by the rattle of loose shingles overhead and the soft thud against the
windows of driving snow, while the girl sat dreaming over her sewing of
the brighter days in far-off England which had slipped away from her
for ever. Five years was not a very long time, but during it her
English friends had forgotten her, and one who had scarcely left her
side that memorable night had, though she read of the doings of his
regiment now and then, sent her no word or token. A little flush crept
into her cheek as, remembering certain words of his, she glanced at her
reddened wrists and little toil-hardened hands. She who had been a
high-spirited girl with the world at her feet then, was now one of the
obscure toilers whose work was never done. Still, because it was only
on rare occasions that work left her leisure to think about herself, it
had not occurred to her that she had lost but little by the change.
The hands that had once been soft and white were now firm and brown,
the stillness of the great firs and cedars had given her a calm
tranquillity in place of restless haste, and frost and sun the clear,
warm-tinted complexion, while a look of strength and patience had
replaced the laughter in her hazel eyes.

Suddenly, however, there was a trampling in the snow and a sound of
voices, followed after, an interval by a knocking at the door. It
swung open, and two whitened objects loaded with bags and packages
strode into the room. The blast that came in with them set the lamp
flickering, and sent a chill through the girl, but she rose with a
smile when rancher Alton stood, a shapeless figure, with the moisture
on his bronzed face, beside the stove.

"Take those things through into the kitchen, Charley," he said. "I
think we've got them all, Miss Townshead. I hope, sir, you are feeling
pretty well."