pretty one," he said. "You see, except my mother and Miss Townshead, I
have never spoken to an English lady."

"But you must have been very young when you lost her," said the girl.

Alton took off his hat, and pointed to a hillside shrouded with sombre
firs. "Yes," he said quietly. "She sleeps up there, and in a little
while my father followed her. He was lonely without her, and because
of what she had done for him, proud of his countrywomen. He often used
to talk about them."

"And," said Alice Deringham, "you wondered if he was mistaken?"

Alton made a little gesture that in a curious fashion implied a wide
chivalric faith. "No," he said gravely, "I believe he was right."

Miss Deringham felt a faint warmth creep into her cheek, and it was not
because the speech might have been deemed a personal compliment. She
saw a little deeper into the man's nature than that, and, if she had
not, the tone of grave respect would have enlightened her. Then she
turned with a little sense of relief as Deringham came out upon the
verandah.

"I am pleased to see you and Mr. Alton have made friends," he said, and
the girl, who noticed a faint twinkle in his eyes, turned quietly and
looked down the valley as she remembered one odious clause in the will.

She rose early next morning, and flinging the window open to let in the
glorious freshness heard a commotion below, while as she wondered as to
the cause of it several pairs of old boots went gyrating over the