dly
running out. One can, in case of stern necessity, put one's pride in
one's pocket, though the operation is occasionally painful, but one
cannot dispense with food and shelter, and the latter are not, as a
rule, to be obtained in a Canadian city except in exchange for money.
Weston, who had had no lunch that day, took out the little roll of
bills still left in his wallet, and, when he had flicked them over, it
became unpleasantly clear that he could not prosecute the campaign
more than a very few days longer. Then he took out his pipe, and,
filling it carefully, broke off a sulphur match from the block in his
pocket. He felt that this was an extravagance, but he was in need just
then of consolation. He had wandered up on the mountain, past the
reservoir and the M'Gill University, after a singularly discouraging
afternoon, to wait until supper should be ready at his boarding-house.

One or two groups of loungers, young men and daintily dressed women,
strolled by; and then he started suddenly at the sound of a voice that
sent a thrill through him. He would have recognized it and the laugh
that followed it, anywhere. He sprang to his feet as a group of three
people came out from a winding path among the trees. For a moment or
two a wholly absurd and illogical impulse almost impelled him to bolt.
He knew it was quite unreasonable, especially as he had thought of the
girl every day since he had last seen her; but he remembered that she
was a rich man's daughter and he a wandering packer of no account,
with an apparently unrealizable project in his mind, and in his pocket
no more money than would last a week. While he hesitated, she saw him.
He stood perfectly still, perhaps a little straighter than was
absolutely necessary, and not looking directly toward her. If she
preferred to go by without noticing him, he meant to afford her the
opportunity.

She turned toward her father and said something that Weston could not
hear, but he felt his heart beat almost unpleasantly fast when, a
moment later, she moved on quietly straight toward him. She looked
what she was, a lady of station, and her companion's attire suggested
the same thing, while, though Weston now wore city clothes, he was
morbidly afraid that the stamp of defeat and failure was upon him.
Much as he had longed for her it would almost have been a relief to
him if she had passed. Ida, however, did nothing of the kind. She
stopped and held out her hand while she lo