ted to write to her, for
short as their intercourse had been, her emotional nature had
manifested itself so warmly and their talk had been so completely out
of the ordinary, that higher things than convention must always govern
their friendship. His conscientious side held itself responsible for a
slightly superfluous act of sudden interest and attachment, and the
mentor's tone in which he pleaded with her, to ask herself whether the
theatre must be her goal, would have deceived anybody unaccustomed to
cold analysis of motives. He gave her, in short, good advice in the
guise of kindly sentiments, ending by avowing himself her "friend in
Christ" and protesting that her true welfare and happiness would always
be of interest to him.

The letter written, he leant back, resolving not to send it by post but
by some ignorant, unsuspicious hand (therein was the new-found subtlety
and shyness of the true lover), and the change in attitude confused the
watchers outside who guiltily resumed their smoking and conversation.
And the strange, silent woman at the window, supposing Ringfield to be
in want of something--paper, stamp or ink--rose and stood by his side.
Thus she saw two envelopes addressed and ready for the mail, and a
third as yet innocent of any inscription. That she could read English
he doubted, yet he felt an objection to letting her look over his
shoulder. He rose, and going to the office, where Poussette hastily
preceded him, gave in the two letters for Ontario, and then informed
him of his decision.

The Frenchman's disappointment was genuine and comic, partaking of
tragedy and despair. Desnoyers was called in; also the guests and the
two guides, with servants forming a picturesque and interested
background, so that Ringfield suddenly found himself the centre of an
admiring, friendly, but inclining-to-be quarrelsome crowd. Nothing
occurred, however, to alter his decision, and, true to his idea of
duty, he set off two mornings later, having committed the letter for
Miss Clairville to the man called Crabbe, a slouching sort of
Englishman who occasionally served as guide, ran a small open-air
general store, and about whom there seemed to be some mystery, his
accent and grammar being out of the common.

Forty-eight hours after, Ringfield arrived at his destination, and
walking up from the train to the house of Mr. Beddoe, the gentleman who
had written to him, was shown into a small parlour to wait a few
minut