Harding of Allenwood

CHAPTER XIV
A BOLD SCHEME

"Then I'm glad there isn't," Devine replied; "I want some sleep. But this jolting's surely rough on the machine. I wasn't sure that new locomotive type would work. She's too heavy to bang across the furrows with her boiler on board."

"She'll last until I get my money back, which is all I want. The rope-haulage pattern has its drawbacks, but the machine we're using won't be on the market long. They'll do away with furnace and boiler, and drive by gasoline or oil. I'd thought of trying that, but they haven't got the engine quite right yet."

"You look ahead," Devine commented.

"I have to; I must make this farm pay. Now if you'll clear the harrows, I'll tighten these brasses up."

He set to work, but while he adjusted the loose bearing Devine announced in a whisper:

"Here's the Colonel!"

Harding saw Mowbray riding toward them, and went on with his task. Beatrice had no doubt told her mother about his proposal, and he could imagine the Colonel's anger if he had heard of it. Pulling up his horse near the harrows, Mowbray sat silent, watching Harding. Fastidiously neat in dress, with long riding gloves and a spotless gray hat, he formed a marked contrast to the big, greasy man sprinkled with soot from the engine.

"I regret, Mr. Harding, that after the service you did my son, I should come with a complaint when I visit you."

"We'll let the service go; I'll answer the complaint as far as I can."

"Very well. I was disagreeably surprised to learn that you have persuaded my friends to take a course which the majority of our council decided against, and to which it is well known that I object."

Harding felt relieved. Mowbray did not seem to know of what he had said to Beatrice, and his grievance did not require very delicate handling. Harding was too proud to conciliate him, and as he could expect nothing but uncompromising opposition, he saw no necessity for forbearance.

"The majority was one, a casting vote," he said. "If you are referring to my plowing for some of your people, I did not persuade them. They saw the advantage of mechanical traction and asked me to bring the engine over."

"The explanation doesn't take us far. It's obvious that they couldn't have experimented without your help."

"I hardly think that's so. There are dealers in Winnipeg and Toronto who would be glad to sell them the machines. If three or four combined, they could keep an engine busy and the cost wouldn't be prohibitive."

"Our people are not mechanics," Mowbray said haughtily.

"I'm not sure that's a matter for congratulation," Harding answered with a smile. "But I never drove a steam-plow until a few weeks ago, and there seems to be no reason why your friends shouldn't learn. You don't claim that they're less intelligent than I am."

"Your talents run in this direction," Mowbray retorted with a polished sneer.

"In a way, that's fortunate. When you're farming for a profit, you want to be able to do a little of everything. Some of the Allenwood boys are pretty good horse-breakers, and you approve; why managing an engine should be objectionable isn't very plain."

"It is not my intention to argue these matters with you."

"Then what is it you want me to do?"

"To be content with using these machines on your own land. I must ask you to leave Allenwood alone."

"I'm afraid you ask too much," Harding replied. "I can't break off the arrangements now without a loss to your friends and myself, and I see no reason why I should do so."

"Do you consider it gentlemanly conduct to prompt men who acknowledge me as their leader to thwart my wishes?"

"Hardly so. Where you have a clear right to forbid anything that might be hurtful to the settlement, I'd be sorry to interfere."

Mowbray's eyes glinted.

"Do you presume to judge between my people and me?"

"Oh, no," Harding answered with good humor. "That's not my business; but I reserve the right to do what's likely to pay me, and to make friends with whom I please, whether they belong to Allenwood or not."

Mowbray was silent a moment, looking down at him with a frown.

"Then there's nothing more to be said. Your only standard seems to be what is profitable."

Mowbray rode away, and Devine laughed.

"Guess the Colonel isn't used to back talk, Craig. If he wasn't quite so high-toned, he'd go home and throw things about. What he wants is somebody to stand right up to him. You'll have him plumb up against you right along; where you look at a thing one way, he looks at it another. It's clean impossible that you should agree."

"I'm afraid that's so," said Harding. "And now we'll make a start again."

The ribbed wheels bit the clods, and the engine lurched clumsily across the furrows, with the harrows clattering as they tore through the tangled grass roots and scattered the dry soil. Harding was violently shaken, and Devine half smothered by the dust that followed them across the breaking. It was not a dainty task, and the machine was far from picturesque, but they were doing better work than the finest horses at Allenwood were capable of. The sun grew steadily hotter, the lower half of Harding's body was scorched by the furnace, and the perspiration dripped from his forehead upon his greasy overalls, but he held on until noon, with the steam gradually going down. The boiler was of the water-tube type and the water about Allenwood was alkaline.

"She must hold up until supper, and I'll try to wash her out afterward," he said.

"You were at it half last night," Devine objected.

"That's the penalty for using new tools. They have their tricks, and you've got to learn them. I don't find you get much without taking trouble."

"I believe you're fond of trouble," Devine answered, laughing.

They went home together, for Devine often dined with the Hardings. They had just finished the meal of salt pork and fried potatoes when there was a rattle of wheels. Hester was putting the dessert—hot cakes soaked in molasses—and coffee on the table, but she went to the door.

"A stranger in a buggy!" she announced.

Harding was surprised to see the Winnipeg land-agent getting down, but he greeted him hospitably.

"Come in and have some dinner," he invited.

Davies entered and bowed to Hester.

"No, thanks. As I didn't know where I'd be at noon, I brought some lunch along. But if it won't trouble Miss Harding, I'll take some coffee."

He sat down and the men lighted their pipes; and Hester studied the newcomer as she removed the plates. He was smartly dressed and had an alert look, but while there was nothing particular in his appearance that she could object to, she was not prepossessed in his favor. Davies had already noticed that the room was of a type common to the prairie homesteads. Its uncovered floor was, perhaps, cleaner than usual when plowing was going on, and the square stove was brightly polished, but the room contained no furniture that was not strictly needed. There was nothing that suggested luxury; and comfort did not seem to be much studied. On the other hand, he had noticed outside signs of bold enterprise and a prosperity he had not expected to find. Davies was a judge of such matters, and he saw that his host was a man of practical ability.

