quietly.

"Still," he said, "I seem to feel that I shall see you again some
day."

His voice was perfectly steady, but, though the light was fading fast,
Ida saw the glint in his eyes, and she answered conventionally.

"Of course," she said, "that would be a pleasure."

Then she spoiled it by a laugh when she saw the smile creep into her
companion's eyes; for it was clear to both of them that the formal
expression was in their case somewhat out of place. They realized that
there was more that might have been said; and it was a slight relief
when the shriek of a whistle came ringing down the track and a roar of
wheels grew louder among the shadowy pines. Then the great mountain
locomotive and the dusty cars came clanking into the station, stopped
a few moments, and rolled away again; and Weston was left with the
vision of a white-robed figure in a fluttering dress that leaned out
from a car platform looking back at the gleaming snow and then turned
a moment to wave a hand to him.

It was an hour later, and the big nickeled lamps were lighted, when
Arabella Kinnaird looked up at her companion as she sat in a lurching
car while the great train swept furiously down the Fraser gorge.

"Now," she exclaimed, "I remember! That packer has been puzzling me.
His face was familiar. The same thing struck the major, as you heard
him say."

"Well?" inquired Ida, a little too indifferently.

Her companion laughed.

"You overdo it. It would be wiser to admit that you are curious. The
major said he'd seen him somewhere, and so he has, in a way. You
remember his talking about the old North Country Hall he took for the
shooting? Well, the owners had left that young man's photograph among
some other odds and ends in what they probably called the library."

Ida had no doubt upon the matter, for she recalled the curious
intentness of Weston's face as he sat in the firelight listening to
Kinnaird's description of the house in question. Still, she was not
prepared to display her interest.

"Well?" she inquired again.

Arabella Kinnaird made a sign of impatience.

"Can't you see? They wouldn't have had his photograph unless he had
been a friend of the family or a relative. I wonder whether he told
you his real name?"

"He didn't."

"It doesn't matter," said Miss Kinnaird. "I feel tolerably sure it is
Weston, and that is the name of the people who own the place. You
don't appear to understand that the fact has its significanc