but not altogether because he chose you.”

Sally considered this statement for a moment or two before she looked up again.

“Well,” she confessed, “not long ago, I wanted to hate you, and I guess I ’most succeeded. It made things easier. Still, I want to say that I don’t hate you now.” She hesitated a moment. “I’d like you to forgive me.”

Agatha smiled. “I can do that willingly,” she said.

Sally was disconcerted by her quiet ease of manner and perfect candor. It was evidently not quite what she had looked for.

“Then you were never very fond of him?” she suggested.

“No,” answered Agatha reflectively, “since you have compelled me to say it, I don’t think now that I ever was really fond of him, though I don’t know how I can make that quite clear to you. It was only after I came out here that I—realized—Gregory. It was not the actual man I fell in love with in England.”

Sally turned her face away, for Agatha had made her meaning perfectly plain. Somewhat to Sally’s astonishment, she showed no sign of resentment.

“Then,” Sally responded, “it is way better that you didn’t marry him.” She paused, and seemed to search for words with which to express herself. “I knew all along all there was to know about Gregory—except that he was going to marry you, and it was some time before I heard that—and I was ready to take him. I was fond of him.”

Agatha’s heart went out to her. “Yes,” she said simply, “it is a very good thing that I let him go.” She smiled. “That, however, doesn’t quite describe it, Sally.”

Gregory’s fiancÉe flushed. “I couldn’t have said that, but you don’t quite understand yet. I said I knew all there was to know about him—and you never did. You made too much of him in England, and when you came out here you only saw the things you didn’t like in him. Still, they weren’t the only ones.”

Agatha started at this statement, for she realized that part of it was certainly true, and she could admit the possibility of all of it being a fact. Gregory might possess a few good qualities that she had never discovered!

“Perhaps I did,” she admitted. “I don’t think it matters now.”

“They’re all of them mixed,” persisted Sally. “One can’t expect too much, but you can bear with a great deal when you’re fond of any one.”

Agatha sat silent a while, for she was troubled by a certain sense of wholesome confusion. It seemed to her that Sally had the clearer vision. Love had given her discernment as well as charity, and, not expecting perfection, it was the man’s strong points upon which she fixed her eyes.

“Yes,” she replied presently. “I am glad you look at it that way, Sally.”

The girl laughed. “Oh!” she said, “I’ve only seen one man on the prairie who was quite white all through, and I had a kind of notion that he was fond of you.”

Agatha sat very still, but it cost her an effort.

Her face asked the question that was in her heart.

“Harry Wyllard,” announced Sally.

Agatha made no answer, and Sally changed the subject. “Well,” said Sally, “after all, I want you to be friends with me.”

“I think you can count on that,” replied Agatha with a smile, as she rose to rejoin Mrs. Hastings.