from the point," said Ida, laughing. "I meant to
England."

Weston leaned forward a little, looking at her with a curious
expression in his eyes.

"For three or four months in the year England is the most beautiful
country in the world," he said. "We haven't your great pines and
foaming rivers, but, even in the land from which I come in the rugged
north, every valley is a garden. It's all so smooth and green and well
cared for. One could fancy that somebody loved every inch of it--once
you get outside the towns. I said the dales were gardens--in summer
they're more like Paradise."

It was evident that the exile's longing for the old land was awake
within him, and Ida nodded sympathetically.

"Won't you go on?" she begged.

"Ah!" said Weston. "If I could make you see them--the wonderful green
of the larch woods, the bronze of the opening oaks, and the smooth
velvet pastures between the little river and the gleaming limestone at
the foot of the towering fell! All is trimmed and clipped and cared
for, down to the level hedgerows and the sod on the roadside banks,
and every here and there white hamlets, with little old-world
churches, nestle among-the trees. You see, it has grown ripe and
mellow, while your settlements are crude and new."

The girl sat silent a brief space. She had read of the old country,
and seen pictures of it, and it seemed to her that his term, a garden,
described parts, at least, of it rather efficiently.

Then, though he had already assured her that he meant to stay in the
bush, she wondered whether he never longed to gather a flower of that
trim garden. In fact, it suddenly became a question of some moment to
her.

"You will go back to it some day?"

"No," said Weston, with a little wry smile; "I don't think so. After
all, why should I?"

Ida was sensible of a certain satisfaction, but she desired to make
more sure.

"There must be somebody you would wish to see, or somebody who would
care to see you?"

"Ah," said Weston, "the failures are soon forgotten over yonder.
Perhaps it's fortunate that it happens so."

A shadow crept into his face.

"No," he added, "unless it is as a successful man, it is scarcely
likely that I shall go back again."

Ida glanced at him covertly, with thoughtful eyes. Though his attire
was neater than it had been when she had seen him on other occasions,
he still wore the bush packer's usual dress. There was, however, a
subtle grace in his manner, and,