uneasy about her of late, and noted with
apprehension the paleness of her cheeks and the absence of her cheery
songs.

"Connie," he kindly said, laying aside the book, "I'm afraid this life
is not agreeing with you."

"Why, father dear," she smilingly replied. "Do you think I look very
sick?"

"You look far from well, my child, and you need a decided change. This
is no place for a woman. You have no companion, no place to visit,
nothing but the same dreary routine from morning till night, week in
and week out. Then this commotion among the miners and your adventure
with that rascally Pritchen are telling upon you, I can see that."

"Yes, father, I am uneasy about the miners, I must admit. We saw them
with all those Indians this afternoon, but have heard nothing. Every
one seems to have forsaken us."

"Connie," and Mr. Radhurst's voice was low, "I think we had better
leave the North. It is no place for us. We are not accustomed to the
hardships, and I am too old. It was a great mistake I made, but the
fever ran in my veins, and my eyes were blinded. Now I see
differently, and think it best to go back."

Had Mr. Radhurst uttered these words several months before Constance
would have been filled with delight. But now they brought little joy
to her heart. She had changed much. Her old life, with all its
associations, was fading, and the North was gripping her hard, as it
does so many sooner or later who enter its portals. Chains had been
forged which were binding her to the land, chains of hardships, sorrow,
and, not the least, love. She had lost a dear and only brother here,
but she had gained much in compensation. Life had become more real
since Keith Steadman had crossed her path and infused into her heart
and mind the longing for higher and nobler things. She compared him
with many she had met in days gone by, and how superior he appeared.
They were living so much for self, with their little rounds of
business, pleasure and small talk. He was living for others, not a
common life, but one filled with thought and activity, an unconscious
hero in a stern, dreary field. Go back! back to what? That was the
question which surged through her mind, causing her long lashes to
droop, and her head to bend over her work, till the rich abundance of
her hair almost hid her face.

Her father, noticing her embarrassment, wondered. He felt there was
some reason for her bent head and unusual silence, but wi