"What brought you into our neighborhood?" Harding asked.

Davies smiled.

"I'm always looking for business, and I find it pays to keep an eye on my customers. Some of them have a trick of lighting out when things go wrong, and leaving a few rusty implements to settle their debts. Financing small farmers isn't always profitable."

"They can't take their land away," Devine said. "I guess you don't often lose much in the end."

"Land!" exclaimed Davies. "I've money locked up in holdings I can't sell, and have to pay big taxes on."

"You'll sell them all right by and by, but of course you know that," Harding replied. He gave the land-agent a shrewd look. "You have a call or two to make at Allenwood, and would rather get there in the afternoon?"

"True! The boys might find it embarrassing if I showed up just now. They're willing to do business with me, and when they're in Winnipeg they'll take a cigar or play a game of pool; but asking me to lunch is a different matter." He continued smiling, but Hester, who was watching him closely, thought there was something sinister in his amusement as he added: "They stick to the notions they brought from the Old Country, and I don't know that they'll find them pay."

"I shouldn't imagine all the business you'd get at Allenwood would have made a trip from Winnipeg worth while," Harding said.

"That's so," Davies agreed, as if eager to explain. "I'd a call in Brandon, and wanted to look up some customers in the outlying settlements. When I got so far, I thought I'd come on and see how this country's opening up. I notice the boys are doing pretty well."

"You don't mean at Allenwood? You haven't been there yet."

"No; this is my first trip, and I expect it will be my last. Is there much doing yonder?"

"The land's all right. They hauled out some fine wheat last fall. Stock's better than the usual run, and they've the finest light horses I've seen."

"That's more in their line than farming," Davies replied. "You wouldn't call raising horses a business proposition just now?"

Hester thought the men were fencing, trying to learn something about each other's real opinions. Craig looked careless, but Hester was not deceived. She knew him well, and saw that he was thinking.

"Prices are certainly low; but it strikes me you had better keep out of Colonel Mowbray's way," Harding said. "If he suspected that any of the boys had dealings with you, he'd make trouble, and probably insist upon paying you off."

Davies looked hard at him. He was not prepared to admit that he had lent money at Allenwood, but he could not tell how much Harding knew.

"One seldom objects to being paid a debt. Has the Colonel much money to spare?"

"I don't know; I can't claim to be a friend of his."

"Well, it doesn't matter, as I've nothing to do with him. Now that I'm here, I'll say that I'd be glad to accommodate you and your partner if you want to extend your operations or hold on for better prices at any time. You're putting in a big crop."

"Thanks; I don't think we'll make a deal," Devine drawled. "We don't farm for the benefit of another man. When I haul my wheat to the elevators I want the money myself, and not to turn it over to somebody else, who'll leave me a few pennies to go on with."

Davies took his leave soon afterward, and Devine and Harding went back to the plow. They had some trouble in keeping steam, and after a little the heavy engine sank into the soft soil as they crossed a hollow where the melting snow had run. The ribbed wheels went in deeper as they crushed down the boggy mold, and ground up the fence posts the men thrust under them. Before long they were embedded to the axle, and Harding turned off the steam.

"Bring the wagon and drop me off a spade as you pass," he said. "I'll dig her out while you drive to the bluff and cut the biggest poplar logs you can find."

When Devine hurried away he sat down and lighted his pipe. Until he got the spade there was nothing to be done and much to think about. To begin with, Davies' visit had turned his attention upon a matter that had already occupied his thoughts, and proved it worth consideration. The Allenwood homesteads were the best in the country, the settlement was fortunately located, and its inhabitants were people of intelligence. Their progress had been retarded by customs and opinions out of place on the prairie, but they might go a long way if these were abandoned. They were farming on the wrong lines, and wasting effort, but Harding did not think this would continue. Already some among them were pressing for a change. Harding was ready to work his big farm alone, but he looked to Allenwood for help that would benefit all.

The matter, however, had a more important side. Although Beatrice had refused him he did not despair; she had shown that she did not regard him with complete indifference. It was not his personal character, but his position and her father's hostility that stood in the way, and these were obstacles that might be overcome. He could expect nothing but the Colonel's stern opposition, and he must carefully arm himself for the fight; he did not undervalue the power of his antagonist.

Devine returned and threw him down a spade, and for the next hour Harding worked steadily, digging a trench to the buried wheels and beating its bottom flat. When his comrade came back they lined it with the logs he brought, and Harding started the engine. The machine shook and rattled, straining and panting under a full head of steam, but the wheels churned furiously in the soil and smashed the ends of the logs they bit upon. One big piece shot out of the trench and narrowly missed Devine, who fell among the harrows when he jumped. Harding stopped the engine as his friend got up.

"This won't do," he said. "We'll cut a log into short billets."

They packed some, split into sections, under the wheels, and Harding restarted the engine.

"Now," he said, "you can shove the rest in as she grinds them down."

The wheels spun, splintering the timber, rising a few inches and sinking again, while the big machine shook and tilted in danger of falling over. Harding, standing on the slippery plates, opened the throttle wide, and after a while the front rose to a threatening height while the logs groaned and cracked.

"Stand clear!" he cried. "She's climbing out!"

The engine straightened itself with a dangerous lurch, rolled forward, gathering speed, and ran out on to firmer ground. They had no further trouble, and when dusk settled down and the air grew sharp, Harding drew the fire and blew the water out of the boiler.

"After all, we have done pretty good work to-day," he said. "I'll come back and tend to those tubes as soon as she cools."

They went home together, and after supper was finished, they sat smoking and talking in the kitchen. It was now sharply cold outside, but the small room was warm and cheerful with the nickeled lamp lighted and a fire in the polished stove.

"The mortgage man was trying to play you," Devine remarked. "He certainly didn't learn much. Do you reckon he has been lending money to the Allenwood boys?"

"I think it's very likely."

"Then, with their way of farming and wheat going down, they won't be able to pay him off."

"No; and he doesn't want them to pay him off," Harding answered.

"You mean he wants their farms?"

"Yes; he'll probably get them, unless somebody interferes."

