n
the early morning there was the live-stock to attend to, which took him
the more time because he was not in strong health; and when that was
done it seemed that there was much ado in the house before the old woman
would sit down peacefully for the day. He apologised to Trenholme for
his housework by explaining that she was restless and uneasy all day
unless the place was somewhat as she had been accustomed to see it; he
drudged to appease her, and when at last he could follow to the bush,
whither he had sent Trenholme, it transpired that he dared not leave her
more than an hour or two alone, for fear she should do herself a
mischief with the fire. In the bush it was obvious how pitifully small
was the amount of work accomplished. Many trees had been felled before
Cameron's death; but they still had to be lopped and squared, cut into
twelve-foot lengths, dragged by an ox to the log-slide, and passed down
on to the ice of the lake. Part of the work required two labourers; only
a small part of what could be done single-handed had been accomplished;
and Trenholme strongly suspected that moonlight nights had been given to
this, while the old woman slept.

It is well known that no line can be drawn between labour and play; it
is quite as much fun making an ox pull a log down a woodland path as
playing at polo, if one will only admit it, especially when novelty acts
as playmate. Most healthy men find this fascination hidden in labour,
provided it only be undertaken at their own bidding, although few have
the grace to find it when necessity compels to the task. Alec Trenholme
found the new form of labour to which he had bidden himself toilsome and
delightful; like a true son of Adam, he was more conscious of his toil
than of his delight--still both were there; there was physical
inspiration in the light of the snow, the keen still air, and the sweet
smell of the lumber. So he grew more expert, and the days went past,
hardly distinguished from one another, so entire was the unconsciousness
of the slumber between them.

He had not come without some sensation of romance in his
knight-errantry. Bates was the centre, the kernel as it were, of a wild
story that was not yet explained. Turrif had disbelieved the details
Saul had given of Bates's cruelty to Cameron's daughter, and Trenholme
had accepted Turrif's judgment; but in the popular judgment, if
Cameron's rising was not a sufficient proof of Bates's guilt, the
undoubted disa