up and down the terrace of a house among the hills in the North
of England. His host was an old friend of the family who had shown
Festing some kindness when he was young, and his daughter, Muriel,
approved her father's guest. She liked the rather frank, brown-skinned,
athletic man, whom she had joined on the terrace. He was a new and
interesting type; but although she was two or three years the younger
and attractive, their growing friendship was free from possible
complications. Muriel, as Festing had learned, was going to marry the
curate.

After the roar of activity at the bridge, where the hammers rang all day
and often far into the night, he found his new surroundings strangely
pleasant. In Canada, he had lived in the wilds; on the vast bare plains,
and among snowy mountains where man grappled with Nature in her sternest
mood. Thundering snowslides swept away one's work, icy rocks must be cut
through, and savage green floods threatened the half-built track when
the glaciers began to melt. Every day had brought a fresh anxiety, and
now he welcomed the slackening of the strain. The struggle had left
its mark on him; one saw it in his lean, muscular symmetry, his quiet
alertness, and self-confidence. But he could relax, and found the
English countryside had a soothing charm.

The sun was low and rugged hills cut against the pale-saffron sky. The
valley between was filled with blue shadow, but in the foreground a
river twinkled in the fading light. Feathery larches grew close up to
the house, and a beck splashed in the gloom among their trunks. Farther
off, a dog barked, and there was a confused bleating of sheep, but this
seemed to emphasize the peaceful calm.

"It's wonderfully quiet," Festing remarked. "I can't get used to the
stillness; I feel as if I was dreaming and would wake up to hear the din
of the rivers and the ballast roaring off the gravel cars. However, I
have some business to do to-morrow that I'm not keen about. Can one see
Knott Scar from here?"

"It's the blue ridge, about six miles off. The dark patch on its slope
is a big beech wood."

"Then do you know the Daltons?"

"Oh, yes," said Muriel. "Helen Dalton is a friend of mine. Although the
Scar's some way off, I see her now and then. But are you going there?"

"I am; I wish it wasn't needful," Festing answered rather gloomily.

"Ah!" said Muriel, giving him a sharp glance. "Helen was to have married
a man in Canada, but the engagement was