"Ah!" exclaimed Devine. "Who's going to interfere? ... Now you have been thinking of something all afternoon."

Harding smiled.

"It's possible I may see what I can do," he admitted.

"You're a daisy!" Devine exclaimed. "It wouldn't surprise me if you thought of buying up the Canadian Pacific. All the same, I don't see where you're going to get the money. What do you think, Hester?"

Hester laid down her sewing.

"Isn't it too big a thing, Craig? You have a great deal of land now, and even if you get a good harvest, you'd hardly have money enough to sow another crop and leave enough to carry you over a bad season."

Harding quietly lighted his pipe, and there was silence for a few minutes. His sister and her fiancé knew him well and had confidence in his ability; he had so far made good, but the boldness of this last scheme daunted them.

"Farming has two sides," he said presently. "You want to raise the best and biggest crop you can; and then you want to handle your money well. That's where many good farmers fail. Bank your surplus and you get market interest, but nothing for your knowledge and experience. The money ought to be put into new teams and the latest machines, and after that into breaking new land. If you make a profit on two hundred acres, you'll increase it by a third when you break a hundred acres more, not to mention what you save by working on a larger scale. Well, I see what could be done with a united Allenwood where every man worked jointly with the rest, but the settlement needs a head."

"It has one. Colonel Mowbray is not likely to give up his place," Hester answered.

"He may not be able to keep it. There's another claimant—this fellow Davies, and he's not a fool. I can't tell you yet whether I'll make a third. It wants thinking over."

The others did not reply. They agreed that the matter demanded careful thought. After a short silence, Hester changed the subject.

"I saw Mrs. Broadwood to-day, and she told me that Miss Mowbray had gone East for the summer. As she had spoken about staying at Allenwood all the year, Mrs. Broadwood was surprised."

Harding betrayed his interest by an abrupt movement, yet he made no answer. On the whole the news was encouraging. He would miss Beatrice, but, on the other hand, it looked as if she had gone away to avoid him, and she would not have done so had she been unmoved by what he said to her. He regretted that he had driven her away; of course he might be mistaken, but there was hope in the suspicion he entertained.

"Well," he said, after a minute or two, "I'll go along and fix that boiler."

CHAPTER XV
HARVEST HOME

Harding found full scope for his energies. He worked late and early in the fierce July heat. He had bought heavy horses because he could not reap by steam, and he had to build barns and stables of ship-lap lumber. Then there was prairie hay to cut, and after stripping the nearer hollows he must drive far across the plain to seek grass long enough in the sloos where the melted snow had run in the spring. This brought him into collision with Mowbray, who came upon him one morning driving a mower through dusty grass which the Colonel had marked down for his own. Perhaps what annoyed the old man most was to see the American using an extra horse and a knife that would cut a wider swath than any at Allenwood. He thought this a sign of the grasping spirit of the times.

Mowbray contended that the grass was his, because it had long been cut for use at the Grange; and Harding replied that, as the land was unoccupied, neither had any prescriptive right and the hay could be harvested by the firstcomer. When the Colonel grew angry, Harding yielded the point and suggested that the sloos be mown turn about. To this Mowbray agreed reluctantly, because he saw he could not keep in front of a rival who had with perverse unfairness provided himself with better implements.

After the hay was gathered Harding's new buildings had to be roofed, and when the house grew insufferably hot Hester baked and cooked and washed in a lean-to shed.

In the meanwhile, the grain was ripening fast, and when the riotous Northwest wind began to die away the oats turned lemon and silver, and the wheat burnished gold. The mornings were now sharply cold, and as the green sunset faded the air grew wonderfully bracing.

Harding and Devine had been working steadily for fourteen hours a day, but they must nerve themselves for a last tense effort. After the great crop had been hauled to the elevators there would be time to rest, but until this was done the strain both were feeling must be borne. The new binders were got out when the Ontario harvesters, who had been engaged by Harding's agents, began to arrive, bringing with them a Chinese cook. Western harvesters are generously fed, and Harding would not have his sister overtaxed.

Soon after he started his harvest, Beatrice returned from Toronto. It was late afternoon when she drew near Allenwood. She was tired with the long journey, but she did not object when Lance made a round which would take them past Harding's farm. He said the longer trail was smoother.

The sun hung large and red on the horizon; the air was clear; and the crimson light raked the great field of grain. In the foreground the stooked sheaves, standing in long ranks, cast blue shadows across the yellow stubble; farther back the tall wheat ran, it seemed, right across the plain, shining in the sunset like burnished copper. Above the crimson on the prairie's edge the sky was coldly green.

At first it was the magnitude of the field and its glow of color that struck the girl. Harvest scenes were not new to her, and, indeed, she seldom gazed on one without feeling stirred; but she had never seen a harvest like this. It filled her with a sense of Nature's bounty and the fruitfulness of the soil, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the glaring light she noticed signs of human activity. The splendid crop had not sprung up of itself. It was the reward of anxious thought and sturdy labor, and she began to appreciate the bold confidence of the man who had planted it.

Along the wall of wheat moved a row of machines, marshaled in regular order and drawn by dusty teams. She could see by the raw paint that most of them were new; and, leaning back in her seat, she listened to their rhythmic clink. Noting their even distance, and the precision with which the sheaves they flung aside rose in stooks behind them, she saw that there was nothing haphazard here. The measured beat of this activity showed the firm control of a master mind. No effort was wasted: action had its destined result; and behind this thought she had a half-conscious recognition of man's working in harmony with Nature's exact but beneficent laws. Duly complied with, they had covered the waste with grain. Glancing across it, the girl felt a curious thrill. The primeval curse had proved a blessing; seed-time and harvest had not failed; and here, paid for by the sweat of earnest effort, was an abundance of bread.

Moved as she was, she had a practical as well as an imaginative mind, and she noted the difference between Harding's and the Allenwood methods. What he had told her was true: her friends could not stand against such forces as he directed.

"It's worth looking at," Lance remarked. "I wanted you to see it because Harding's being talked about just now. I can't explain how he has broken so much ground with the means at his command, but it's a triumph of organization and ability."

