, soothed by her sweetness, her restrained
emotion, and after a little he talked with freedom, gradually recovering
his normal steadiness and clearness of mind.

At the same time she perceived some great change in him. The hidden
spring of melancholy in his nature, which, amid all his practical
energies and activities, she had always discerned, seemed to have
overleaped its barriers, and to be invading the landmarks of character.

At the end of his narrative he said something in a hurried, low voice
which gave her a clue.

"I did what I could to help him--but my father hated me. He died hating
me. Nothing I could do altered him. Had he reason? When my brother and I
in our anger thought we were avenging our mother's death, were we in
truth destroying him also--driving him into wickedness beyond hope? Were
we--was I--for I was the eldest--responsible? Does his death, moral and
physical, lie at my door?"

He raised his eyes to her--his tired appealing eyes--and Elizabeth
realised sharply how deep a hold such questionings take on such a man.
She tried to argue with and comfort him--and he seemed to absorb, to
listen--but in the middle of it, he said abruptly, as though to change
the subject:

"And I confess the publicity has hit me hard. It may be cowardly, but I
can't face it for a while. I think I told you I owned some land in
Saskatchewan. I shall go and settle down on it at once."

"And give up your appointment--your public life?" she cried in dismay.

He smiled at her faintly, as though trying to console her.

"Yes; I shan't be missed, and I shall do better by myself. I understand
the wheat and the land. They are friends that don't fail one."

Elizabeth flushed.

"Mr. Anderson!--you mustn't give up your work. Canada asks it of you."

"I shall only be changing my work. A man can do nothing better for
Canada than break up land."

"You can do that--and other things besides. Please--please--do nothing
rash!"

She bent over to him, her brown eyes full of entreaty, her hand laid
gently, timidly on his.

He could not bear to distress her--but he must.

"I sent in my resignation yesterday to the Prime Minister."

The delicate face beside him clouded.

"He won't accept it."

Anderson shook his head. "I think he must."

Elizabeth looked at him in despair.

"Oh! no. You oughtn't to do this--indeed, indeed you oughtn't. It is
cowardly--forgive me!--unworthy of you. Oh! can't you see how the
sympathy of ev