“Oh, Grace, he has gone, really gone; now I shall be able to breathe freely again!” cried Bertha, skipping into the kitchen again after she had seen the sledge with the police and Edgar Bradgate disappear across the snow and vanish into the mist, which was beginning to obstruct the clear brilliance of the winter morning.

“Poor child, it has been bad for you,” said Grace, “and yet, do you know, as the poor man sat in the rocking chair, I kept thinking what a nice strong face he had, and it was intellectual and good also. I should think that he was a man well worth knowing.”

“Humph! Anyhow, I am thankful indeed to be spared his closer acquaintance,” retorted Bertha, as she cleared away the breakfast which she had prepared so hastily for the police, and she was bustling to and fro, intent on getting the day’s work through as quickly and as easily as she could make it go, when she heard a jingle of sledge bells, and a minute later up dashed a sledge drawn by two horses and driven by Bill Humphries, while Mr. Semple, the father of Dan, sat by his side, and appeared to fairly bristle with rage.

Bertha went out to meet them with a smile, and expected that Mr. Semple was at least going to be very grateful to her for having driven the sledge of goods over so early in the day; but, to her surprise, instead of the thanks she expected, and felt that she had honestly earned, Semple senior asked in a loud and angry tone:

“Where is that fellow who brought the sledge here?”

“Inspector Grant came over from Rownton, and finding how ill the poor man seemed, took him back to the barracks at Rownton, because he said that they could nurse him more easily than I could,” said Bertha, and because she was offended at the lack of proper gratitude in Mr. Semple’s manner, her tone was more cold and distant than her wont.

“I am downright disappointed to hear it,” snorted the irate storekeeper, who seemed to be in a great state of indignation, “for I had promised myself the pleasure of punching the fellow’s head and then rolling him in the snow, and if I could have added to that the chance of keeping him tied up in my barn for two or three days on short commons, I think that I should have been really happy, in spite of having had to go so short of food myself the last few days.”

“The man could not help being unable to deliver the goods last night,” Bertha reminded him, with considerable dignity in her tone. “He was quite unconscious from the cold when the horses reached here, and at first I thought that he was dead, as indeed he would have been but for the accident of his slipping down under the robes of the sledge, which luckily were most beautifully thick.”

“Do you know what was in that sledge?” demanded the storekeeper, in a tone of extreme exasperation.

“Food supplies, so the driver said, when he came to himself a little last night. He told us how the doctor had made his way through to Rownton, and had said that Pentland Broads was hard pushed for food; so he had volunteered to drive a load through as quickly as possible, and when he found that he could not get on, he was in very great distress,” Bertha replied, and her tone was offended still.

There was a cackle of unmirthful laughter from Mr. Semple, with a hoarse sort of explosion from Bill Humphries, and then the storekeeper said, “A regular first-of-April time we have had this morning, and no mistake about it. When Dan came driving that sledge to the door this morning we all swarmed about him like bees round a honey-barrel, and the women came running out of their houses for meal, and sugar, and tea, and all the other things we wanted so badly, but not a solitary eatable thing was there in the load anywhere, and all the packages that I have opened so far seem to consist of clocks, watches, cases of knives, dozens upon dozens of spoons, and a mess of cheap jewellery which would be dear at any price.”

“But there must have been some mistake,” protested Bertha, disposed to take the part of the stranger now, although she had been so very glad to get rid of him. “I know that the poor man thought that he was bringing food to you, because he was so pitifully anxious to get on, and he could not rest at all until I promised that I would drive it over this morning the very first thing. And I certainly should not have left Mrs. Ellis this morning as I did if it had not been that I was so anxious to bring food to you.”

“Then, if it wasn’t the chap who drove the stuff that blundered, I should like to get the one who did, and have him all to myself for about ten minutes. I fancy I could do a great deal towards curing shortness of memory or a taste for practical joking in that time,” said the storekeeper grimly.

“It is a really dreadful business. Whatever will you do, Mr. Semple?” asked Bertha, who, although she did not much care for the storekeeper, was genuinely sorry for his present worry.

“My Dan and young Fricker, that red-headed chap, started for Rownton directly we found out how we had been had. The snow was hard this morning, you see, and would bear. It has been like walking through bran these last few days, and the trail hasn’t got packed yet since the blizzard; but I doubt whether they will get back very easy, for this mist that is creeping over means a top thaw, if I know anything about it, with most likely some more downfall later on.” Mr. Semple looked up at the sky as he spoke, or rather at the white mist which hid the sky from his sight.

“Is there anything that we can let you have, Mr. Semple?” asked Bertha. “We have enough flour for two or three weeks to come, and sugar and tea, also coffee. If any of it will be of any use to you, please take it.”

“Very kind of you, I’m sure, and if Dan hadn’t started for Rownton I don’t say as I mightn’t have taken some, just to keep matters going; but, as it is, why, we’ll just go on eating corn porridge and molasses until the things turn up. It isn’t very appetizing, but I dare say it is wholesome enough,” said Mr. Semple, and then, refusing to come in, he was for turning round and driving back as fast as he could go, but Bertha stopped him, while she enquired of Bill Humphries how Eunice Long was getting on.

