o the remoter bush, the reason why he had
abandoned his prospecting trip after spending a week or two taking care
of the sick lad was clear enough.

"You never learned his name?" Hawtrey asked.

"I didn't," answered Wyllard. "I went back to the mine, but several
things suggested that the name upon the pay-roll wasn't his real one. He
began a broken message the night he died, but the hemorrhage cut him off
in the middle of it. The wish that I should tell his people somehow was
in his eyes."

Wyllard broke off for a moment with the deprecatory gesture, which in
connection with the story was very expressive.

"I have never done it, but how could I? All I know is that he was a
delicately brought up young Englishman, and the only clew I have is a
watch with a London maker's name on it and a girl's photograph. I've a
very curious notion that I shall meet that girl some day."

Hawtrey, who made no comment, lay still for a minute or two, but his
face suggested that he was considering something.

"Harry," he said presently, "I shall not be fit for a journey for quite
a while yet, and if I went over to England I couldn't get the plowing
done and the crop in; which, if I'm going to be married, is absolutely
necessary."

There was no doubt about the truth of the statement, for the small
Western farmer has very seldom a balance in hand, and for that matter,
is not infrequently in debt to the nearest storekeeper. He must, as a
rule, secure a harvest or abandon his holding, since as soon as the crop
is thrashed the bills pour in. Wyllard made a sign of assent.

"Well," Hawtrey went on, "if you're going to England you could go as my
deputy. You could make Agatha understand what things are like here, and
bring her out to me. I'll arrange for the wedding to be soon as she
arrives."

Wyllard was not a conventional person, but he pointed out several
objections. Hawtrey overruled them, however, and eventually Wyllard
reluctantly assented.

"As it happens, Mrs. Hastings is going over, too, and if she comes back
about the same time the thing might be managed," he said. "I believe
she's in Winnipeg just now, but I'll write to her. By the way, have you
a photograph of Agatha?"

"I haven't," Hawtrey answered. "She gave me one, but somehow it got
mislaid on house-cleaning. That's rather an admission, isn't it?"

It occurred to Wyllard that it certainly was. In fact, it struck him as
a very curious thing that Hawtrey should have los