her withered and died; she had grown up cold and colorless, with
narrow views, and petty, if quite blameless, aims. Prescott, however, was
wrong in crediting Jernyngham with too great a success. Gertrude's nature
had not been utterly repressed and stunted, and now, in time of stress,
it was expanding.

Romance had come late to her, but she was dimly conscious of it at last.
Her senses were stirring and she felt a half-guilty pleasure at seeing
the bronzed rancher's eyes bent on her tenderly. To think of him except
as her host for a few weeks was, of course, folly; but there was a
fascination in the gentleness he showed her. She was beginning to
understand and sympathize with Cyril's rash daring and contempt for
restraints. She felt tempted to follow her impulses; her frigid reserve
was melting.

"Will you have more tea?" she asked, shrinking back to safe ground.

"Thank you," he said, holding out the dainty cup.

"Hot water? It's rather strong."

"Before I had a housekeeper we made it black and drank it by the
kettleful."

"But the effect on your nerves!"

"Nerves?" he laughed. "We don't cultivate them in this country. Mine make
no trouble."

"You're to be envied," she said, and looked up sharply at a sound of
footsteps as her father came in.

His clothes were dusty and creased; the neatness which had characterized
him on his arrival had gone. His face had grown brown, but it was
haggard, hotly flushed, and beaded with perspiration; his lips were
tightly set, his eyes had an ominous glitter. Throwing down a riding
quirt he carried, he sat down; resting his arms on the table, in an
attitude of blank dejection.

"Nothing yet," he said listlessly. "It's hard to bear."

"There's a suggestion I want to make." Prescott spoke quietly. "The offer
of a reward here has led to nothing; send another round to the Alberta
and British Columbia papers, with a description of your son, saying
you'll pay a hundred dollars for trustworthy information about him. I
believe it will bring you good news."

Jernyngham turned to him in keen impatience.

"It would be useless--my son is dead! The police have proved that beyond
a doubt, and I cannot understand why you should persist in denying it!"
His eyes grew hard with sudden suspicion. "It looks as if you had some
motive."

"I'm afraid you're hardly just," Gertrude broke in. "Mr. Prescott only
wishes to lessen your anxiety, but he's convinced of what he says."

It was a rare