nothing further, turned away. Then Grenfell looked
up with a smile.

"The major," he said, "has perhaps had sufficient fishing, or his
precipitation may be due to the fact that Mrs. Kinnaird is not in some
respects a friend of yours. I'm rather surprised that Miss Stirling,
who must have known it, mentioned the other little matter. Anyway, as
you may feel inclined to point out, that's not my business. The
question is what we're going to do now."

"Look again for that mine of yours," said Weston, quietly.

Grenfell made a little sign of comprehension.

"Well," he said, "we'll go. What's more, I know that one of us is
going to locate that quartz some day."

He spoke as with conviction, and then, lighting his pipe, slowly
strolled away; but Weston sat beside the sinking fire for another hour
or so. It was clear to him that he must find Grenfell's lost mine.

It was two days later when he next had any speech with Ida Stirling,
and then, though he did not know that Mrs. Kinnaird had done her
utmost to prevent it, they were crossing the lake alone in the
sailboat. The boat was running smoothly before a little favoring
breeze, and Ida sat at the tiller, looking out upon the shining water.
They had not spoken since they left the beach, but by and by she
turned toward Weston.

"I am glad it is so fine an evening since it's scarcely likely that I
shall have another sail," she said. "We have decided to leave early on
Monday."

Weston nodded. It was the first time she had mentioned their departure
to him, and he recognized that unless he were cautious it might prove
a dangerous subject.

"You are going to Montreal?" he inquired.

"In the first place. However, we are going to England in a week or
two."

Though he was on his guard, she saw him start, but he stooped and
coiled up one of the halyards before he answered her.

"You will, of course, be there some time?"

"Six months at least, perhaps longer."

She watched him quietly, but he sat very still with the rope in his
hand.

"Well," he said, "I think you will like it. You will be in London, I
suppose?"

Ida felt vaguely sorry for him. Though he had said it was scarcely
probable that he would go back to it, she knew that he had not
forgotten the land from which he was exiled. Indeed, a certain
wistfulness in his eyes suggested that he still thought of it with the
exile's usual tenderness. She was going to take her place in the world
to which she felt reason