aid Winston. "I could see no hope in the old
country, and came out to this one with one hundred pounds a distant
connection lent me. That sum will not go very far anywhere, as I found
when, after working for other men, I bought stock and took up
Government land. To hear how I tried to do three men's work for six
weary years, and at times went for months together half-fed, might not
interest you, though it has its bearing on what came after. The
seasons were against me, and I had not the dollars to tide me over the
time of drought and blizzard until a good one came. Still, though my
stock died, and I could scarcely haul in the little wheat the frost and
hail left me, with my worn-out team, I held on, feeling that I could
achieve prosperity if I once had the chances of other men."

He stopped a moment, and Macdonald poured out a glass of wine and
passed it across to him in a fashion that made the significance of what
he did evident.

"We know what kind of a struggle you made by what we have seen at
Silverdale," he said.

Winston put the glass aside, and turned once more to Colonel Barrington.

"Still," he said, "until Courthorne crossed my path, I had done no
wrong, and I was in dire need of the money that tempted me to take his
offer. He made a bargain with me that I should ride his horse and
personate him, that the police troopers might leave him unsuspected to
lead his comrades running whisky, while they followed me. I kept my
part of the bargain, and it cost me what I fancy I can never recover,
unless the trial I shall shortly face will take the stain from me.
While I passed for him your lawyer found me, and I had no choice
between being condemned as a criminal for what Courthorne had in the
meanwhile done, or continuing the deception. He had, as soon as I had
left him, taken my horse and garments, so that if seen by the police
they would charge me. I could not take your money, but, though
Courthorne was apparently drowned, I did wrong when I came to
Silverdale. For a time the opportunities dazzled me; ambition drew me
on, and I knew what I could do."

He stopped again, and once more there was a soft rustle of dresses, and
a murmur, as those who listened gave inarticulate expression to their
feelings. Moving a little, he looked steadily at Maud Barrington and
her aunt, who sat close together.

"Then," he said, very slowly, "it was borne in upon me that I could not
persist in deceiving you. Courthorn