There was warmth and brightness in the cedar-boarded general room of Silverdale Grange, and most of the company gathered there basked¹ in it contentedly² after their drive through the bitter night. Those who came from the homesteads lying farthest out had risked frost-nipped hands and feet, for when Colonel Barrington held a levee at the Grange nobody felt equal to refusing his invitation. Neither scorching⁴ heat nor utter cold might excuse compliance⁵ with the wishes of the founder⁶ of Silverdale, and it was not until Dane, the big middle-aged⁷ bachelor, had spoken very plainly, that he consented to receive his guests in time of biting frost dressed otherwise than as they would have appeared in England.  
Dane was the one man in the settlement who dare remonstrate⁹ with its ruler, but it was a painful astonishment¹⁰ to the latter when he said in answer to one invitation, "I have never been frost-bitten, sir, and I stand the cold well, but one or two of the lads are weak in the chest, and this climate was never intended for bare-shouldered women. Hence, if I come, I shall dress myself to suit it."
 
Colonel Barrington stared at him for almost a minute, and then shook his head. "Have it your own way," he said. "Understand that in itself I care very little for dress, but it is only by holding fast to every traditional nicety we can prevent ourselves sinking into Western barbarism, and I am horribly afraid of the thin end of the wedge."
 
Dane having gained his point said nothing further, for he was one of the wise and silent men who know when to stop, and that evening he sat in a corner watching his leader thoughtfully, for there was anxiety in the Colonel's face. Barrington sat silent near the ample hearth¹¹ whose heat would scarcely have kept water from freezing but for the big stove, and disdaining¹² the dispensation made his guests, he was clad conventionally, though the smooth black fabric¹⁴ clung about him more tightly than it had once been intended to do. His sister stood, with the stamp of a not wholly vanished beauty still clinging to her gentle face, talking to one or two matrons from outlying farms, and his niece by a little table turning over Eastern photographs with a few young girls. She, too, wore black in deference¹⁵ to the Colonel's taste, which was somber¹⁶, and the garment she had laughed at as a compromise left uncovered a narrow strip of ivory shoulder and enhanced the polished whiteness of her neck. A slender string of pearls gleamed softly on the satiny skin, but Maud Barrington wore no other adornment¹⁷, and did not need it. She had inherited the Courthorne comeliness¹⁸, and the Barringtons she sprang from on her father's side had always borne the stamp of distinction.
 
A young girl sat at the piano singing in a thin reedy voice, while an English lad waited with the ill-concealed jealousy¹⁹ of a too officious companion to turn over the music by her side. Other men, mostly young, with weather-bronzed faces, picturesque²⁰ in embroidered²¹ deerskin or velvet²² lounge jackets, were scattered²³ about the room, and all were waiting for the eight o'clock dinner, which replaced the usual prairie supper at Silverdale. They were growers of wheat who combined a good deal of amusement with a little, not very profitable, farming, and most of them possessed²⁴ a large share of insular²⁵ English pride and a somewhat depleted²⁶ exchequer²⁷.
 
Presently Dane crossed over, and sat down by Colonel Barrington. "You are silent, sir, and not looking very well to-night," he said.
 
Barrington nodded gravely, for he had a respect for the one man who occasionally spoke⁸ plain truth to him. "The fact is, I am growing old," he said, and then added, with what was only an apparent lack of connection, "Wheat is down three cents, and money tighter than ever."
 
Dane looked thoughtful, and noticed the older man's glance in his niece's direction, as he said, "I am afraid there are difficult times before us."
 
"I have no doubt we shall weather them as we have done before," said the Colonel. "Still, I can't help admitting that just now I feel--a little tired--and am commencing to think we should have been better prepared for the struggle had we worked a trifle harder during the recent era of prosperity. I could wish there were older heads on the shoulders of those who will come after me."
 
Just then Maud Barrington glanced at them, and Dane, who could not remember having heard his leader talk in that fashion before, and could guess his anxieties, was a little touched as he noticed his attempt at sprightliness²⁸. As it happened, one of the lads at the piano commenced a song of dogs and horses that had little to recommend it but the brave young voice.
 
"They have the right spirit, sir," he said.
 
"Of course!" said Barrington. "They are English lads, but I think a little more is required. Thank God we have not rated the dollar too high, but it is possible we have undervalued its utility, and I fear I have only taught them to be gentlemen."
 
"That is a good deal, sir," Dane said quietly.
 
"It is. Still, a gentleman, in the restricted sense, is somewhat of an anachronism on the prairie, and it is too late to begin again. In the usual course of nature I must lay down my charge presently, and that is why I feel the want of a more capable successor, whom they would follow because of his connection with mine and me."
 
Dane looked thoughtful. "If I am not taking a liberty--you still consider the one apparently²⁹ born to fill the place quite unsuitable?"
 
"Yes," said Barrington quietly. "I fear there is not a redeeming³⁰ feature in Courthorne's character."
 
Neither said anything further, until there was a tapping at the door, and, though this was a most unusual spectacle on the prairie, a trim English maid in white-banded dress stood in the opening.
 
