alth, but only to those she has learned to trust. And my friend has
gained a full reward for his six months' work in that he has won this
woman's willing trust. When the flush called up by the greeting dies,
I see how pale she is, and I wonder how the winds and frosts and fierce
suns have left so little trace upon the face of a Manitoba farmer's
wife. I understand this later, but not now.

When she was a girl, her hair was thick and fair, but now it is white
and thin, and is drawn smoothly back and fastened in a decent little
knot behind. Her eyes, once bright and blue, are blue still, but
faded, for tears, salt and hot, have washed out the color. She wears a
flannel dress, simple and neat; and the collar at the neck and the
lace-edged kerchief at the breast and the tidy daintiness of all about
her make her a picture of one who had been in her youth "a weel
brocht-up lass."

Her house is her mirror. The newly plastered, log-built walls are
snow-white, the pine floor snow-white, and when the cloth is spread for
tea, it, too, is snow-white. Upon the wall hangs a row of graduated
pewter platter covers. How pathetically incongruous are they on the
walls of this Canadian log house! But they shine. The table and the
chairs shine. The spoons and knives and glasses and dishes shine,
glitter. The whole kitchen is spotless, from the white window blinds
to the white floor, and there is a glitter on every side, from the
pathetic pewter covers on the wall to the old silver teaspoons upon the
table.

Mr. McPhail comes in, a small man with a quiet, husky voice and a
self-respecting manner. His eye is clear and dark blue, and has a look
of intellect in it. When he speaks he has a way of looking straight
into you with a steady, thoughtful gaze. A man would find it equally
difficult to doubt or to deceive him. The pioneer life has bowed his
body and subdued his spirit, but the whole mass of his trials and the
full weight of his burdens have not broken his heart's courage, nor
soured its sweetness, nor dimmed his hope in God.

We are invited to tea with an air of apologetic cordiality. The food
is fit for princes--home-made bread white and flaky, butter yellow and
sweet, eggs just from the nest, and cream. There is cream enough for
your tea, for fruit, and to drink! Cake there is, too, and other
dainties; but not for me. No cake nor dainty can tempt me from this
bread and butter. Queen Victoria has not better this