ng as Ida was, she had a grip of essential things, and a dislike of
shams. It generally happened, too, that, when she felt strongly on any
subject, she sooner or later expressed her thoughts in forcible words;
and before that afternoon was over she and Arabella Kinnaird between
them disturbed the composure of more than one of Mrs. Kinnaird's
guests.

Tea was being laid out on a little table beneath the beech when Weston
strolled across the lawn. He was redder in face than when Ida had last
seen him, and a trifle heavier of expression. Pushing unceremoniously
past two of the women, he dropped into a basket-chair, which bent
under him, and glanced around at the others with coldly, assertive
eyes. Ida, watching him, became conscious of a sense of repulsion and
indignation. This arrogant, indulgent, useless man had, it seemed, not
the manners of a western ranch-hand. He accepted a cup of tea from
Mrs. Kinnaird with an ungraciousness which aroused Ida to downright
anger; and shortly afterward he contrived to spill a quantity of the
liquid upon Arabella's dress, for which he offered no excuses, though
he blamed the narrow-bottomed cup. Then some one, who of course could
not foresee the result, asked Arabella if she would show them some of
her Canadian sketches.

Miss Kinnaird made no objection, and when, soon after the tea was
cleared away, the easel she sent for had been set up in the shadow of
the beech, she displayed on it several small canvases and water-color
drawings. There were vistas of snow mountains, stretches of frothing
rivers, and colonnades of towering firs, until at last she laid a
canvas on the easel.

"This," she said, "is, I think, the best figure drawing I ever did."

Ida, leaning forward in her chair, felt the blood creep into her face.
There was no doubt that the sketch was striking. It showed a man
standing tensely poised, with a big, glinting ax in his hand. He was
lean and lithely muscular, and his face was brown and very grim; but
the artist had succeeded in fixing in its expression the elusive but
recognizable something which is born of restraint, clean living, and
arduous physical toil. It is to be seen in the eyes of those who,
living in Spartan simplicity, make long marches with the dog-sledges
in the Arctic frost, drive the logs down roaring rivers, or toil
sixteen hours daily under a blazing sun in the western harvest field.
In all probability it was as plainly stamped on the honest countena