"I suppose Father isn't pleased?"

Lance laughed as he flicked up his horses.

"That hardly expresses it. I rather think he regards our friend's industry as a dangerous example; but he's most of all surprised. He fully expected to see Harding ruined."

Just then one of the binders stopped, and its driver raised his hand. The machines behind swung round him as they came up and fell into line again while he busied himself with his team. A few moments later he mounted a big, barebacked Clydesdale that came at a clumsy gallop through the stubble and passed on down the trail.

"It's Harding," said Beatrice. "He must have run out of twine."

"I don't think so," Lance answered. "Harding's not the man to run out of anything. It's more likely a bolt has broken, and he's going for another; he'll have duplicates on hand."

Beatrice did not wish to appear curious about their neighbor, but she asked one or two cautious questions as they drove on.

"Well," said Lance, "though our experiments are not exactly popular, several of us are trying to copy him in a modest way, and I'm glad I let him do some breaking for me by steam. The Colonel was disagreeable about it, but he admitted my right to do as I liked; and the result is that I have a crop partly stooked up that will make it easy to pay Harding off, and leave me some money in hand."

"What do you mean by paying Harding off?" Beatrice asked sharply.

Lance looked confused.

"I didn't intend to mention it—you'll keep it to yourself. I'd got into a bit of a mess shortly before I was hurt at the ravine, and Harding paid up the money-lender I'd gone to in Winnipeg. What's more, he beat the fellow down, so that I only had to account for what I actually got."

"Ah!" said Beatrice. "Now I understand your restlessness when you were ill. But on what terms did Harding lend you the money?"

"He made only one condition: that I wouldn't take another bet until I was free again. Of course, I shall insist on paying him interest. Harding's a remarkably fine fellow, and I mean to stick to him."

Beatrice felt troubled by the keenness of her gratitude. She was fond of Lance, but she knew his weaknesses, and she saw that Harding had rendered him a great service. Moreover, she thought Lance's admiration for the man was justified. He had turned the lad out of a path that led through quagmires and set him on firm ground; his influence would be for good.

Lance gave her the news of the settlement; and when the lights of the Grange shone out through the creeping dark, everything else was forgotten in the pleasure of reaching home.

Three weeks later, when the thrasher had gone and the stooked sheaves had vanished, leaving only the huge straw wheat bins towering above the stubble, Harding drove to the Grange one evening with Hester and Devine. He had not entered the house for several months, and felt diffident about the visit, but Lance had urged him to come. The Allenwood Harvest Home was, he said, a function which everybody in the neighborhood was expected to attend. Besides, they had been fortunate in getting a clergyman from a distant settlement to take the service, and he was worth hearing.

The days were shortening rapidly, and when the party reached the Grange a row of lamps were burning in the hall. The moose heads had gone, and in their place sheaves of grain adorned the walls. Between the sheaves were festoons of stiff wheat ears and feathery heads of oats, warm bronze interspersed with cadmium and silver, and garlands of dry, blue flax. All had been arranged with taste, and the new flag that draped the reading desk made a blotch of vivid crimson among the harmonies of softer color. A tall, silver lamp behind the desk threw its light on the ruddy folds, and Harding, glancing at it, felt a certain admiring thrill. That symbol was honored at Allenwood, standing as it did for great traditions, and peace and order and justice had followed it to the West, but it was not for nothing that the new country had quartered the Beaver of Industry on its crimson field.

He was shown a place with his companions, and Mowbray gave him a nod of recognition. Harding felt that the Colonel had proclaimed a truce while they met for thanksgiving. Lance and several others smiled at him as he quietly looked about in search of Beatrice, whom he could not see. The hall was filled with handsome, brown-skinned men, and there was something fine, but in a sense exotic, in their bearing and in the faces of the women.

All rose respectfully when a young man in white surplice and colored hood came in. He had a strong, clean-cut face, and carried himself well, but his manner was quietly reverent. Harding felt that these people from the Old Country knew how things should be done, and he had a curious sense of kinship with them. It was as if he were taking part in something familiar; though this was the first Anglican service he had attended.

A man at the rather battered grand piano struck a few chords, and Harding saw Beatrice when the opening hymn began. She stood a few yards away, but her voice reached him plainly. It was, he recognized, singularly sweet and clear, though he knew nothing of the training and study that had developed it. He could pick it out from the others, and as he listened his lips quivered and a mistiness gathered in his eyes. Harding was not, as a rule, particularly imaginative or sensitive, but he was capable at times of a strange emotional stirring.

He had heard it sung before, and it had meant little to him, but now he saw how true it was in a stern, practical sense.

Well, there was need of both, when glaring skies withheld all moisture and withering winds swept the dead, gray waste. This year, however, the prairie had blossomed under the genial warmth and rain. Bounty was the note that the tall green wheat had struck. But the voice he loved sang on:

The emotion he felt grew keener; memories awoke, and a line from Longfellow ran through his mind, "Her mother's voice, singing in Paradise." He heard the hymn, grasping its impressive analogy while he thought of the strong, brave, patient woman who had upheld his easy-going father at his uncongenial task. Harding knew now what he owed his mother. He had, indeed, known it long, but love had quickened all his senses and given him a clearer vision.

When the music stopped, he set himself to listen, with Beatrice's face seen now and then in delicate profile. He saw that Psalm and Lesson and Collect were chosen well, and that the order of these people's prayers, with all its aids of taste and music, was not a mere artistic formula. It was the embroidered sheath that held the shining sword.

Harding, however, was not the only one to feel an emotional quickening, for there were those at Allenwood whose harvest thanksgiving was poignant with regret. It reminded them too keenly of the quiet English countryside where autumn mists crept among the stubble; of an ancient church with stained glass windows and memorial brasses to those who bore their name; of some well-loved, now sleeping beneath the sod. After all, they were exiles, and though they had found a good country, the old one called to them.

Mrs. Mowbray's face was sad, and her husband, who sat beside her, looked unusually stern.

