man, and the girl at his side. Bill had far
less place in them.

She was thinking, and wondering, and hoping, as, perhaps, only a mother
can hope. And so engrossed was she that she did not observe the
approach of Father Jose, who came from the Indian camp amongst the
straight-limbed pine woods. It was only when the little man spoke that
she bestirred herself.

"A swell pair, ma'am," he said, pausing beside the doorway, his keen
face smiling as his eyes followed the rapid gait of the girl striving
to keep pace with her companion's long strides.

"You mean the men?"

There was no self-consciousness in Ailsa Mowbray. The priest shook his
head.

"Jessie and Kars."

The woman's steady eyes regarded the priest for a moment.

"I--wonder what you're--guessing."

The priest's smile deepened.

"That you'd sooner it was he than--Murray McTavish."

The woman watched the departing figures as they passed out of view,
vanishing behind the cutting where the trees stopped short.

"Is it to be--either of them?"

"Sure." The man's reply came definitely. "But Murray hasn't a chance.
She'll marry Kars, or no one around this Mission."

The woman sighed.

"I promised Murray to--that his cause shouldn't suffer at my hands.
Murray's a straight man. His interests are ours. Maybe--it would be a
good thing."

"Then he asked you?"

The little priest's question came on the instant. And the glance
accompanying it was anxious.

"Yes."

For some moments no word passed between them. The woman was looking
back with regret at the time when Murray had appealed to her. Father
Jose was searching his heart to fortify his purpose.

Finally he shook his white head.

"Ma'am," he said seriously, "it's not good for older folks to seek to
fix these things for the young people who belong to them. Not even
mothers." Then his manner changed, and a sly, upward, smiling glance
was turned upon the woman's face above him. "I haven't a thing against
Murray. Nor have you. But I'd hate to see him marry Jessie. So would
you. I--I wonder why."

The mother's reply came at once. It came with that curious brusqueness
which so many women use when forced to a reluctant admission.

"That's so," she said. "I should hate it, too. I didn't want to say
it. I didn't want to admit it--even to myself. You've made me do
both, and--you've no right to. Murray was Allan's trusted friend and
partner. He's been our friend--my friend--right