u aiming at? You'll believe any
villainy of your old father, I suppose, just the same as you always used
to. I've not had your opportunities, George. I'm not a fine
gentleman--on the trail with a parcel of English swells. I'm a poor old
broken-down miner, who wants to hole-up somewhere, and get comfortable
for his old age; and if you had a heart in your body, you'd lend a
helping hand. When I saw you at Winnipeg"--the tone became a trifle
plaintive and slippery--"I ses to myself, George used to be a nice chap,
with a good heart. If there's anyone ought to help me it's my own son.
And so I boarded that train. But I'm a broken man, George, and you've
used me hard."

"Better not talk like that," interrupted Anderson in a clear, resolute
voice. "It won't do any good. Look here, father! Suppose you give up
this kind of life, and settle down. I'm ready to give you an allowance,
and look after you. Your health is bad. To speak the truth, this mine
business sounds to me pretty shady. Cut it all! I'll put you with decent
people, who'll look after you."

The eyes of the two men met; Anderson's insistently bright, McEwen's
wavering and frowning. The June sunshine came into the small room
through a striped and battered blind, illuminating the rough planks of
which it was built, the "cuts" from illustrated papers that were pinned
upon them, the scanty furniture, and the untidy bed. Anderson's head and
shoulders were in a full mellowed light; he held himself with an
unconscious energy, answering to a certain force of feeling within; a
proud strength and sincerity expressed itself through every detail of
attitude and gesture; yet perhaps the delicacy, or rather sensibility,
mingling with the pride, would have been no less evident to a seeing
eye. There was Highland blood in him, and a touch therefore of the
Celtic responsiveness, the Celtic magnetism. The old man opposite to him
in shadow, with his back to the light, had a crouching dangerous look.
It was as though he recognised something in his son for ever lost to
himself; and repulsed it, half enviously, half malignantly.

But he did not apparently resent Anderson's proposal. He said sulkily:
"Oh, I dessay you'd like to put me away. But I'm not doddering yet."

All the same he listened in silence to the plan that Anderson developed,
puffing the while at the pipe which he had made Mrs. Ginnell give him.

"I shan't stay on this side," he said, at last, decidedly. "There's a
thin