down; he struck up into the Bush and bought
the half-cleared ranch."

For the next minute or two Nasmyth gazed straight in front of him with
a very thoughtful face, for he had now a vague recollection of hearing
or reading of the affair in which his employer had played a
discreditable part. He had already decided that he was not in love
with Laura Waynefleet--in fact, it was perhaps significant that he had
done so more than once, but he had a warm regard for the girl who had
saved his life, and, after all, his ideas were not quite so liberal as
he fancied they had become in the Western forest. It was a trifle
disconcerting to discover that she was the daughter of a swindler.

"It hurts?" inquired Gordon dryly.

Nasmyth rose. "To be frank," he admitted, "it does. Still, though the
subject's a rather delicate one, I don't want you to misunderstand me.
After all, Miss Waynefleet is not in the least responsible for
anything her father may have done."

"That," said Gordon, "is a sure thing. Well, I must be hitting the
trail home. Aren't you going to try for some of those trout in the
pool?"

"No," answered Nasmyth, and his smile was a trifle grim; "I don't
think I am."

He watched Gordon stride away through the undergrowth, and then, in
the creeping dusk, went slowly back to the ranch. Waynefleet was out
when he reached it, but Laura was sitting sewing by the lamp, and she
looked at him sharply when he came in. He was unpleasantly conscious
that the light was on his face. Then the girl laid down her sewing and
turned fully towards him.

"I saw Mr. Gordon cross the clearing. He has told you why we are
living here?" she said.

"I think," said Nasmyth, with a slowness that was very expressive, "it
was not done out of unkindness."

"Oh, no," and Laura smiled in a rather curious fashion, "he had
probably quite another motive." Then she leaned forward a little,
looking at him steadily. "I knew that he would tell you."

Nasmyth stood still, with his forehead deeply furrowed, and an unusual
gravity in his eyes. The girl's courage and serenity appealed to him,
and he was conscious that his heart was beating rapidly. He said
nothing, for a moment or two, and afterwards remembered how still the
little room was, and how the sweet, resinous scent of the firs flowed
in through the open window. Then he made a vague gesture.

"There is, perhaps, a good deal one could say; but I fancy most of it
would savour of impertinence,"