Beatrice, with all the rich imagery of harvest before her eyes and in her ears, was thinking of one great wheatfield, and of the man who had reclaimed it from the wilderness. She had seen him come in, and had noticed that he looked worn. His figure was somewhat fined down and his face was thin. It was a strong face and an attractive one; the character it reflected was wholesome. There was nothing about the prairie man to suggest the ascetic, yet Beatrice vaguely realized that strenuous toil and clean ambition had driven the grosser passions out of him.

The clergyman walked to the flag-draped pulpit, and Beatrice tried to collect her wandering thoughts. As he read out the text she started, for it seemed strangely apposite.

She suspected him of no desire to attack the customs of his congregation, for he must be ignorant of the line they took at Allenwood, but his words were edged with biting truth. At first he spoke of the great lonely land they had entered: a land that was destined to become one of the world's granaries and, better still, a home for the outcast and the poor. They, the pioneers, had a special duty and a privilege—to break the way for the host that should come after them; and of them was demanded honest service. To sow plenteously; to be faithful in the minor things—choosing the wheat that ripened early and escaped the frost, filling the seeder with an open hand, sparing no effort, and practising good husbandry; and withal blazing the trail by marks of high endeavor, so that all who followed it could see.

Then he spoke of the fruitful season and the yield of splendid grain. The soil had returned them in full measure what they had sown, and he pleaded that of this bounty they should give what they could spare. In the Old Country which they loved there were many poor, and now in time of stagnant trade the cities heard the cry of hungry children. There was one institution which, sowing with generous recklessness, sent none away unfed, and he begged that they would give something of their surplus.

He stopped, and Hester looked at Harding as the closing hymn began, showing him the edge of a dollar in her glove.

"Craig," she whispered, "have you any money?"

He pressed three bits of paper into her hand, and, noticing the figures on the margin of one, she gave him a surprised glance. His face was unusually gentle, and there was a smile on it. She made a sign of approval and softly doubled up the bills as she joined in the singing.

Five minutes later the congregation went out into the open air, and Harding heard Mowbray press the clergyman to remain.

"I'm sorry, but as I'm to preach at Poplar on Sunday, I must make Sandhill Lake to-night," he answered. "In fact, I must get away at once; there's no moon and the trail is bad."

He climbed into his rig, and Harding, knowing there was a twenty-mile journey before him with a dangerous ford on the way, watched him drive off into the dark with a feeling of admiration. When he next heard about the man it was that he had been found in winter, returning from a distant Indian reservation, snow-blind and starving, with hands and feet frozen.

While Harding was looking for Hester, Mrs. Mowbray came up to him.

"You must stay with the others for our supper and dance," she said. "I have made your sister promise. I think we can sink all differences to-night."

Harding smiled.

"I can't refuse. Somehow I feel that the differences aren't so great as I once supposed."

"Perhaps that's true," Mrs. Mowbray answered thoughtfully. "Though I dare say you and my husband must disagree about the means you use, you have, after all, a good deal in common. One's object is the most important thing."

She left him as Kenwyne came up, and went to speak to one of her neighbors.

Mowbray had called Beatrice into his study.

"Count this for me," he said, giving her a brass tray filled with paper currency and silver coin. "I promised I'd send it to the bank, and I may as well make out the form before I lock the money up."

He went away to get a pen, and on coming back he looked surprised when Beatrice told him the amount.

"There must be a mistake," he said. "We have never collected so much before."

"I've counted it twice." Beatrice indicated three bills. "Though I think everybody was generous, these perhaps explain the difference."

"Consecutive numbers and all fresh; from the same person obviously," Mowbray said and put down the bills. "Bad taste on my part and, in a way, a breach of confidence, but you had seen them and I was surprised." Then he counted and sealed up the money.

The supper was served in a big, wooden barn, which was afterward cleared for dancing, and it was some time before Harding had an opportunity for speaking to Beatrice. She could not avoid him all the evening, and she did not wish to do so, but she was glad that he met her without embarrassment.

"I've learned that you got Lance out of trouble," she said after they had talked a while. "One way and another, he's deeply in your debt."

"Did he tell you?" Harding asked with a slight frown.

"No; that is, it slipped out, and I took advantage of the indiscretion." Beatrice looked at him steadily. "It has made a difference to the boy; I imagine he was at a dangerous turning, and you set him straight."

"You must tell nobody else."

"Do you always try to hide your good deeds?"

"I can't claim that they're numerous," Harding answered with a smile. "Anyway, I had a selfish motive on this occasion; you see, I enjoy beating a mortgage man."

Beatrice knew the explanation was inadequate, but she was grateful for his reserve. He was very generous, as she had another proof, for she knew who had given the three large bills which had surprised her father. There was, however, nothing more to be said, and she chatted about indifferent matters until she was called away.

Before the gathering broke up, Harding found himself seated in a corner of the big hall talking quietly to Mrs. Mowbray. She was interested in his farming plans and the changes he wanted made, and she listened carefully, noting how his schemes revealed his character. Now and then she asked a question, and he was surprised at her quick understanding. Moreover, he felt that he had her sympathy, so far as she could loyally give it. When, at length, he went away Mrs. Mowbray sat alone for some minutes quietly thinking. She could find no opening for hostile criticism. The honesty of the man's motives and his obvious ability appealed to her.

CHAPTER XVI
THE BRIDGE

Devine drove a birch log behind the wheels and then ran to the leaders' heads and cracked his whip, while Harding called to the pole-team. For a few moments the battering hoofs churned up the sloppy trail and the wagon groaned and shook, the horses floundering and slipping without moving it. Then with a harsh creak the high wheels began to turn and they slowly struggled up the hill. Harness rattled, chain and clevis rang, the steam from the toiling animals rose in a thin cloud, and white smears streaked their coats as they strained at the collar. The men were red in face and panting hard, but as they fought the grade they broke into breathless shouts. Harding was sparing of the whip; but this was not a time to be weakly merciful, when the load might overpower his teams and, running back, drag them over the edge. Nor dare he stop again and subject the animals to the cruel effort of restarting. They must get up somehow before their strength gave out.