“She is picking up slowly. My wife says that she has been getting better ever since two days before Christmas, when you came to see her. She took a turn then, and she has really tried to get on a bit; so you did her a power of good, and if you don’t take care you will be making the doctor jealous,” said Bill Humphries, with his deep, rumbling laugh.

Bertha laughed also as she stood watching the two men driving away into the white mist. It was delightful to hear that Eunice was getting better, and that she herself had had some hand in it; although all that she had done was to scold the invalid for wanting to die. Then she went into the house and told Grace about the disappointing character of the goods in the sledge which she had driven to Pentland Broads that morning, and they laughed together over the absurdity of the blunder, although all the while they were genuinely sorry for the poor people who wanted stores so badly and still had to wait for them.

“Do you know, I should not be surprised if that is the sledge which the police were after,” said Grace, with that swift putting of two and two together which was so characteristic of her. “I expect that somehow in the heavy weather the sledges must have got mixed, and the man that was here—Edgar Bradgate, I mean—hitched his horses to the wrong sledge at some stopping-place.”

“But such a blunder would hardly be made by any man who had any sense at all,” replied Bertha. “Why, he would see the difference in the sledge robes and the fittings generally. I told you that those were really beautiful sledge robes; they were lined throughout with wolf-skin, and were as warm as could be. I felt myself in the lap of luxury all the way to Pentland Broads this morning, only I couldn’t enjoy it because of my worry about you. I wondered then that a mere freight sledge should be so well turned out.”

“I fancy that the blunder was made because, poor fellow, his sense was so far gone. He looked to me like a person who was in for a very sharp attack of influenza, and as a rule people in that condition are not very discriminating,” said Grace.

“Well, at least our part is done, and we are out of it, which is something to be grateful for,” said Bertha, and then she had to hurry off to the barn and put in an hour and a half of work there, which should have been done much earlier, but for the enforced journey and all the other delays which had eaten into her day so far. She was most dreadfully tired, having had but so little sleep on the previous night; but there was so much work to do, that she had no time to give way to her feelings, until night came round again and ended the long day of toil.

But it was destined that she should have one more surprise before she went to sleep that night, only this was a wholly joyful one.

She had been in the farther bedroom, putting the twins and Noll to bed, when she heard a squeal of amazement from Molly, with a shout of “Mummy! Mummy!” from Dicky, and, thinking that something must have gone wrong, she ran back to the kitchen, and there, to her amazement, was Grace sitting erect on her couch, holding fast to the edge of the little bookshelf, by which she had contrived to pull herself erect.

“Bertha! Bertha! Look at me!” cried Grace, in an ecstasy of joy. “I did it myself, all myself; the children did not help me at all. And oh, I am so proud of it!”

“And so am I. Why, it is just splendid, and at this rate you may be able to stand on your feet by the time that Tom comes back,” said Bertha, as she hastened to put a pillow behind Grace, which would allow her to sit without holding on to the shelf.

“It is lovely to survey the world from such a giddy height after having been on my back all these months,” said Grace, and then her voice grew wistful as she went on, “I wonder where poor dear old Tom is to-night, and whether there is any instinct to tell him that I am so much better?”

“He may be home soon now, unless indeed they have a camp, which they cannot leave until the snow breaks,” said Bertha. “But it is pretty certain that they cannot do much prospecting of any sort or kind in this weather.”

“I do not think that he will be here until the snow is gone. I never seem able to see him coming before then,” Grace replied, with the far-away look in her eyes which always came there when she spoke of her husband.

The next day it was blizzard again, and nearly another week wore itself out before news of the outside world reached the isolated household at Duck Flats.

Then it was Dan Semple and young Fricker who drove over with the mail, which had found its way, after many delays, to the post office at Pentland Broads. They had news also, and were eager to tell it as they sipped the hot coffee which Bertha insisted that they should come in and drink.

“I should just think that we did have a journey back from Rownton!” said Dan, in his jolly, boyish voice. “We should have been frozen to the sledge, I guess, if it hadn’t been for Fricker’s red hair; but, you know, they say that people with hair that colour never suffer from frostbite, so I kept as close to him as I could get, and that is how I escaped, and of course he was as warm as toast, lucky dog!”

“I hope that you won’t believe all he says, Miss Doyne,” said Fricker, blushing like a girl. “But it was really an awful journey, and it was next door to a miracle that we got back all right with the sledge.”

“Did you ever find out how the mistake came about?” asked Bertha, as she plied the two boys with more hot coffee and oatmeal cakes.

“We have made a pretty good guess at it,” said Dan, “but we shall have to wait until that chap Bradgate is on his feet before the mystery is cleared up, I suppose. When the police came over and took possession of that sledge which you drove to our place, they said that a sledge laden with foodstuffs had been found at old man Holman’s place over beyond West Creek. Holman is rather a shady customer, and he does not always speak the truth either; so of course we don’t know quite how much to believe of his story, and how much is merely trimming, so to speak. The old fellow says that on the night before Bradgate turned up here a man came to his place to put in for the night. The sledge was run back under the shanty—for it threatened more snow—and the man, who seemed very queer, came indoors, sat awhile by the stove, and then went to lie down on a lump of straw at the end of the shack, which is all the bed that old man Holman’s lodgers ever get. Very soon afterwards another sledge came along, this time with two men, and it was run into the shanty in front of the first, and the horses being put in the barn, the men came indoors to supper.”

