There are
two things Carrington is proud of, one is this settlement, and the other
his heiress. He's not exactly an attractive personage, but there are
whispers that some painful incident in her mother's life soured him, and
one learns to respect him. His word is better than most other men's bond,
and if his will is like cast iron his very determination often saves
trouble in the end."

Silence succeeded, for bold chords of music held the assembly still, and I
saw Harry seated at the piano, which apparently had escaped serious damage
in its long transit across the prairie. This was a surprise, for I had
not suspected Harry of musical proficiency. There was power in his
fingers, hardened as they were, and when the ringing prelude to an English
ballad filled the room more than his partner felt that he could call up a
response to his own spirit from the soul of the instrument. The lad beside
him also sang well, perhaps because he was young and sentiment was strong
within him, but sturdy labor under the open heaven seems inimical to the
development of hypercritical cynicism, and the men who at home would
probably have applauded that song with an indulgent smile listened with
kindling eyes and then made the long room ring with their bravos. Here,
far away from the land that bred them, they were Britons still, and proud
of their birthright.

Then Grace Carrington sang, and I would have given years of my life for
Harry's skill, which seemed a bond between them as she smiled gratefully
upon him. The words were simple, as became the work of a master who loved
the open, and the music flowed with them like the ripple of a glancing
water; so a deeper silence settled upon all, and I was back in England
where a sparkling beck leaped out from the furze of Lingdale and sped in
flashing shallows under the yellow fern, while somewhere beyond the
singer's voice I could almost hear the alders talking to the breeze. When
it ceased the sound grew louder, but it was only a bitter blast that came
from the icy Pole moaning about the homestead of Lone Hollow.

Raymond Lyle stepped forward to express the wish of the rest, and Grace
bent her fair head to confer with Harry, who nodded gravely, after which
she stood still, while a stately prelude that was curiously familiar awoke
old memories. Then the words came, and from the lips of others they might
have seemed presumptuous or out of place, but Grace Carrington delivered
them as though they wer