with the ax, and, man,
he was the grand fighter--that is," he added, adopting the phrase of
the Macdonald gang, "when it was a plain necessity." Then, forgetting
himself, he began to tell Maimie how Big Mack had borne himself in
the great fight a few weeks before. But he had hardly well begun when
suddenly he stopped with a groan. "But now he is dead--he is dead. I
will never see him no more."

He was realizing for the first time his loss. Maimie came nearer him,
and laying her hand timidly on his arm, said, "I am sorry, Ranald";
and Ranald turned once more and looked at her, as if surprised that she
should show such feeling.

"Yes," he said, "I believe you are sorry."

Her big blue eyes filled suddenly with tears.

"Do you wonder that I am sorry? Do you think I have no heart at all?"
she burst forth, impetuously.

"Indeed, I don't know," said Ranald. "Why should you care? You do not
know him."

"But haven't you just told me how splendid he was, and how good he was
to you, and how much you thought of him, and--" Maimie checked her rush
of words with a sudden blush, and then hurried on to say, "Besides,
think of his mother, and all of them."

While Maimie was speaking, Ranald had been scanning her face as if
trying to make up his mind about her.

"I am glad you are sorry," he said, slowly, gazing with so searching a
look into her eyes that she let them fall.

At this moment Mrs. Murray entered ready for her ride.

"Is the pony come?" she asked.

"Indeed, it is the slouch I am," said Ranald, and he hurried off to the
stable, returning in a very short time with the pony saddled.

"You would not care to go with your uncle, Maimie?" said Mrs. Murray, as
Lambert drove up Black in the buggy.

"No, auntie, I think not," said Maimie. "I will take care of Hughie and
the baby."

"Good by, then, my dear," said Mrs. Murray, kissing her.

"Good by, Ranald," said Maimie, as he turned away to get his colt.

"Good by," he said, awkwardly. He felt like lifting his cap, but
hesitated to do anything so extremely unnatural. With the boys in that
country such an act of courtesy was regarded as a sign of "pride," if
not of weakness.

Their way lay along the concession line for a mile, and then through the
woods by the bridle-path to Peter McGregor's clearing. The green grass
ran everywhere--along the roadside, round the great stump roots, over
the rough pasture-fields, softening and smoothing wherever it went. The
woods