“And a jolly good supper it was, too, according to old man Holman,” broke in Fricker, who was not disposed to let Dan do all the talking. “The old fellow said that the two men had brought their supper with them, and there was potted beef and fowl, cheese, ham, canned tongues, and I don’t know what besides, and drink enough to drown anyone. At any rate, it about drowned Holman’s wits; for when they took to card-playing after supper they cleaned the old man out of every cent piece he had got. Then I suppose they all went to sleep, being thoroughly tipsy, and they slept longer than they meant to do, for it had been daylight a good long time when they woke up, only to find that the man who had got there first had hitched his horses to the wrong sledge and had gone off with it.”

“Ah, that was because it stood first, I suppose,” said Bertha, laughing at the discomfiture which must have overtaken the other men when they found their mistake out.

“Just so,” said Dan, breaking in now, because Fricker was just then busy with his coffee-cup. “And the first man, who was Bradgate, was not over-clear in his head, poor chap; he evidently didn’t know anything about the sledge which came after his, and so hitched on to the first one and started with it. The men were in a royal rage when they found their sledge was gone, and threatened to shoot old man Holman for not having guarded their property better. But he isn’t the sort to take a thing of that kind in a very lamb-like spirit, so they got as good as they gave, and a little better; for the old fellow happened to have a shooting-iron handy, and he whipped it out and held up the pair of them. They climbed down a bit then, and said that they would ride after the sledge and make the other fellow give it up; but old man Holman, having got the drop on them, decided that he might as well get the money back which they had won from him overnight, so he told them that they might go when they had handed him over the money which they had won overnight by cheating. He had been wiser, though, if he had let well alone, for when he allowed them to put their hands in their pockets to get out the money, what they did was to pull out a couple of barkers, and then, of course, being two to one, old man Holman was done, and they rode off with his money in their pockets, and that is the last he has seen of them.”

“What an extraordinary story!” exclaimed Grace, who was sitting up on the couch this morning, well backed up with pillows, but looking much more like herself. “I wonder the men have not tried to get their sledge again, for I suppose the contents must have been valuable.”

“Very valuable,” replied Dan. “Why, there was enough cutlery and clocks, watches and that sort of thing to have stocked two or three shops, and the marvel is where they could have got it from. It is supposed to have been stolen, and the police were on the trail after it, because their suspicions had been aroused. They have got it now at the Rownton Police Barracks, and are waiting for someone to come forward and claim it; and they are also waiting for Bradgate to be well enough to tell them what he knows, and if he should happen to peg out without getting better, they will have to go without knowing, I guess.”

“Oh, I do hope he will get better, for I did like his face so much,” said Grace, and then she asked Dan Semple about his mother, and charged him with a message for Eunice, while Bertha listened to young Fricker, who was telling her about his home in Halifax, and how he downright ached sometimes for a sight of the dear old folks down east, and a sniff of the wind from the sea or a fierce Atlantic gale.

“Why, I am from Nova Scotia too, and I am just horribly homesick for the dear old place sometimes!” said Bertha, with kindling interest in the red-haired boy, who had such pleasant manners and seemed so eager for friendship.

“Well, Fricker, my boy, I guess we must get, or the old man will think that we have started on a holiday tour,” said Dan, reluctantly preparing to depart.

“May I come again, Miss Doyne, and talk about Nova Scotia?” asked Fricker eagerly, as Bertha came to the door to see them off.

“Of course you may come,” she said, laughing at him in a cheerful elder-sisterly fashion. “Do you think that we have such an endless rush of visitors out here that we are simply sick of seeing fresh people?”

“No, I don’t, but I do think that you are awfully brave to stick through a winter in such a place. Why, it would be more lively in prison!” exclaimed the boy from Nova Scotia.

The weeks of winter dragged on; January wore itself out in fierce storms. February was a month of keen frost and bright sunshine, which reduced Bertha to the infliction of wearing coloured spectacles to keep from going blind, and then March came in with lengthening days and stormy winds which howled across the wastes, but bore on their gusty breath a welcome hint of the coming spring.

It had been a busy winter for Bertha. Time for writing had been made whenever other duties were not pressing, and her success had justified the time she had spent on the task. Four stories had been sold, and although three others had failed to find a market, she already knew enough about the literary life to feel sure that the setback of their rejection might be for her ultimate good. Meanwhile, she was intent on getting her first book into shape, although she guessed that it would be next winter before she could hope to finish it. All the same, it was something to work for and hope for, while already she was happy in thinking that she had really achieved something. The few dollars she had earned would keep her in pocket money until Tom would be able to pay her a salary again.

The joyfulness of feeling that she had found her work in the world and that she was of so much use, that one family, at least, would find it hard to do without her, was so great, that she was entirely content, and would not have changed places with anyone. Her letters to her sisters were so vigorous, bright, and breezy, that neither Anne nor Hilda could in the least understand the change in her, as their replies abundantly testified.

It was the last Sunday in March when Mrs. Smith drove her two children over to Duck Flats to spend the morning with Grace, so that Bertha might go to church. It was the first time since Christmas that Bertha had had a chance to go to meeting, and so the occasion was very much in the nature of a festival.

