nk the last thing he did will count for a
little."

CHAPTER XXVI

WINSTON RIDES AWAY

The first of the snow was driving across the prairie before a bitter
wind, when Maud Barrington stood by a window of the Grange looking out
into the night. The double casements rattled, the curtains behind her
moved with the icy draughts, until, growing weary of watching the white
flakes whirl past, she drew them to and walked slowly towards a mirror.
Then a faint tinge of pink crept into her cheek, and a softness that
became her into her eyes. They, however, grew critical as she smoothed
back a tress of lustrous hair a trifle from her forehead, straightened
the laces at neck and wrist, and shook into more flowing lines the long
black dress. Maud Barrington was not unduly vain, but it was some time
before she seemed contented, and one would have surmised that she
desired to appear her best that night.

The result was beyond cavil in its artistic simplicity, for the girl,
knowing the significance that trifles have at times, had laid aside
every adornment that might hint at wealth, and the somber draperies
alone emphasized the polished whiteness of her face and neck. Still,
and she did not know whether she was pleased or otherwise at this, the
mirror had shown the stamp which revealed itself even in passive pose
and poise of head. It was her birthright, and would not be disguised.

Then she drew a low chair towards the stove, and once more the faint
color crept into her face as she took up a note. It was laconic, and
requested permission to call at the Grange, but Maud Barrington was not
deceived, and recognized the consideration each word had cost the man
who wrote it. Afterwards she glanced at her watch, raised it with a
little gesture of impatience to make sure it had not stopped, and sat
still, listening to the moaning of the wind, until the door opened and
Miss Barrington came in. She glanced at her niece, who felt that her
eyes had noticed each detail of her somewhat unusual dress, but said
nothing until the younger woman turned to her.

"They would scarcely come to-night, aunt," she said. Miss Barrington,
listening a moment, heard the wind that whirled the snow about the
lonely building, but smiled incredulously.

"I fancy you are wrong, and I wish my brother were here," she said.
"We could not refuse Mr. Winston permission to call, but whatever
passes between us will have more than its individual significan