the patter of the snow and moaning of the wind rose up before her as
she looked into the twinkling stove. She could recall that night five
years ago very well, for she had spent most of it amidst lights and
music, as fresh and bright herself as the flowers that nestled against
her first ball dress. It was a night of triumph and revelation, in
which she had first felt the full power of her beauty and her sex, and
she had returned with the glamour of it all upon her to find her father
sitting with his head in his hands at a table littered with business
papers. His face had frightened her, and it had never wholly lost the
look she saw upon it then, for Townshead was lacking in fibre, and had
found that a fondness for horses and some experience of amateur
cattle-breeding on a small and expensive scale was a very poor
preparation for the grim reality of ranching in Western Canada.

Presently his daughter brushed the memories from her, and stood,
smiling at the man, straight and willowy in her faded cotton dress with
a partly finished garment in her hands, which frost and sun had not
wholly turned rough and red.

"Your coffee will be getting cold. Shall I put it on the stove?" she
said.

Townshead made a little grimace. "One may as well describe things
correctly, and that is chickory," he said. "Still, you may warm it if
it pleases you, but I might point out that, indifferent as it is,
preserved milk which has gone musty does not improve its flavour."

The girl laughed a little, though there was something more pathetic
than heartsome in her merriment. "I am afraid we shall have none
to-morrow unless Mr. Seaforth gets through," she said. "I suppose you