Running with hand upon the bridle, and splashing in the pools, he rushed the horses at the last ascent; and then threw himself down with labored breath in the grass.

"This won't do," he panted after a few moments. "We'll have to put up five or six bags less, and you can figure how many extra loads that will make before we empty the bins. Then, I hate to keep a man and team standing by here when they could be hauling another load."

"It's one of the things a prairie farmer runs up against," Devine remarked.

"Just so. When they can't be put right, you have got to make the best of them; but this grade can be altered."

"It might," Devine agreed with a doubtful air. "Do you think you can persuade the Colonel to join you?"

"No; but it's my duty to try. When you have helped Frank up, you can take the extra team and haul in the cordwood. I'll be back from the railroad about dark to-morrow."

In the meanwhile, Kenwyne, Broadwood, and Lance Mowbray stood among the trees about three miles farther down the ravine, looking at the trail to Allenwood, which led along its edge. Near it the ground fell sharply to the creek, but the slope was regular, and small trees, blazed with the ax at intervals, marked a smooth descending line. On the opposite side, a gully offered an approach to the prairie at an easy gradient.

"We must have the bridge here; but it isn't a job we can manage without assistance," said Kenwyne. "I don't want to be disrespectful, Lance, but I hope your father enjoyed his lunch."

Lance grinned.

"As a matter of fact, he did; but unfortunately he read the paper afterwards and the market report seemed to upset him. To make things worse, I rashly mentioned that it bore out Harding's prognostications. In consequence, I expect you'll need all the tact you've got."

"I wish Harding had a little more," Broadwood remarked. "I can be meek, when it's for the good of the settlement, but our friend's too blunt."

"If he's blunt to-day, there'll be trouble," Lance replied with a chuckle. "I imagine the Colonel's in fighting form. Here he comes!"

It was in an unusually thoughtful mood that Mowbray rode toward them. The steady fall in the price of wheat was sufficient to cause him anxiety, but he had further grounds for feeling disturbed. There was an unsettling influence at work at Allenwood; plans were being mooted which he thought originated with Harding; and, worse than all, he suspected that his household was not altogether with him. Gerald certainly showed unexpected sense in denouncing the innovations; but Mowbray had doubts about Beatrice, who seemed to be cultivating Miss Harding's acquaintance; and even his wife now and then took the part of the offender. Besides, there were, so to speak, portents of change in the air, and Mowbray felt that he was being driven where he did not mean to go. He blamed Harding for this, and thought it was time he put a stop to the fellow's encroachments. For all that, he greeted the waiting men pleasantly when he dismounted.

"The days are getting colder, but it's a bracing afternoon," he said. "Now, perhaps we'd better walk over the line of the proposed trail."

They took him along the side of the ravine, and Kenwyne, stopping now and then, drew his attention to a plan he carried.

"We'll need about forty feet of log underpinning at this point, and you'll see that it's provided for," he said. "On the next section there's a good deal of soil to move; I have an estimate of the number of wagon loads." Farther on he stopped again. "From here to the bridge it will come to only a ton for every three or four yards."

Mowbray studied the plan and some sheets of figures.

"You seem to have thought the matter out very carefully," he commented.

"It needed close attention," said Broadwood.

Mowbray looked at the men keenly.

"There's a comprehensiveness about these plans and calculations that I did not expect from you," he said dryly. "To tell the truth, I'm somewhat surprised by them."

They did not answer this, and Kenwyne frowned in warning as he saw Lance's amused expression.

"The trail would be useful, sir," Broadwood urged.

"I think so. Do you feel competent to make it? The scheme is bolder than anything of the kind we have undertaken."

"We couldn't attempt it alone. Our idea is to ask for a general levy."

Mowbray nodded, for when they improved the roads at Allenwood the settlers were called upon to supply labor or money according to the size of their farms.

"By making an effort we might get the trail cut and the bridge built before the frost stops us," Kenwyne said. "We couldn't finish the grading, but the snow would give us a pretty good surface for hauling our wheat over. The new crossing would save us nearly three miles on the journey to the railroad, and we ought to get a good load up the easier incline without doubling the teams."

Mowbray's suspicions grew.

"We have not found the longer distance an insurmountable disadvantage so far. Why should it trouble you so much now?"

"Some of us have bigger crops this year," Broadwood said.

"Do you think this justifies your taxing your neighbors?"

"No," Broadwood answered incautiously. "We expect they'll follow our example, and have as much grain as we have next season."

"I see!" Mowbray frowned. "You are working for a change. The system we have followed so far doesn't satisfy you."

"But you cannot imagine, sir, that there's any danger to the settlement in our growing better crops."

"Of course not. It's the taint of commercialism I object to. However, let me look at those estimates again."

They had now nearly reached the top of the hill on the opposite side and Mowbray, sitting down on a birch log, opened the papers. The others looked at one another dubiously as they heard a beat of hoofs and a rattle of wheels.

"I notice no allowance for unexpected difficulties, which are bound to crop up," Mowbray presently remarked. "The work will, as usually happens, prove harder than it looks. I do not see how you can finish it before the frost comes."

"We expect to get it done, sir," Kenwyne replied. "In fact, we ventured to ask Mr. Harding, who has helped us to work the scheme out, to meet you here. He will be able to give you any information."

"Ah!"

Looking up, Mowbray saw Harding coming down the trail, and the loaded wagon and the fine Clydesdale horses standing among the trees. The sight angered him. Harding had not been ruined by his rash experiment, as Mowbray had honestly believed would happen. On the contrary, he had prospered, and Mowbray suspected him of a wish to flaunt his success in the faces of his less fortunate neighbors. It was in a very uncompromising mood that he waited for him to speak.

"If I can get the help I want from Allenwood, I'll engage to cut this trail on the terms of the estimates," Harding said. "If extra labor is required, I'll provide it. You can see the advantages, Colonel Mowbray: three miles saved on the journey to the elevators, besides doing away with the need for using an extra team on the grade. You'll save a dollar or two a load; on a big crop the difference will be striking. The trail will pay for itself in one season."

"I notice that you confine yourself to the monetary point of view," said Mowbray.