The morning was brilliantly fine, and on the south side of the house the icicles were melting in the sun, although when night came again it would most likely freeze as sharply as ever. Dicky and Molly were in wild spirits, for they were going to church with Bertha, and the three tucked themselves into the sledge and set off in good time, for they would not risk being late on an occasion like this. Somehow Bertha’s thoughts kept going to that Sunday last summer when she had taken the children to church, and Eunice had been so sure that disaster was coming. How soon the storm had come after that, and how truly awful the disaster had been!

Bertha shivered as she looked at the gleaming white landscape and thought of the bright hopes which lay buried underneath the snow, and she found herself hoping that Eunice would have no forebodings of evil to spoil this Sunday as it had done the other. But when she reached Pentland Broads it was to find that Eunice had gone to a distant farm to spend the day, in order that the mother of a large family might be able to go to church with her husband.

“Some of us would hardly get a chance to put our heads outside our doors all the winter, if neighbours and friends were not kind to us,” said Mrs. Jones to Bertha, in explaining the reason why Eunice was not at home.

“Everyone seems to be kind to each other here, I think,” said Bertha, and was conscious of a huge relief, because there was no Eunice present to foretell disaster. Of course it was very silly of her to be afraid, and at any other time she would have been really glad to see Eunice, who was her only close friend at Pentland Broads among a large number of acquaintances.

The service was over, and Bertha was tucking the sledge robes round the two children, when young Fricker came rushing up to her in a great state of excitement.

“Oh, I say, Miss Doyne, I am glad to see you here this morning. I spotted you in meeting, and thought my eyes were playing me a trick. I should have come over to see you this week, but as you are here this morning, why, I can tell you now. You remember that poor chap Bradgate who was taken bad on the sledge?”

“Oh, is he dead?” cried Bertha, in a tone that was much more tragic that she knew.

“No, I should say that the fellow has as many lives as a cat; at any rate, he has not come to the end of them yet,” returned Fricker, with a laugh, and then he pulled a thick letter out of his pocket, which he handed to Bertha. “But I want you to take this home with you and read it. You can return it at any time, only I think that it will interest you, because it turns out that Bradgate comes from Nova Scotia, and he has been about as all-round unfortunate as falls to the lot of most men.”

“How funny that there should be three of us here so close together, and only to find it out by accident that we all hail from Arcadia!” said Bertha; and then she asked, with a little hesitation in her tone, “I hope that Mr. Bradgate is really better now?”

“He’ll do, I fancy; but it beats me to think that he has been lying ill at Rownton all this time and I have never been near him, when, so to speak, he was one of my own people. I feel downright mean about it, though of course I did not know. However, I shall go over and see him next week if I can get away, and then I can give him my mother’s message that she sent in that letter,” and Fricker nodded towards the letter which he had given to Bertha.

“But if this concerns Mr. Bradgate, would you not rather that he saw it first?” she asked.

“I should not show him the letter, and the message I know by heart. You keep it, Miss Doyne, until I come for it. Hullo! this old horse of yours wants to run over me, and I’m too valuable to be turned into road metal just yet, so good morning!” Fricker stood aside and raised his hat as old Pucker dashed ahead, kicking up the snow in a fashion suggestive of a five-year-old, and actually squealing with delight at being in motion again.

Bertha tucked the letter into the inside pocket of her coat, and thought no more about it just then. The sun beat down in dazzling brilliancy, and her eyes ached from the glare, despite her coloured spectacles. But it was good to be out in the keen fresh air, and to know that the long winter was nearly over.

Dicky and Molly chattered like two young magpies all the way home, and if Bertha answered them in an abstracted fashion they did not notice it, so there was no great harm done, and she was able to enjoy the peace and rest of the long, monotonous drive in her own fashion. Mrs. Smith would not stay for dinner because her husband would be expecting her home, and when she had gone, Bertha’s first business was to get the midday meal ready, though by this time it was long past midday, and breakfast was a dim and distant memory.

Then came the delicious rest by the fire in the afternoon, while Grace told the children Bible stories, and Bertha had nothing to do but lean back in the rocking chair and think her own thoughts. The funny thing was that she did not then remember the letter which Fricker had given her; but then she was not thinking about him, or indeed anyone at Pentland Broads. It was later, when she had donned her working pinafore and gone out to the barn to milk the cow and feed the animals, that she suddenly remembered that the letter was still in the pocket of her coat.

“How stupid of me to forget! But then I have been stupid more or less all day to-day, I think,” she said to herself, as she pulled down a great armful of swamp hay for the cow, saw that Pucker was getting a comfortable supper, and attended to the other things which had to be done on Sunday as well as every other day in the week.

“I have brought a letter home to read, and I am going to forget all about it again unless you help me to remember,” she said to Grace, when she went in with the milk pail.

“I will not let you forget; and in return for my kindness in reminding you I shall want to see the letter, or at least to hear it read, unless indeed it is very particularly private,” replied Grace.

“It cannot be that, or Mr. Fricker would not have given it to me to read,” said Bertha. “I thought it was rather funny of him to bring it to me, but he seems to think that because we both come from Nova Scotia we ought to have a great deal in common. For my part, I don’t see that it follows; but he is such a nice, friendly boy, that it is too bad to snub him. And I fancy that he is homesick too, poor lad, so I am obliged to have a soft corner in my heart for him.”

