The Triumph of John Kars. Cullum Ridgwell

But his smile contained no added warmth, and his hand-shake lacked the grip it received.

      In five minutes John Kars had made his explanations. But they were made to Jessie. Murray was left on the fringe of their talk.

      He told her in his rapid, easy fashion that he was out for the whole open season. That he'd practically had to kidnap Bill from his beloved Leaping Horse. That his old friend was just recovering from his consequent grouch, and, anyway, folks mustn't expect anything more than common civility from him as yet. He said that he hoped to make Fort Wrigley on the Mackenzie River some time in the summer, and maybe even Fort Simpson. But that would be the limit. By that time, he guessed Bill would have mutinied and probably murdered him. He said he hoped to appease the said Doctor with a good bag of game. But even that was problematical, as Bill had never been known to hit anything smaller than a haystack in his life.

      So he talked with the daughter of his old friend Allan Mowbray, knowing of the man's murder by the Indians, but never by word or sign reminding the girl of her loss.

      Meantime Bill Brudenell deliberately completed the work of superintending the "snugging" of the canoes for the night. He heard his friend's charges, and smiled his retorts with pointed sarcasm. And Jessie understood, for she knew these two, and their great friendship. And Dr. Bill—well, she regarded him as a sort of delightful uncle who never told her of her faults, or recommended his own methods of performing the difficult task of getting through life successfully.

      When all was ready they moved off the landing towards the Mission clearing.

      Ailsa Mowbray was preparing supper. The scones were nearly ready in the oven, and she watched them with a skilful eye.

      She looked still older in her moments of solitude. The change in her wrought by the last seven months must have been heart-breaking to those who had not seen her since that dreadful night of tragedy. But her spirit was unimpaired. There were her two children left, and a merciful Providence had bestowed upon her a world of maternal devotion. For all her grief, she had not been entirely robbed of that which made life possible. Her husband lived again in the children he had blessed her with.

      Had she so chosen she might have severed herself forever from the life which had so deeply wounded her. Her fortune made it possible to seek comfort in the heart of the world's great civilization. But the thought of it never entered her simple head. She was a born housewife. The love of her home, and its care, was part of her. That home which had yielded her her greatest joys and her greatest trial.

      Sometimes the thought would obtrude that Jessie deserved something more than the drear life of the northland. But the girl herself dispelled these thoughts. Like her mother, she had no desire beyond the home she had always known.

      When Jessie hurried into the spotless kitchen her mother glanced quickly up from her cook-stove.

      "What is it?" she demanded, at the sight of the eager eyes and parted lips. "You're——" She broke off with a smile. "There, child," she added, "you don't need to tell it. Your face does that. John Kars has come up the river."

      The girl flushed scarlet. Her eyes were horrified.

      "Why, mother," she cried dismayed, "am I so easy to read? Can—can anybody read me like—you can?"

      The mother's eyes were very tender.

      "I don't believe John Kars can anyway," she said reassuringly. "You see, he's a man. Is he coming along over?"

      Jessie's relief was as obvious as her momentary dismay. The flush of shame faded from her pretty cheeks. Her eyes were again dancing with delight.

      "Why, sure, mother," she cried. "He's coming right over—after they've fixed things with Father José. I don't think they'll be to supper. Dr. Bill's with him, of course. And say, aren't they just two dears? To see them together, and hear their fool talk, you'd think them two kids instead of two of the big men of the country. It must be good to keep a heart so young all the time. I think, mother, they must be good men. Real good men. I don't mean like Father José. But the sort who do things square because they like square living. I—I wish they lived here all the time. I—I don't know which I like best."

      "I do."

      The mother set the scones on the table and glanced over it with approving eyes. The girl's protest came swiftly but playfully.

      "Be quiet, you mother dear," she cried, her ready blushes mounting again. "Don't you dare to say—things. I——"

      The mother only smiled the more deeply.

      "Best go and round Alec up. Supper's ready."

      But the girl hesitated.

      "He's at the barns fixing his outfit with Keewin," she said. "He reckons to break trail in a few days. Say, Murray's gone across to Father José with them. Will I get him, too?" Then she added thoughtfully, "Do you know, mother, I don't think Murray's glad to see John Kars. He's sort of quiet with him around. I don't know. I don't reckon he likes him. I wonder why?"

      The mother's eyes searched her daughter's face. Her smile must have been full of meaning for any one less simple than the girl before her.

      "There's no accounting the way men feel for each other," she said at last. "Maybe Murray guesses John Kars is butting into our trade. Maybe he's anxious to keep the country to ourselves. You see, these folks aren't traders, and we are."

      The girl became indignant at once.

      "But he's no right to feel that way," she cried. "The country's free. It's big enough for us all. Besides, if John Kars isn't a trader, where's the trouble? I think Murray's mean. That's all."

      The mother shook her head.

      "Best go and call the men-folk," she said, in her direct fashion. "Murray can see to his likes and dislikes the same as he can see to most things he's set on." Then she smiled. "Anyway, I don't suppose it figgers any with you around. John Kars isn't likely to suffer from it."

      Just for one instant the girl's eyes answered the mother's gentle challenge. Then she went off firing her parting shot over her shoulder as she vanished through the doorway.

      "I've always thought Murray mean—for—for all his fat smile. I—just hate meanness."

      Ailsa Mowbray was startled. Nothing could have startled her more. In all the years of their association with Murray she had never before heard so direct an expression of dislike from either of her children. It troubled her. She had not been blind to Alec's feelings. Ever since the boy had grown to manhood she had known there had been antagonism between them. She was never likely to forget the scene on the night her husband's appeal for help reached her. But Jessie.

      She was disquieted. She was wondering, too. And, wondering, the memory of her promise to Murray rose up threateningly before her. She turned slowly back to the stove for no definite purpose, and, so turning, she shook her head.

      Later, Jessie returned, the last sign of her ill-humor completely gone. Behind her came the two men of her mother's household. And so the evening meal progressed to its conclusion.

      Later still Father José and his two visitors foregathered in the hospitable living-room, and, for the time at least, Ailsa Mowbray gave no further thought to her disquiet, or to the appeal Murray had made to her.

CHAPTER IX

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MURRAY TELLS HIS STORY

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      For a whole week Ailsa Mowbray was given no further opportunity of dwelling upon the possibilities of the situation between Jessie and Murray McTavish. John Kars pervaded the Mission with a personality too buoyant to