f
the lonely but not unhappy childhood which it had sheltered.

Presently she reached the water, and her quick ear caught the sound
of a musk-rat slipping gently into the stream from the reeds on the
opposite bank; she could see the widening wake where he ploughed his
swift way across the pond. Then her own figure stood up before her,
graceful and lithe as the willows on the bank. She surveyed it a
minute, then flicked the flower at her face in the water, and turned
slowly homeward. She was not unhappy, but a dull sense of loss
oppressed her--a sense that the world was very rich and very
beautiful, and that she was feasting neither on its richness nor its
beauty. There was a stirring of music and poetry in her soul, but
neither music nor poetry found expression. What she felt was a
consciousness that great things were just beyond the horizon of her
experience, things undefined and undefinable which, could she but
grasp them, would deepen life and sweeten life and give a purpose to
all her being. And as she walked up the path and the fragrant night
air filled her nostrils, something of that wilder life seemed borne
in upon her and sent a fresh spring to her ankle. And presently she
discovered she was thinking about Jim Travers.

Her mother sat in the dining-room, knitting by the light of the
hanging lamp. Her face seemed very pale and lovely in the soft glow.

"Don't you think you have done enough?" said the girl, slipping into
a sitting posture on the floor by her mother's knee. "You work, work,
work, all the time. I suppose they'll have to let you work in
heaven."

"We value our work more as we grow older," said the mother..."It
helps to keep us from thinking."

"There you go!" exclaimed the girl; but there was a tenderness in her
voice. "Worrying again. I wish they'd stay home for a change."

The mother plied her needles in silence. "Slip away to bed, Beulah,"
she said at length. "I will wait up for a while."

Late in the night the girl heard heavy footsteps in the kitchen and
bursts of loud but indistinct talking.

CHAPTER VII

THE CALL OF THE FARTHER WEST

Notwithstanding Harris's late hours the household was early astir the
following morning. At five o'clock Jim was at work in the stables,
feeding, rubbing down, and harnessing his horses, while Allan and his
father walked to the engine, where they built a fresh fire and made
some minor repairs. Even at this early hour the sun shone brightly,