By Right of Purchase

"Ah," said Carrie, with a faint warmth in her cheeks, "it's a long time since you have even tried to say anything of that kind to me. Well, I have something to say, and I would like you to believe it is not merely what you once called the correct thing. I am very sorry for what has happened."

"My dear, I think I know," and Leland smiled at her. "It was very good of you, and the only thing that was needed to make my worries melt away. I seem to feel I'm going to come out ahead of the market and the rustlers, now. Could anybody be afraid when he had seen the wheat?"

The girl turned and gazed with only partial comprehension at the vast sweep of green.

"Oh," she said, "I suppose it is a little wonderful. It looked so hopeless yesterday. I am glad one, at least, of your troubles has vanished, Charley."

"And yours?"

"Am I supposed to have any?"

She spoke without bitterness, as though questioning his faculty of comprehension, and she saw the dark colour creep into his face. Still, it was not the hue of anger, and, stooping, he gently seized the hand that wore the ring.

"My dear," he said, "you must have many. I can feel it now, and, when I married you, I was, perhaps, doing wrong. How could one expect you to be content with such a man as I am?"

He stopped a moment, and smiled wistfully. "I almost think I know how the life you lead here must look to you. You can see it stretching out in front of you, all arid and hopeless, like those furrows yesterday. Still, now you see them green with promise. The rain has come."

"Ah," said Carrie; "still, the wheat was hidden there, and in some of us there are only weeds and tares, while, even if there is among them a little wholesome grain, who knows if the rain will ever come at all?" She looked up at him and hesitated. "Charley, do you feel that I have cheated you very badly?"

"How?"

"Oh, I suppose you will not admit it. One could thank you for that, but you know. Have I ever been a companion to you? Isn't your life harder than it was before?"

Leland's grasp of her hand grew tighter. "Well," he said, "there are times when one must talk, and I have felt that; but I felt, too, that, if I could wait, there would be a change."

"I think you must have been always hopeful."

"Hope," said Leland gravely, "is a little like the germ in the wheat. It lies dormant; but, while its husk lasts, it will not die. I think," and he glanced back at the vast sweep of sprouting green, "I was like that dusty ploughing, waiting for the rain."

The girl was silent for a while, though she, too, was conscious of a curious stirring of her nature, which showed itself by the warmth in her cheeks. The man had, she felt, chosen a peculiarly fitting symbolism, for, when the beneficent rain had touched the arid clods, they had put on beauty with sudden life and growth.

"And what do you expect, then?" she asked.

Leland smiled. "I don't quite know, but it must be something good and beautiful. What is in all Nature is in us too. My dear," and he made a little gesture, "one can feel, and not quite understand. The wheat yonder doesn't know why and how it grows, but, since you gave me your promise at Barrock-holme, I have been waiting for something to come to me."

"Ah," said Carrie again, "after what has happened, you can expect it still?"

The man looked at her gravely. "Hope is indestructible, and some day the rain will come. One cannot hurry it, one can only work and wait."

Carrie smiled a little, though once more pride and a curious tenderness struggled within her.

"Well," she said, "in the meantime, Jake is no doubt wondering whether we are coming in to breakfast."

They turned, and went back to the house, with the sunshine bright upon them, and the clean scents of the soil in their nostrils. The gladness that was in all things reacted upon them both.

Half an hour later, Leland set about his work again, and, as he had leagues to ride to visit one or two farms, and to see where there was likely to be any wild hay in the sloos, dusk was closing down before he came back again. In his absence, something had happened that left Carrie confused and startled. The men were trooping in for the six o'clock supper, when a light waggon swung into sight over the crest of the rise. As it reached the door of the homestead, one of the two men in it sprang down. Carrie was standing in the entrance hall when Jake showed him in, and she caught her breath with a little gasp when she saw who it was. The man who stood smiling at her with the sunlight on his face was the one she had parted from on the path above the ravine at Barrock-holme.

"Reggie!" she said.

Urmston laughed. "Yes," he said. "In the flesh. I have ridden most of two hundred miles on horseback and in a waggon to get here, in the expectation that you would be pleased to see me."

Carrie stood still, thankful that she was in the shadow, though for the moment she could not tell whether she was pleased or not. For one thing, the man's assurance that she would feel so somewhat jarred upon her, and the advantage was with him, for he had come there knowing that he would see her, and she had not expected him.

"Of course I am," she said. "But the waggon?"

"I hired the man to drive me. I suppose he can put up here, and go back to-morrow. Your husband will no doubt set me on my way to the railroad, when I go."

Carrie Leland was not, as a rule, readily shaken out of her serenity, but she was almost disconcerted now. Urmston evidently meant to stay, and even the stranger has only to ask for shelter upon the prairie. The man before her had once considered himself much more to her than a stranger.

"Yes," she said. "He will be glad to see you. Sit down while I tell Jake about the teamster, and see that your room is made ready."

She left him somewhat abruptly, and Urmston laughed a little. "Too startled even to shake hands with me," he murmured. "I wonder if that is significant."

Twenty minutes later, he was sitting down with Carrie and Mrs. Annersly at supper, and was not altogether astonished when the elder lady, who, he fancied, had never been fond of him, turned to him with a frank question.

"What did you come here for?" she said.

"To see Carrie – and yourself, madam," and Urmston smiled with a mischievous relish that made him look very young. "Could one venture to hope that in your case the pleasure is reciprocated?"

"I am, at least, disposed to tolerate anybody from the Old Country, though I can't go very much further. When one has been a few months here, one is apt to become contented with the products of Canada."

"The wheat? Have you turned farmer?"

Eveline Annersly's eyes twinkled. "No," she said. "The men. They are, after all, the finest thing this country raises."

Urmston laughed, though he felt that he had been favoured with a hint. Mrs. Annersly, however, had more to say.

"Have you suddenly grown energetic, and decided to do something?" she asked.

"No," said Urmston. "As a matter of fact, I came out to see the country and enjoy myself, although I have an ostensible mission. Geoffrey Crossthwaite is, as you are aware, a meddler in social economics, and has lately become interested in one of the especially commendable schemes for dumping into our dependencies the folks nobody seems to want at home."

"Ah," said Eveline Annersly, "that explains the thing."

Urmston flushed a trifle, and forced a smile.

"Well," he said, "I'm not quite sure that it does in itself. I happen to know a little about English farming, and am expected to report upon the prospects of giving other undesirables a start in life here, though there are two regular experts with the party."

"So you made a journey of two hundred miles to see Carrie and me, while they did the work? Still, I have no doubt her husband will be able to teach you a little about Canadian farming."

Urmston made a little gesture. "I am a stranger, madam, and in your hands. Treat me gently."

This was said good-humouredly, and with some gracefulness; but, trifling as the matter was, Carrie contrasted his attitude with the one she fancied her husband would have adopted. He would have braced himself for the encounter against much longer odds. She was grateful, however, to Eveline Annersly for the bantering conversation, as it gave her time to decide exactly what her own course must be. The circumstances were certainly somewhat embarrassing. When at last the meal was over, Eveline Annersly stuck to them persistently, and it was only when the chill of the clear, cold evening settled down upon the prairie that she left them alone upon the verandah. Urmston, who lay languidly graceful in a cane chair, glanced at Carrie.

"I have been looking forward to seeing you for days, and now I feel that this is not quite what I expected. You have changed," he said.

Carrie laughed, though she felt that the wistful note in his voice was genuine. She remembered, too, that she had once been fond of and believed in him, but she had, as she expressed it, grown since then, while it was evident that he was still the same. In fact, she felt he was remarkably young.

"Well," she said, "you have not."