“That is undoubtedly good for you. It makes your sympathies wider, and you can save the snubbing for Mr. Long when he comes home again. Fricker is happily too young to need it,” laughed Grace.

It was not until the children were all in bed that Bertha fetched the letter from the pocket of her thick driving-coat and, sitting down by Grace, proceeded to read it aloud.

It was a long epistle in a woman’s handwriting, signed Mary Fricker, and commencing “My dear son”. The first page was devoted to small items of family interest, just those things which a homesick boy would love to hear about, and then Mrs. Fricker plunged into the chief interest of her letter.

“Oh, Grace, what shall I do? To think that I have been keeping Mr. Bradgate’s property from him for so many weeks, and he so poor; it makes me feel unutterably mean!” cried Bertha, with actual tears in her eyes, as she broke off from reading her letter. “But why, oh why did he not try to find me out to ask for his coat and what was in it?”

“I should not be surprised to know that in the trouble of having to escape in that fashion from the angry shareholders, he entirely forgot that he had left his valuables in an outside coat; it might even be that he forgot he had a coat with him at all. A man in peril of his life twice in one day might be forgiven a lapse of memory like that,” replied Grace, whose face showed a little pucker of anxiety, although she tried to speak as cheerfully as usual.

“Then I must remind him of it as speedily as possible, for no one can even guess how utterly thankful I shall be to get the wretched things out of my possession. If I write a letter to him to-night, I may get a chance to post it before the week is out,” said Bertha.

“But what can you say in your letter?” asked Grace, and now the pucker of anxiety showed more plainly than before.

“I think that I shall tell him straight out that I have valuable property belonging to him, and that the sooner he fetches it away the better I shall like it,” Bertha answered shortly, for the whole thing got upon her nerves.

“Oh, don’t do that!” cried Grace distressfully. “If you put a thing like that in black and white, I shall never dare to be left alone again, for I shall always be afraid that someone will come along to try and rob the house. As it is, there is no danger at all; for the most optimistic of thieves would hardly expect to find anything worth carrying away in the house of a hailed-out farmer.”

“What can I say, then?” asked Bertha. “You see I must ask him to come and fetch his property away, as I could not possibly send valuables like that through the post.”

“Could you not write to him and ask him if he would kindly come over to see you as soon as he is able to leave the police barracks? You might say that you had news of importance for him which you could not very well put in a letter. That would commit you to nothing, and if anyone else read it they would not be unduly enlightened,” said Grace.

“I might do that, certainly, although I should think that he will be mightily amazed, and perhaps a little disgusted, at receiving a letter of that description from a girl he knows nothing about,” said Bertha, shrugging her shoulders; for the letter written by Mrs. Fricker to her son had somehow left the impression that Mr. Bradgate was the sort of individual to be approached with respect.

“He will be surprised, probably; but as Mrs. Fricker speaks of him so highly, he is probably a gentleman, so he will do as you ask him, without unpleasant comment, and really I do not see how else you can hope to see him, unless you ask him to come here. Would you like to get Eunice to come and stay with me while someone drives you to Rownton?” asked Grace.

“That would certainly be simpler than dragging a man who is an invalid so many miles across the snow,” said Bertha.

“Write your letter to Eunice instead, then.” Grace had quite an eager note in her tone now, for in her way she was quite as eager as Bertha to get rid of that little case of dull-looking stones which had been in the house so long.

Bertha wrote the letter, but it was Wednesday before there was any chance of getting it sent to Pentland Broads, and it was the following Sunday before she received a reply, and then Eunice wrote that it would be a week before she could get away, as Mrs. Humphries was in bed with bronchitis, and there was no one else to take the post office from her shoulders.

“It seems as if I were fated to keep those wretched stones,” said Bertha, when she had read the letter from Eunice.

“Only one more week to wait, dear, so have patience,” replied Grace cheerfully, and neither she nor Bertha even dreamed of all that case was to cost in care and trouble before it reached its rightful owner.

Before that week was out, a howling storm of wind and rain swept across the prairie, and for three whole days it raged without ceasing. There was discomfort in plenty for a little while in the small house at Duck Flats; for the melting snow, piled high against the sides of the house, found its way through various ill-stopped crevices, streaming through the walls in little trickles of wet, which in time became big puddles of water on the floor, despite the constant activity of Bertha in wiping them up. The children took bad thaw colds, which was not to be wondered at, seeing that from the time they dressed in the mornings until they went to bed at night they were damp-footed from running about in the half-melted snow. But this was a yearly occurrence, and Grace was not unduly worried by it all the time that the colds could be kept well in hand, although it added not a little to the daily burden of work and care which rested upon Bertha. However, the snow would soon be gone at this rate, and then the discomfort would be over.

Meanwhile, there was the smell of spring in the air, and that in itself was something of a compensation for the misery of the dampness, the dirt, and the dismal look of everything indoors and out. At last Eunice succeeded in getting away, and Bill Humphries drove her over to Duck Flats one mild afternoon, when the brown earth was showing in patches here and there.

