he could
not face the sympathy of his workmen. He was still sitting there in a
state of utter physical weariness and black dejection, when, towards
the middle of the afternoon, the door was quietly opened, and Laura
Waynefleet came in. She looked at him as he remembered she had done
once or twice at the ranch, with compassion in her eyes, and he was a
little astonished to feel that, instead of bringing him consolation,
her pity hurt him. Then he felt the blood rise to his face, and he
looked away from her.

"You have heard already?" he asked.

"Yes," said the girl softly. "I was at the settlement, and they told
me there. I am so sorry."

Nasmyth winced, but he contrived to say, "Thank you," and then glanced
round the untidy shanty, which was strewn with dripping clothes. "Of
course," he added, "it is something to know that I have your sympathy;
but I must not keep you here."

It was not a tactful speech, but Laura smiled. "I meant to take you
out," she said. "You have been sitting here brooding since the dam
went, and from what Mattawa told me, you haven't had any dinner."

"No," said Nasmyth; "now I come to think of it, I don't believe I
have. I'm not sure it's very astonishing."

"Then we'll go away somewhere and make tea among the pines."

Nasmyth glanced suggestively at his attire. His duck jacket had shrunk
with constant wetting, and would not button across the old blue shirt,
which fell apart at his bronzed neck. The sleeves had also drawn up
from his wrists, and left the backs of his hands unduly prominent. His
hands were scarred, and the fingers were bruised where the hammer-head
had fallen on them in wet weather as it glanced from the drill. The
girl was immaculate in a white hat and a dress of light flowered
print.

"Do I look like going on a picnic with you?" he said. "The few other
things I possess are in much the same condition."

Laura had naturally noticed the state of his attire, but it was his
face that troubled her. It was haggard and his eyes were heavy. As she
had decided long before, it was a face of Grecian type, and she would
sooner have had it Roman. This man, she felt, was too sensitive, and
apt to yield to sudden impulses, and just then her heart ached over
him. Still, she contrived to laugh.

"Pshaw!" she said. "I told Mattawa to get me a few things ready."

Nasmyth followed her out of the shanty, and when he had picked up the
basket and kettle somebody had left at the door, she