ted to be forced to change his
plans. His impatience showed itself in snappy commands and inquiries to
his Indian guides, who, however, merely grunted replies. They knew their
job and did it without command or advice, and with complete indifference
to anything the white man might have to say. To Paula the only change in
his manner was an excess of politeness.

Her father, however, met her with remonstrances.

"Why, Paula, my dear, you have kept us waiting."

"What's the rush, pater?" she enquired, coolly.

"Why, my dear, we are already behind our schedule, and you know Cornwall
hates that," he said in a low voice.

"Cornwall!" said Paula, in a loud voice of unmistakable ill temper.
"Does Cornwall run this outfit?"

"My dear Paula!" again remonstrated her father.

She turned to him impatiently, with an angry word at her lips, caught
upon Barry's face a look of surprise, paused midway in her passion, then
moved slowly toward him.

"Well," she asked, in an even, cold voice, "what do you think about it?
And anyway," she dropped her voice so that none heard but himself, "why
should you halt me? Who are you, to give me pause this way?"

"Only a missionary," he answered, in an equally low tone, but with a
smile gentle, almost wistful on his face.

As with a flash the wrathful cloud vanished.

"A missionary," she replied softly. "God knows I need one."

"You do," he said emphatically, and still he smiled.

"Come, Paula," called Cornwall Brand. "We are all waiting."

Her face hardened at his words.

"Good-bye," she said to Barry. "I am coming back again to--to your
wonderful Canada."

"Of course you are," said Barry, heartily. "They all do."

He went with her to the canoe, steadied her as she took her place, and
stood watching till the bend in the river shut them from view.

"Nice people," said his father. "Very fine, jolly girl."

"Yes, isn't she?" replied his son.

"Handsome, too," said his father, glancing keenly at him.

"Is she? Yes, I think so. Yes, indeed, very," he added, as if pondering
the matter. "When do we move, dad?"

A look of relief crossed the father's face.

"This afternoon, I think. We have only a few days now. We shall run up
Buffalo Creek into the Foothills for some trout. It will be a little
stiff, but you are fit enough now, aren't you, Barry?" His voice was
tinged with anxiety.

"Fit for anything, dad, thanks to you."

"Not to me, Barry. To yourself largely."

"No," said t