nder's arms, and the rustle of the flung-out sheaves.

"My Bonny lies over the ocean,
My Bonny lies far over the sea."

Then he called to his horses, and it was a few moments before she heard
again--

"Bring back my Bonny to me."

A quiver ran through her as she leaned upon the window frame. There
was a certain pathos in the simple strain, and she could fancy that the
lad, who was clearly English, as an exile felt it, too. Once more as
the jaded horses and clashing machine grew smaller down the edge of the
great sweep of yellow grain, his voice came faintly up to her with its
haunting thrill of longing and regret--

"Bring back my Bonny to me."

This in her case was more than anyone could do, and as she stood
listening a tear splashed upon her closed hands. The man, by
comparison with whom Gregory appeared a mere lay figure, was in all
probability lying still far up in the solitudes of the frozen North,
with his last grim journey done. This time, however, he had not
carried her picture with him. Gregory was to blame for that, and it
was the one thing she could not forgive him.

She leaned against the window for another minute, struggling with an
almost uncontrollable longing, and looking out upon the sweep of golden
wheat and whitened grass with brimming eyes, until there was a rattle
of wheels, and she saw Edmonds drive away. In another minute she heard
voices in the corridor, and it became evident that Hastings was
speaking to his wife.

"I've got rid of the man, and it's reasonable to expect that Gregory
will keep clear of him after this," he said.

"Don't you mean that Agatha did it?"

It was Mrs. Hastings who asked the question, and Agatha became intent
as she heard her name. She did not, however, hear the answer, and Mrs.
Hastings spoke again.

"Allen," she said, "you don't keep a secret badly, though Harry pledged
you not to tell. Still, all that caution was a little unnecessary. It
was, of course, just the kind of thing he would do."

"What did he do?" Hastings asked, and Agatha heard his wife's soft
laugh, for they were just outside the door now.

"Left the Range, or most of it, to Agatha in case he didn't come back
again."

They went on, and Agatha, turning from the window, sat down limply with
the blood in her face and her heart beating horribly fast. Wyllard's
last care, it seemed, had been to provide for her, and that fact
brought her a curious sense of solace. In