On the evening before he left Montreal, Thirlwell sat in the hall of his
hotel, listening to the clanging street-cars and the rattle of the Grand
Trunk trains. Poisoned flies dropped upon the tables and an electric fan
made an unpleasant whirring as it churned the humid air. Had his mood
been normal the heat and noise would not have disturbed Thirlwell, but
now they jarred.

His visit had been a failure, and his employers must develop the mine
without the help of the latest machines. He doubted if they could
finance the undertaking until they struck the vein. Then it looked as if
he had been rash to reject Sir James's offer. He had thrown away a
chance of winning prosperity and perhaps fame in England, for he knew he
had some talent and he was ambitious. Instead he had chosen exhausting
labor and stern self-denial in the wilds. The life had some
compensations, but they were not very obvious then. It was, however, too
late for regrets; he had chosen and must be content, and putting down
the newspaper he was trying to read, he went to bed.

Two days later he sat in the garden of a new summer hotel on the shore
of Lake Huron. A pine forest rolled down to the water past the pretty
wooden building, and the air in the shade was cool and sweet with
resinous smells. The lake glittered, smooth as glass, in the hot sun,
but here and there a wandering breeze traced a dark-blue line across
the placid surface. Along the beach the shadows of the pines floated
motionless.

Thirlwell smoked and meditated on the errand that had brought him to the
hotel. The clerk had told him that Miss Strange was on the beach, but he
had not seen her yet and felt some curiosity about the girl whom he had