“It was good of you to come to-day; now I can get away early to-morrow morning,” said Bertha, and she was just going to turn from Eunice in order to arrange with Bill Humphries to come over in the morning and drive her to Rownton Police Barracks, when Eunice said to her, with a laugh:

“It is not to-morrow morning that you are going, but in about two hours, so you had better make haste and get ready, while I take hold of things here and get used to the babies. I expect that there will be sadness and sighing with the twins and Noll, but they will soon get used to me; and Dicky and Molly will be a great help in letting me down gently into the bosom of your big little family.”

“But I can’t go to-night; I cannot be spared for two nights away,” objected Bertha.

“My dear, you can be spared for a week if it is necessary,” replied Eunice quietly. “The fact is, Mr. Humphries has business of his own in Rownton to-morrow, only he must get there early, so he would rather take you back to-night, which will save him two hours, perhaps more, in the morning. And having business of his own, he will be able to take you to Rownton without charging you a cent, which is a consideration in these poverty-stricken days.”

“It is, indeed,” laughed Bertha, “although I feel quite rich just at the present moment; for a dear, kind editor has seen fit to pay me fifteen dollars for a story, and I feel about an inch taller in consequence.”

“How delightful!” Eunice patted her on the back in kindly congratulation. “In your place, Bertha, I am afraid that I should be so tall as to topple over from sheer giddiness at having reached such a lofty height. But run away and make your preparations, child, while I go and explain the situation to Grace, and begin to take hold a bit.”

Bertha was thankful that Eunice had not volunteered to come and assist her in dressing for the hasty journey, for it was necessary to hang the case of stones in a little bag round her neck under her clothes, and she did not want even the eyes of her friend to see that. The coat had been made into a bundle, which was rolled round with a piece of coarse canvas and securely tied with string.

“It will seem dreadful to be away from you, even for two nights, Grace,” she murmured, when the time came to say goodbye.

“Don’t worry, dear, it will do you good to be away, and you will come away with a load gone from your mind, and I shall have a load gone from mine also,” answered Grace, who mostly contrived to put the best face possible upon any situation.

Bertha nodded; the relief would be tremendous. She had felt so much like a thief with regard to that case of stones, and she was always afraid lest in some way she might lose them, which would be disaster indeed, since in such a case she would never be able to make the rightful owner believe that her intentions had been all right.

“It is just about time that you had a holiday, I should say,” remarked Bill Humphries, when at length they were really under way, and the two horses were floundering along through the soft mud of the trail. “You have shown real grit in the way you have stood by the Ellis lot, and if that poor woman ever gets better she will owe her life to you, for she has had more than nursing. She has had peace of mind, and I guess that beats doctor’s stuff into fits.”

A thrill of positive rapture swept over Bertha. It was beautiful to think that she had been able to do things. And there was not in all the wide west a happier girl than she was, as the wagon bumped and swayed through the slush of the surface thaw, and over the chunks of frozen earth which lay beneath. She would have been flung out of the wagon half a dozen times before Pentland Broads was reached if it had not been that she clung tightly to the side of the wagon. How Bill Humphries managed to keep his seat, seeing that he held on to nothing but the driving lines, was a problem, but he did it; and after being jolted, bumped, and shaken until she was sore all over, the end of the journey was finally reached in safety, and Bertha received a riotous welcome in the household of the Humphries.

Still she was too restless and anxious concerning the outcome of her visit to Edgar Bradgate to-morrow to be able to really enjoy the little change of spending an evening in the house of someone else. To her it was a dreadful ordeal to pay a visit to a man whom she scarcely knew, remind him that she had at one time saved his life, and that she had not received the money which he had emptied his purse to leave for her. How horrible it would be to be obliged to tell him that, and yet for her own sake she must do it, since not even to a stranger would she care to stand in such an ambiguous position.

It was freezing hard next morning when the start for Rownton was made in the faint light of dawn, and for the first few miles the horses could scarcely keep their feet at all, while Bill Humphries slid and slithered along at their heads, pulling them up when they went down, scolding and encouraging at the top of his voice, and guiding them on to the roughest part of the trail, so that they might have the better chance to keep their feet.

Bertha, sitting perched in the wagon, had more ado than ever to keep herself from being pitched out of the wagon. But it would never do to risk being damaged, seeing what she carried tied in the little bag round her neck, so she swayed and jolted with the wagon, determined that she would not go over unless the crazy old thing really capsized, which luckily it did not. Then, after a couple of hours of this sort of progress, the sun came out with dazzling brilliance, the top ice speedily became slush, and the worst of the journey was over.

Then Bill Humphries clambered into the wagon to ride, for there was no sense in using his own feet so long as his horses were able to stand on theirs, and the first question he asked Bertha, after he had taken his seat at her side, was the part of Rownton to which she wished to go.

“I’ve got to drive to the depot, but the stores are at the other end of the town mostly, so I can go in that way and drop you there before I go on to the depot,” he said, puffing a great deal from his recent exertions.

“It is the police barracks that I want to go to. Do you know which part of the town that is?” asked Bertha, and then flushed hotly because of the surprise which came into the face of her companion.

“I can drive you to the door, and as it is close to the stores, you will be all right until I come back from the depot,” said Bill. “I shall have to give these critters a couple of hours for rest, and then we’ll be starting back bright and early; for I don’t somehow fancy having to slip and slide on the way back same as I’ve had to do coming. It is a leetle bit too exciting for an old fellow like me.”