"I think not. There are other advantages, but I won't speak of them now; I'd be glad to explain anything about the work."

Mowbray's face hardened. The intruding fellow had insolently declined to talk over any but the material benefits to be expected. It looked as if he attached no importance to his opinions; and in one respect Mowbray was not mistaken. Harding had ideas of progress, mutual help, and good fellowship with which he did not expect the Colonel to sympathize.

"I do not propose to ask any questions," Mowbray said, getting up and giving Kenwyne the plans. "I needn't keep you; this work will not be undertaken with my sanction."

"But it can't be undertaken without it!" Broadwood protested.

"I agree with you. On such matters as a general levy I have power of veto, and I must warn you that it will be used."

Harding turned away, somewhat red in face, and went back up the trail. He recovered his good humor, however, when he started his horses and walked beside them across the withered grass. The prairie was bright with sunshine, and the wide outlook was cheering. Faint wavy lines of trees and glistening ponds checkered the great plain; there was not a house or trail of smoke on it. It was all raw material, ready for him and others to make good use of.

Presently a buggy appeared over a rise, and Harding felt a thrill of pleasure as he recognized the team and the driver. When Beatrice reached him she checked the horses.

"You're going to the elevators with your grain?" she said. "How is it you came by the Long Bluff?"

"I went round by Willow Gulch in the ravine."

"Then you went to meet Kenwyne and Broadwood where the new trail is to cross? I've heard something about the matter."

"I did. And I'm afraid I offended Colonel Mowbray."

"So he has stopped the undertaking! I expected it."

"No," said Harding, with a half-humorous air. "The trail will be made, though I won't be able to begin this season."

Beatrice looked thoughtful.

"I'm sorry about this," she said; "it may cause more trouble. Why can't you leave us alone?"

"I'm afraid I am meddlesome. But it's hard to leave things alone when you know they ought to be done."

"That sounds egotistical. Are you never mistaken?"

"Often, but it's generally when I get to planning what I'd like to do."

"I don't quite understand."

"It would certainly be egotistical if I bored you with my crude ideas," he answered, smiling.

"Never mind that. I want to know."

"Well," he said, "sometimes you look about to see how you can alter matters and what plans you can make; but when they're made they won't always work. It's different when you don't have to look."

Beatrice had a dim perception of what he meant, but she would let him explain. His point of view interested her; though she knew that she ran some risk in leading him into confidential talk.

"I don't think you have made it very clear yet."

"I meant that there are times when you see your work ready laid out. It's there; you didn't plan it—you simply can't mistake it. Then if you go straight ahead and do the best you can, you can't go wrong."

"But when you don't feel sure? When you haven't the conviction that it is your task?"

"Then," he said quietly, "I think it's better to sit tight and wait. When the time to act comes, you certainly will know."

Beatrice pondered this, because it seemed to apply with some force to herself. He had once urged her to take a daring course, to assert her freedom at the cost of sacrificing much that she valued. Though she had courage, she had shrunk from the venture, because she had not the firm conviction that it was justified. She felt drawn to Harding; indeed, she had met no other man whom she liked so well; but there was much against him, and nothing but deep, unquestioning love would warrant her marrying him. That she felt such love she would not admit. It was better to take the advice he had given her and wait. This was the easier for her to do because she believed that he had no suspicion of her real feeling for him.

"After all," she said, smiling, "your responsibility ends with yourself. I don't see why you should interfere with other people. You can farm your land as you think fit, without trying to make us copy you."

"That sounds all right; but when you come to think of it, you'll see that neither of us can stand alone."

"We got along pretty well before you came."

"I don't doubt it. The trouble is that what was best a few years ago isn't best now. I wish I could make your father realize that."

"Does it follow that he's mistaken because he doesn't agree with you?"

Harding laughed.

"If I were singular in my way of thinking, I'd be more modest, but all over the country farmers are getting ready for the change. There's a big expansion in the air, and your people can't stand out against it."

"Then I suppose we'll be crushed, and we'll deserve our fate." Beatrice smiled at him as she started the horses. "But at least it will not be from lack of advice!"

CHAPTER XVII
A HEAVY BLOW

"I got away as soon as I could," she said. "I am afraid you have had bad news."

"Very bad. Godfrey's dead!"

Mrs. Mowbray started. Godfrey Barnett was her husband's cousin. He had been the managing director of an old-established private bank in which Mowbray's relatives were interested, and the dividend upon some of the shares formed an important part of the Colonel's income.

"I'm very sorry," Mrs. Mowbray said softly. "Godfrey was always a favorite of mine. But it must have been sudden; you did not know that he was ill."

Her heart sank as she saw her husband's face turn grim. The blow had been heavier than she thought.

"He said something about not being up to his usual form when he last wrote, and Alan alludes to a cablegram that should have prepared me, but I never got it. No doubt it was overlooked. He mentions that the strain was almost unbearable—the crisis at the office—and the inquest."

"The inquest!"

The Colonel took up an English newspaper.

"It's all here; Alan says there's nothing to add. I've been trying to understand it, but I can't quite realize it yet. The paper and the letter came together. I suppose he waited a few days, thinking he had cabled."

The Colonel paused, and Mrs. Mowbray gave him a sympathetic glance, for she knew what his forced calm cost. The Mowbrays were stern and quiet under strain.

"Well?" she said.

"They found Godfrey dead, with a bottle of some narcotic beside him. The doctor gave evidence that he had prescribed the drug; it seems Godfrey couldn't sleep and his nerves had gone to bits. The man was obviously tactful and saved the situation. The verdict was that Godfrey had accidentally taken too large a dose."

"Ah! You don't think——"

"I dare not think—he was my cousin." Mowbray shivered and pulled himself together. "Now for the sequel. You haven't heard the worst yet, if one can call what follows worse."

"Don't tell me. Give me the paper."

He handed her the journal published in an English country town and she read the long account with a feeling of deep pity. It appeared that when news of Godfrey's death spread there had been a run on the bank. Barnett's business was for the most part local; and struggling shopkeepers, farmers, small professional men, and a number of the country gentry hurried to withdraw their money. The firstcomers were paid, but the bank soon closed its doors. Then came the inquest, and Mrs. Mowbray wondered how the merciful verdict had been procured. It was all very harrowing, and when she looked up her eyes were wet.