"Mr. Courthorne, Miss Barrington," she said.
 
Now Silverdale had adopted one Western custom in that no chance guest was ever kept waiting, and the music ceased suddenly, while the stillness was very suggestive, when a man appeared in the doorway³¹. He wore one of the Scandinavian leather jackets which are not uncommon³² in that country, and when his eyes had become accustomed to the light, moved forward with a quiet deliberation that was characterized neither by graceful³³ ease nor the restraint of embarrassment³⁴. His face was almost the color of a Blackfeet's, his eyes steady and gray, but those of the men who watched him were turned the next moment upon the Colonel's sister, who rose to receive him, slight, silver-haired, and faded, but still stamped with a simple dignity that her ancient silks and laces curiously³⁵ enhanced. Then there was a silence that could be felt, for all realized that a good deal depended on the stranger's first words and the fashion of his reception by Miss Barrington and the Colonel.
 
Winston, as it happened, felt this too, and something more. It was eight years since he had stood before an English lady, and he surmised³⁶ that there could not be many to compare with this one, while after his grim lonely life an intangible something that seemed to emanate³⁷ from her gracious serenity³⁸ compelled his homage³⁹. Then as she smiled at him and held out her hand, he was for a moment sensible of an almost overwhelming confusion. It passed as suddenly, for this was a man of quick perceptions, and remembering that Courthorne had now and then displayed some of the grace of by-gone days he yielded to a curious impulse, and, stooping, kissed the little withered⁴⁰ fingers.
 
"I have," he said, "to thank you for a welcome that does not match my poor deserts, madam."
 
Then Dane, standing⁴¹ beside his leader, saw the grimness grow a trifle less marked in his eyes. "It is in the blood," he said half-aloud, but Dane heard and afterwards remembered it.
 
In the meanwhile Miss Barrington had turned from the stranger to her niece. "It is a very long time since you have seen Lance, Maud, and, though I knew his mother well, I am less fortunate, because this is our first meeting," she said. "I wonder if you still remember my niece?"
 
Now, Winston had been gratified by his first success, and was about to venture on the answer that it was impossible to forget; but when he turned towards the very stately young woman in the long black dress whose eyes had a sardonic⁴² gleam, and wondered whether he had ever seen anybody so comely⁴³ or less inclined to be companionable, it was borne in upon him that any speech of the kind would be distinctly out of place. Accordingly, and because there was no hand held out in this case, he contented³ himself with a little bend of his head. Then he was presented to the Colonel, who was distantly cordial, and Winston was thankful when the maid appeared in the doorway again, to announce that dinner was ready, Miss Barrington laid her hand upon his arm.
 
"You will put up with an old woman's company tonight?" she said.
 
Winston glanced down deprecatingly at his attire⁴⁴. "I must explain that I had no intention of trespassing⁴⁵ on your hospitality," he said. "I purposed going on to my own homestead, and only called to acquaint Colonel Barrington with my arrival."
 
Miss Barrington laughed pleasantly. "That," she said, "was neither dutiful nor friendly. I should have fancied you would also have desired to pay your respects to my niece and me."
 
Winston was not quite sure what he answered, but he drew in a deep breath, for he had made the plunge⁴⁶ and felt that the worst was over. His companion evidently noticed the gasp⁴⁷ of relief.
 
"It was something of an ordeal⁴⁸?" she said.
 
Winston looked down upon her gravely, and Miss Barrington noticed a steadiness in his eyes she had not expected to see. "It was, and I feel guilty because I was horribly afraid," he said. "Now I only wonder if you will always be equally kind to me."
 
Miss Barrington smiled a little, but the man fancied there was a just perceptible tightening⁴⁹ of the hand upon his arm. "I would like to be, for your mother's sake," she said.
 
Winston understood that while Courthorne's iniquities⁵⁰ were not to be brought up against him, the little gentle-voiced lady had but taken him on trial; but, perhaps because it was so long since any woman had spoken kindly⁵¹ words to him, his heart went out towards her, and he felt a curious desire to compel her good opinion. Then he found himself seated near the head of the long table, with Maud Barrington on his other hand, and had an uncomfortable feeling that most of the faces were turned somewhat frequently in his direction. It is also possible that he would have betrayed himself, had he been burdened with self-consciousness, but the long, bitter struggle he had fought alone, had purged⁵² him of petty weaknesses and left him the closer grasp of essential things, with the strength of character which is one and the same in all men who possess it, whatever may be their upbringing.
 
During a lull⁵³ in the voices, Maud Barrington, who may have felt it incumbent⁵⁴ on her to show him some scant⁵⁵ civility, turned towards him as she said, "I am afraid our conversation will not appeal to you. Partly because there is so little else to interest us, we talk wheat throughout the year at Silverdale."
 
"Well," said Winston with a curious little smile, "wheat as a topic is not quite new to me. In fact, I know almost more about cereals than some folks would care to do."
 
"In the shape of elevator warrants or Winnipeg market margins⁵⁶, presumably?"
 
Winston's eyes twinkled, though he understood the implication. "No............