“I don’t think that you must call yourself old, for no one could have jumped about more briskly than you did,” replied Bertha, laughing softly at the remembrance of his gymnastic performances, as he helped his horses along that dangerous bit of trail.

“Well, I guess I am fairly nimble, though it is nearer sixty than fifty I am, and I’ve worked as hard as most men ever since I have been able to work at all,” he answered, with a sigh of satisfaction, and then he went on, “A good many men would have made their pile by this time, I reckon; but though I have earned a good bit of money, it has never seemed to stick to me, so I guess that I have got to be a poor man to the end of the chapter. But I don’t know as I would have that altered, provided that I can always pay my way, for the life of a poor man suits me best. It is what I am used to, you see, and there is a mighty deal more in habit than you may think. Ah, there is Rownton showing up on the edge of the prairie! Can you see it?”

Bertha shook her head. Her eyes were still weak from the glare of the snow, and the sunshine was trying her very much, for she had forgotten to bring the coloured spectacles, which, by the way, she most cordially hated. But there was not much to see in the town—a couple of grain elevators, straggling groups of houses dotted over the level plain, and the railway track running at this point due east and west.

The sight of the railway brought a lump into the throat of Bertha. She had not been to Rownton since the day that Tom had met her on her arrival from the east. Her misery of homesickness had been so dreadful that day as to make even the remembrance of it a pain. There were even tears in her eyes, which she was trying hard not to shed, and Bill Humphries, seeing them, wondered mightily what cause she had to cry. In fact, he wondered about it so much, that he forgot to be curious as to her errand at the police barracks.

Bertha’s courage failed her when at length she stood before the long, low framehouse which was the headquarters of the Rownton division of the police, and instead of asking to see Mr. Bradgate she asked for the superintendent, who fortunately chanced to be at home. He had to keep her waiting for a few minutes, and during that time Bertha’s courage was oozing and oozing, until she felt fit to turn and run away, if only running had been possible, or there had been anywhere to run to.

Inspector Grant, who was superintendent of the division, was one of the kindliest men alive, but his sympathies had been taxed to the uttermost during that winter following on the disaster to the wheat. So when he heard that Miss Doyne of Duck Flats was waiting to see him, he promptly made up his mind that it was some story of destitution, or fierce struggle with hardship, which he had to hear; and if he sighed a trifle impatiently he was surely to be forgiven.

When he entered the bare room, with its uncovered deal table well splashed with ink, and seated with wooden benches all round the walls, his first glance at the white face and trembling lips of Bertha confirmed his fears about her errand, and unconsciously added a deeper gravity to his manner.

“I am very sorry to have troubled you,” began Bertha, in a faltering tone.

“Do not mention the trouble, Miss Doyne; I shall be only too glad to serve you if I can. The worry of it all is that my powers are so limited in this respect,” said Inspector Grant kindly.

“Oh, we are not in difficulties of that sort,” said Bertha quickly, understanding all at once that this big burly superintendent supposed that she had come to beg for money or food. “I have come because I want to see Mr. Bradgate, only somehow my courage failed me, and so I asked to see you first. Mr. Bradgate does not know me, or at least he would not remember me, and it is so awkward to be obliged to recall one’s self to a person, and I thought that perhaps you would help me.”

“Mr. Bradgate has very good cause to remember you, anyway, seeing that but for your kindly offices he must have perished from cold,” said the inspector genially. He was feeling immensely relieved because it was no trouble of straitened means which had brought Bertha to ask his help that day. He felt himself equal to most other situations, but this long winter of struggle, following on the disaster of the harvest, had seriously impoverished him; since it was not easy for him to bear the sight of suffering while he had money in his pocket to relieve it.

“Oh, that was nothing!” broke in Bertha hastily. “And my errand to Mr. Bradgate has nothing to do with that either, but I have found out by a strange accident that he is the man whose boat was caught on the rocks at Mestlebury, in Nova Scotia, a year ago last fall, and something of value was left behind in my keeping which I have never been able to restore, because I did not know his name or where he came from. So I have come over from Duck Flats to restore his property to him, and—and I thought perhaps that you would help me to do it.”

“I would with pleasure if I could, but Mr. Bradgate is not here now; he went away three days ago,” replied the inspector.

A blank look came into Bertha’s face, and a horrible desire to cry assailed her. She had been so delighted at the thought of getting rid of the stones, and she had faced all the discomforts of that journey to Rownton with a cheerful courage, just because of the relief it was to bring her. Now it would all have to go on again, the waiting and the uncertainty, and, to make matters worse, she had those horrid stones on her person, and must of necessity carry them home with her again.

Pulling herself together with a tremendous effort, she managed to ask quietly, “Can you give me his address, then? It is very important that I should be put into communication with him as soon as possible, or I would not trouble you.”

“I am only too anxious to serve you in any way that I can, but I am very much afraid that Mr. Bradgate’s address is what they would call in some circles a negligible quantity. He has gone to railhead to work, and it is very difficult to make sure that a letter will reach him, although of course you can try. You will also have to take your chance of a reply being forthcoming, as pens, ink, and paper are almost unknown luxuries in a railway construction camp,” said the inspector.

A cold despair gripped at Bertha, and then an indomitable determination seized her to get rid of those stones at all costs, and she asked abruptly, “Where is railhead?”

