riosity. It is never quite dark on those wide levels in
summertime, and, for there was no moon, the prairie stretched away before
them shadowy, silent, and mysterious. Now they passed a sheet of water,
gleaming wanly among thin willows; then they plunged into the deep gloom
of a poplar bluff; and later, lurching down a steep declivity, swept
through a shallow creek. The air was filled with the smell of dew-damped
soil and unknown aromatic scents, the loneliness was impressive, the
half-obscurity emphasized the strangeness of everything. Muriel felt as if
she had left all that was stereotyped and matter-of-fact far behind. It
was the unexpected and romantic that ought to happen in this virgin land.

Then, worn by several days' journey in the jolting cars, she grew drowsy.
The steady drumming of hoofs, the slapping of the traces, and the rattle
of wheels were strangely soothing. She fancied that once or twice when
they sped furiously down an incline, the driver held her fast, but she
did not resent the support of his arm: it was a steady, reassuring grasp.
At last, as they swung round a poplar bluff, she roused herself, for dim
black buildings loomed up ahead, and one which had lighted windows took
the shape of a small house. The team stopped, there were voices speaking
with a curious accent which reminded her of Norway, and the rancher
helped her down.

Afterward she followed her sister into a simply furnished, pine-boarded
room with a big stove at one end of it, where a middle-aged woman set
food and coffee before them. She spoke English haltingly, but her lined
face lighted up when Muriel thanked her in Norse. Then there followed a
flow of eager words, a few of which the girl caught, until the woman
broke off when their host came in. He was silent, for the most part,
during the meal, and shortly afterward Muriel was shown into a small room
where she went to sleep in a few minutes.

CHAPTER III

JERNYNGHAM MAKES A DECISION

Prescott's guests had spent a week at his homestead with content when
Colston and his wife sat talking one morning.

"I'm frankly puzzled," said Colston, opening his cigar case; "I can't
make Cyril out. He's frugal, remarkably industrious--I think the
description's warranted--and, from all that one can gather, as steady as
a rock. This, of course, is gratifying, but it's by no means what I
expected."

"He certainly doesn't fit in with the picture his sister Gertrude drew
me, though sh