"He must have known!" she said. "It seems heartless to talk about the financial side of the matter, but——"

"It must be talked about, and it's easier than the other. I think I know why the bank came down, and perhaps I'm responsible to some extent. When one of the big London amalgamations wanted to absorb Barnett's, Godfrey consulted me. I told him I wasn't a business man, but so far as my opinion went he ought to refuse."

"Why?"

"Barnett's was a small, conservative bank. Godfrey knew his customers; he was their financial adviser and often their personal friend. The bank would take some risk to carry an honest client over bad times; it was easy with the farmers after a poor harvest. Godfrey could give and take; he managed a respected firm like a gentleman. In short, Barnett's was human, not a mere money-making machine."

"I can imagine that," Mrs. Mowbray responded. "Would it have been different if he had joined the amalgamation?"

"Very different. Barnett's would have become a branch office without power of discretion. Everything would have had to be done on an unchangeable system—the last penny exacted; no mercy shown a client who might fall a day behind; one's knowledge of a customer disregarded in favor of a rule about the security he could offer. I warned Godfrey that so far as my influence could command it, every vote that went with the family shares should be cast against the deal; although the amalgamation had given him a plain hint that they meant to secure a footing in the neighborhood, whether they came to terms with Barnett's or not."

Mrs. Mowbray thought his advice to his cousin was characteristic of her husband, and, in a wide sense, she agreed with him. He was a lover of fair play and individual liberty; but the course Godfrey had taken was nevertheless rash. Barnett's was not strong enough to fight a combination which had practically unlimited capital. The struggle had no doubt been gallant, but the kindly, polished gentleman had been disastrously beaten. What was worse, Mrs. Mowbray suspected that her husband was now leading a similar forlorn hope at Allenwood.

"I suppose it means a serious loss to us," she said.

"That's certain. Alan has not had time to investigate matters yet, but I gather that my relatives do not mean to shirk their responsibility. Barnett's, of course, was limited, but the name must be saved if possible and the depositors paid. I will tell Alan that I strongly agree with this."

It was rash and perhaps quixotic, but it was typical of the man, and Mrs. Mowbray did not object.

"I'm sorry for you," she said caressingly. "It will hit you very hard."

Mowbray's face grew gentler.

"I fear the heaviest burden will fall on your shoulders; we shall have to cut down expenses, and there's the future—— Well, I'm thankful you have your small jointure. Things are going hard against me, and I feel very old."

"It's unfortunate that my income is only a life interest. The boys——"

"Gerald must shift for himself; he has had more than his share. I don't think we need be anxious about Lance. The boy seems to have a singularly keen scent for money."

"But Beatrice!"

"Beatrice," said Mowbray, "must make a good match. It shouldn't be difficult with her advantages. And now I suppose I'd better go down. I think the effect of this disaster must remain a secret between us."

He locked up the papers and shortly afterward stood talking to Brand in a quiet corner of the hall.

"If it wouldn't be an intrusion, I'd like to offer you my sympathy, sir," Brand said. "The mail-carrier brought me a letter from my English steward."

"Thank you; it has been a shock. Did you deal with Barnett's?"

"I understand they have handled the estate accounts for many years."

"Then you will be relieved to hear that it's probable all the depositors will be paid."

Brand made a gesture of expostulation; but Mowbray's mind had taken a sudden turn.

"So you haven't disposed of your English property!" he commented.

Brand's glance rested on Beatrice, who was standing near, talking to one of the younger men. Her eyes sparkled with amusement and there was warm color in her face. Her pose was light and graceful; she seemed filled with eager gaiety, and Brand's expression hardened.

"No," he replied in a meaning tone; "I may want the place some day. Perhaps I'd better warn you that I haven't given up hope yet, in spite of my rebuff."

"I wish she'd taken you," Mowbray said frankly. "It would have been a relief to me; but I cannot influence her."

Glancing back at Beatrice, Brand was seized by a fit of passion. He was a strong, reserved man, who had cared little for women—he had, indeed, rather despised them. Now he had fallen in love at forty-two, and had been swept away. Hitherto he had generally lived up to a simple code of honor; but restraints were breaking down. He would have the girl, whatever it cost him or her. He knew the strength of his position. It might be necessary to exercise patience, but the odds were on his side.

"This is a matter I must fight out for myself," he said in a hard voice. "And I mean to win."

Mowbray looked at him in surprise. There was something new and overbearing in the man's expression which the Colonel resented, but he supposed he must make allowances.

"You have my good wishes," he said; "but you must understand that that's as far as I can go."

He moved away and soon afterward Brand joined Beatrice.

"I must congratulate you on your cheerfulness," he smiled. "You seem to cast a ray of brightness about the place to-night. It drew me. Being of a cold nature I felt I'd like to bask in the genial warmth."

Beatrice laughed.

"That sounds stilted; one doesn't expect such compliments from you."

"No," Brand said with a direct glance. "I'm old and sober; but you don't know what I'm capable of when I'm stirred."

"I'm not sure that I'm curious. To tell the truth, it costs me rather an effort to be gay to-night. Somehow, there's a feeling of trouble in the air."

Brand thought she had no knowledge of her father's misfortune—it was unlikely that Mowbray would tell her; but she was clever enough to see the other troubles that threatened the Grange in common with most of the homesteads at Allenwood.

"So you face it with a laugh!" he said. "It's a gallant spirit; but I dare say the boys make it easier for you. Trouble doesn't seem to touch them."

He looked about the hall, noting the careless bearing of the handsome, light-hearted young men and the three or four attractive girls. Their laughter was gay, their voices had a spirited ring, and the room was filled with warmth and brightness; yet he felt the presence of an ominous shadow. This afforded him a certain gloomy satisfaction, the meanness of which he recognized. He knew that he could not win the girl he desired by his personal merits, but the troubles he thought were coming might give him his opportunity.