“A few days ago it was at Wastover, about a hundred miles from Rownton, but it will have pushed on since then, and I expect that it will have nearly reached Brocken Ridge; it will stop there for a week or two, for there are three bridges to be built within the space of two miles, and that will take a little while,” answered Inspector Grant.

“Can you tell me how long it will take me to get there, and how much it will cost?” asked Bertha, thinking ruefully of the fifteen dollars which she had received for her last story, and deciding that if it all had to go, she would have to manage somehow to do without any new frocks next summer.

“Ah, you think of going to find Bradgate for yourself?” The inspector’s tone was grave, and Bertha read into it strong disapproval, which caused her to flush distressfully right up to the roots of her hair.

“I am afraid that there is nothing for me to do but to go,” she said faintly. “If I cannot reach Mr. Bradgate by a letter, I cannot let him know that I have something of his in my possession which he ought to have; and, you see, he does not even know that I have it, so I must find him somehow.”

“What is it? Or would you rather not tell me?” asked the inspector, with the same interest he might have displayed if it had been his own daughter who was faced with a difficulty.

Again Bertha flushed hotly. How horrid it was that she could not speak right out and have done with this stupid mystery! She would have done it, if she had been quite sure that she would be able to reach Edgar Bradgate and restore the stones to his possession; but for the thought that in spite of her efforts she might be obliged to take the case back to Duck Flats, when poor Grace would have to bear the added burden of knowing that some outside person was aware of the exceedingly valuable property in their possession.

The inspector saw her hesitation, and hastened to reassure her. “Pray don’t trouble to tell me, Miss Doyne. I assure you that there is no need, and my curiosity was quite unjustifiable; but I thought that I might help you more effectually, if I knew the nature of the property you had to restore.”

“I can tell you part of it, anyhow,” said Bertha, with a rather watery smile, “then you will better understand the difficulties of my position.”

“That must be as you please, only do not feel bound to reveal more than is convenient,” replied the inspector, with a considerable lightening of his gravity; for Bertha did not look the sort of girl who would be likely to embark on anything indiscreet, and he was only too eager to help her in any way he could.

She nodded her head in a queer, shaky fashion and plunged into rapid speech. “On the day when Mr. Bradgate’s boat was caught on the rocks at Mestlebury he was in great danger of being drowned, and I swam out with a rope to be fastened to the boat, which was afterwards towed ashore. But when I reached him and he helped me into the boat, I shivered so badly that Mr. Bradgate pulled a coat out from under the seat and told me to put it on, which I did. We were capsized before we reached the shore, and he was unconscious when we were helped out of the water, so I left him to the care of the fisher people, while I ran home just as I was. Then I was ill for two or three weeks, and one day, when I was better, I found his coat lying wet and horrible in the corner of the room where I had dropped it before I was taken ill. I suppose that my sisters in their hard work and anxiety had been too busy to sort up the muddle in the little room where I slept when I was well. I picked up the coat to shake it out and dry it, but something dropped from the pocket which worried me a great deal. As soon as I could I went to the fisher folk who had taken care of the stranger and asked for his name and address, but I could never get either.”

“And it is the something which you found in the pocket that you wish to restore, I take it?” said the inspector quickly.

“Yes, and I shall have no peace until it is safely in Mr. Bradgate’s possession,” said Bertha, with a distressful pant in her breath.

The inspector frowned. He understood to the full the difficulties of Bertha’s position, and he was not disposed to be lenient to the man who had brought the trouble about.

“If the thing found in the coat were so valuable, why did not the man come to enquire for it, also for his coat?” he asked grimly.

“That is what has always puzzled me so greatly until the other Sunday evening, when I read the letter which Mrs. Fricker, of Halifax, wrote to her son; but since then I have thought that most likely Mr. Bradgate forgot that he had had his coat with him in the boat at all, in which case, although he might search for it in other directions, he would not think of approaching me on the subject,” answered Bertha, and then she poured into the ears of the sympathetic inspector the story of how Edgar Bradgate had emptied his pockets to reward her for helping him, and how Mrs. Saunders had kept the money, refusing to let her know the name or abode of the man with whom she so earnestly wished to communicate.

“The old lady was afraid of being bowled out, I expect,” said the inspector, with a laugh, and then he asked Bertha to let him have an hour in which to consider what was best to be done.

“If you have any business in the town, go and do that and be back here within the hour, by which time I may be able to tell you whether it is possible for you to be sent to railhead, and how long the journey will take,” he said.

“Thank you, very much,” replied Bertha, as she rose from the wooden bench on which she had been sitting, and then she said nervously, “You will not let anyone know what I have told you about the something being of value? Mrs. Ellis says that she would never dare to be left alone if anyone knew, and that kind of worry is so bad for her.”

“Your confidence is quite safe with me, have no fear. The police have to keep almost as many secrets as a lawyer, and to their credit be it said they mostly do keep them,” he answered, as he bowed her out of the bare room and reminded her to be back within an hour.

She had not gone the length of two blocks, when she met Bill Humphries coming to meet her with a very bothered look on his face, and at sight of her he cried out in great concern, “Here is a pretty business—a blockhead of a fellow hauling rails ran into me and smashed one of my hind wheels, and I can’t get the wagon back to Pentland Broads to-day! Whatever shall I do with you?”