The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up on the outskirts of the western towns.

Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams, who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs. Leslie.

“Guess you don’t know much about the English people we’re expecting?” Leslie asked.

“No,” said Prescott; “only that they’re friends of the Jernynghams. I don’t think I’ve even heard their names yet.”

“Mrs. Leslie knows,” rejoined the farmer; “I forget it. I feel kind of sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it, and if the man’s not so blamed stand-offish, I’ll have somebody to talk to.”

“I wouldn’t talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham.”

Leslie looked hard at him. 114

“There’s one point, Jack, where I can’t agree with you—you’re the only man in this district who doesn’t believe Jernyngham’s dead. It strikes me that you know more about the thing than you have told anybody yet.”

“Let it go at that,” said Prescott awkwardly, “All I could say would only bring more trouble on his people, and they’ve had quite enough.”

“Sure,” agreed Leslie, raising his hand in warning. “Sh-h! They’re coming out.”

The next moment Gertrude and her father joined the men, and after a few words with them stood still, listening. A long bluff, through which the trail from the settlement led, ran close up to the homestead, cutting against the pale green glow of the sky. For a few minutes there was a deep silence, intensified by the musical clash of cowbells in the distance, and then a measured, drumming sound rose softly from behind the trees.

“Guess that’s your friends,” Leslie said to Jernyngham. “Jim’s made pretty good time.”

The beat of hoofs grew nearer until the listeners could hear the rattle of wheels. Then a light, four-wheeled vehicle came lurching out of the bluff and Jernyngham hurried down the steps. Prescott had entered the house to tell Mrs. Leslie, and he came out as the driver pulled up his team. The occupants of the wagon, which had run a little past the door, had their backs to him, but seeing a girl about to alight he sprang forward. Her head was turned away from him at first, but she glanced round when he offered to assist her; and he forgot what the consequences of the meeting must be as he looked into the eyes of Muriel Hurst. He was conscious of an overwhelming delight, which showed itself in his shining 115 eyes and the warm color that suddenly flushed his face; Gertrude Jernyngham, standing beside him, read what was in his heart.

The effect on Muriel was as marked. He had seized her hand and as she was standing precariously poised, ready to descend, he swung her down. Then she recoiled from him, startled, but with strong relief in her expression.

“Cyril!” she cried in a strained voice. “Why didn’t you write and tell us that it was all a mistake? We heard that you were dead!”

Then Prescott remembered and his heart sank, but he strove to gather his courage, for there was a crisis to be faced. He stood silent, with one hand clenched tight, while Gertrude watched him with hard, unwavering eyes. Jernyngham, however, had heard Muriel’s startled exclamation and hurried toward her.

“What’s this?” he asked harshly. “You called my son’s name!”

The girl looked at Prescott; troubled and surprised by the confused emotions his face betrayed. There was obviously something wrong, but she could not imagine what it was.

“Yes,” she said, “I called him Cyril. Why shouldn’t I?”

Colston and his wife joined the group, while the driver looked on from the wagon and the Leslies from the stoop. Prescott and the girl stood a little distance apart and Muriel was sensible of a nervous shiver. When Prescott had first held up his hand to her, she had seen his keen pleasure and her heart had responded to it; now, however, she was filled with dismay.

Jernyngham answered her in curt, stern tones: 116

“There’s one very good reason—this is not my son!”

“Not Cyril!” Colston broke in. “But he made us believe he was; he’s the man we stayed with!” He made a puzzled gesture. “I can’t understand the thing.”

“Nor I,” replied Jernyngham. “Is this the man you wrote to us about?”

“Of course!” said Colston stupidly. “I thought he was Cyril; so did we all. We had no cause to doubt it.”

Jernyngham turned in fury to the Leslies.

“Who is the fellow?” he demanded.

Prescott braced himself.

“I’ll answer that—Jack Prescott. Mr. Colston stayed at my homestead.”

“And you personated my son? I suppose you had some motive for doing so and must see that we are entitled to an explanation?”

“Yes,” Prescott returned quietly. “This isn’t the place to make it. Hadn’t you better take your friends in?”

They entered the house, which was getting dark, and while the hired man carried in the baggage Leslie lighted a lamp in his sitting-room. It was spacious, roughly paneled in cedar, with an uncovered floor. There were a few chairs scattered about and a plain pine table. Jernyngham sat by the table and the others found seats here and there, except Prescott, who stood quietly opposite the old man. At a curt sign from Jernyngham, Leslie and his wife left the room.

“Mr. Prescott,” Jernyngham began, “you have deceived my friends here and I think they should remain to hear what you have to say, but I will dismiss them if you prefer it. You are responsible to me and I must ask for a full account of your conduct.” 117

Prescott glanced round the room, which reminded him of a court. Gertrude Jernyngham’s eyes were fixed on him, and there was a hardness that hinted at cruelty in them; she looked very dignified and cold. Mrs. Colston he could not see, but her husband seemed disturbed and uneasy. Muriel leaned forward in her chair, with wonder, apprehension, and pity curiously mingled in her expression. All of them were very still, the silence was disconcerting, but Prescott roused himself to make what defense he could.

“I passed for Cyril Jernyngham at his request,” he said.

“An extraordinary statement!” Jernyngham remarked with ironical incredulity. “May one ask if he gave any reasons for wishing you to do so?”

Prescott hesitated, which counted against him.

“Well,” he said, “Cyril had got hurt in a row at the settlement a few hours before Mr. Colston’s arrival. His head was badly cut; he thought it might make a bad impression.”

“That doesn’t sound very convincing. Had he no better reason?”

The rancher paused to think. He would not explain that his friend’s mode of life would not have borne a critical examination, but he had a duty to himself and something must be urged.

“I think he meant to hide the fact that he was married. He did not wish your friends to meet his wife.”

Colston started and it was obvious that the others were keenly interested, but Jernyngham’s face grew darker and marked by signs of pain, for he had learned a little about Ellice. He was struggling with an overwhelming humiliation. 118

“We’ll let that pass,” he said. “It’s a matter that cannot be discussed. Was Mr. Colston’s visit the only time you personated my son?”

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