ded in
Montreal, helpless and alone, while the man was sent back again to
starve in Poland?"

He saw a curious gleam in Agatha's eyes, and added in a deprecating
manner, "You see, I've now and then limped without a dollar into a
British Columbian mining town."

The girl was touched with compassion, but there was another matter that
must be mentioned, though she felt that the time was inopportune.

"Miss Rawlinson, who had only a second-class ticket, insists upon being
told how it is that she has been transferred to the saloon."

Wyllard's eyes twinkled, but she noticed that he was wholly free from
embarrassment, which was not quite the case with her.

"Well," he said, "that's a matter I must leave you to handle. Anyway,
she can't go second-class now. One or two of the steerage exchanged when
they saw their quarters, for which I don't blame them, and they have
filled up every room."

"You haven't answered the question."

Wyllard waved his hand. "Miss Rawlinson is your bridesmaid, and I'm
Gregory's best man. It seems to me it's my business to do everything
just as he would like it done."

He left her a moment later, and, though she did not know how she was to
explain the matter to Miss Rawlinson, who was of an independent nature,
it occurred to her that he, at least, had found a rather graceful way
out of the difficulty. The more she saw of this Western farmer, the more
she liked him.

It was after dinner when she next met him and the wind had changed. The
_Scarrowmania_ was steaming head-on into a glorious northwest breeze.
The shrouds sang; chain-guy, and stanchion, and whatever caught the
wind, set up a deep-toned throbbing; and ahead ranks of little,
white-topped seas rolled out of the night. A half-moon, blurred now and
then by wisps of flying cloud, hung low above them, and odd spouts of
spray that gleamed in the silvery light leaped up about the dipping
bows. Wyllard was leaning on the rail when Agatha stopped beside him.
She glanced towards the lighted windows of the smoking-room not far
away.

"How is it you are not in there?" she asked, noticing that he held a
cigar in his hand.

"I was," answered Wyllard. "It's rather full, and it seemed that they
didn't want me. They're busy playing cards, and the stakes are rather
high. In a general way, a steamboat's smoking-room is less of a men's
lounge than a gambling club."

"And you object to cards?"

"Oh, no!" Wyllard replied with a smile. "They merel