“Nothing to what I’ve done in my time,” replied Hervey. “Besides, mother, I’ve got further to go yet. And as for sister Prudence’s marriage, I’m afraid I can’t stay for that.”

“Not stay?” exclaimed his mother.

“Do you mean it?” asked his sister incredulously.

Sarah Gurridge contented herself with looking her dismay.

“You see, it’s like this,” said Hervey. He had an uncomfortable habit of keeping his eyes fixed upon the table, only just permitting himself occasional swift upward glances over the other folk’s heads. “When I got your letter, Prudence, I was just preparing to come up from Los Mares to go and see a big fruit-grower at Niagara. The truth is that my fruit farm is a failure and I am trying to sell it.”

“My poor boy!” exclaimed his mother; “and you never told me. But there, you were always as proud as proud, and never would let me help you. Your poor father was just the same; when things went wrong he wouldn’t own up to any one. I remember how we lost sixty acres of forty-bushel, No. 1 wheat with an August frost. I never learned it till we’d taken in the finest crop in the district at the next harvesting. But you didn’t put all your savings into fruit?”

“I’m afraid I did, mother, worse luck.”

“All you made up at the Yukon goldfields?” asked Prudence, alarm in her voice.

“Every cent.”

There followed a dead silence.

“Then–” Mrs. Malling could get no further.

“I’m broke–dead broke. And I’m going East to sell my land to pay off my debts. I’ve had an offer for it, and I’m going to clinch the deal quick. Say, I just came along here to see you, and I’m going on at once. I only got into Winnipeg yesterday. I rode out without delay, but struck the Ainsley trail, or I should have been here sooner. Now, see here, mother,” Hervey went on, as a woe-begone expression closely verging on tears came into the old dame’s eyes, “it’s no use crying over this business. What’s done is done. I’m going to get clear of my farm first, and maybe afterwards I’ll come here again and we’ll talk things over a bit.”

Prudence sat staring at her brother, but Hervey avoided her gaze. Mrs. Malling was too heartbroken to speak yet. Her weather-tanned face had blanched as much as it was possible for it to do. Her boy had gone out upon the world to seek his fortune, and he had succeeded in establishing himself, he had written and told her. He had found gold in quantities in the Yukon valley, and now–now, at last, he had failed. The shock had for the moment crushed her; her boy, her proud independent boy, as she had been wont to consider him, had failed. She did not ask herself, or him, the reason of his failure. Such failure, she felt, must be through no fault of his, but the result of adverse circumstances.

She never thought of the gambling-table. She never thought of reckless living. Such things could not enter her simple mind and be in any way associated with her boy. Hephzibah Malling loved her son; to her he was the king who could do no wrong. She continued to gaze blankly in the man’s direction.

Sarah Gurridge alone of the trio allowed herself sidelong, speculative glances at the man’s face. She had seen the furtive overhead glances; the steady avoidance of the loving observation of his womankind. She had known Hervey as well, and perhaps just a shade better than his mother and sister had; and long since, in his childish school-days, she had detected a lurking weakness in an otherwise good character. She wondered now if he had lived to outgrow that juvenile trait, or had it grown with him, gaining strength as the greater passions of manhood developed?

After the first shock of Hervey’s announcement had passed, Mrs. Malling sought refuge in the consolation of her own ability to help her son. He must never know want, or suffer the least privation. She could and would give him everything he needed. Besides, after all, she argued with womanly feeling, now perhaps she could persuade him to look after the farm for her; to stay by her side. He should be in no way dependent. She would install him as manager at a comfortable salary. The idea pleased her beyond measure, and it was with difficulty she could keep herself from at once putting her proposal into words. However, by a great effort, she checked her enthusiasm.

“Then when do you think of going East?” she asked, with some trepidation. “You won’t go at once, sure.”

“Yes, I must go at once,” Hervey replied promptly. “That is, to-morrow morning.”

“Then you will stay to-night,” said Prudence.

“Yes; but only to get a good long sleep and rest my horse. I’m thoroughly worn out. I’ve been in saddle since early this morning.”

“Have you sent your horse round to the barn?” asked Sarah Gurridge.

“Well, no. He’s hitched to the fence.” The observing Sarah had been sure of it.

Prudence rose from her seat and called out to the hired girl–

“Mary, send out and tell Andy to take the horse round to the barn. He’s hitched to the fence.” Then she came back. “You’ll join our party to-night, of course.”

“Hoity, girl, of course not,” said their mother. “How’s the lad going to get rest gallivanting with a lot of clowns who can only talk of ‘bowers’ and ‘jokers’? You think of nothing but ‘how-de-doin’ with your neighbours since you’re going to be married. Things were different in my day. I’ll look after Hervey,” she continued, turning to her son. “You shall have a good night, lad, or my name’s not Hephzibah Malling. Maybe you’ll tell me by and by what you’d like to do.”

“That’s right, mother,” replied Hervey, with an air of relief. “You understand what it is for a man to need rest. I’ll just hang around till the folks come, and then sneak off to bed. You don’t mind, Prue, do you? I’m dead beat, and I want to leave at daybreak.”

“Mind?” answered Prudence; “certainly not, Hervey. I should have liked you to meet Mr. Grey, but you must get your rest.”

“Sure,” added her mother, “and as for meeting Mr. Grey–well, your brother won’t sicken for want of seeing him, I’ll wager. Come along, Hervey, we’ll go to the kitchen; Prudence has to get her best parlour ready for these chattering noodles. And, miss,” turning to her daughter with an expression of pretended severity, “don’t forget that I’ve got a batch o’ layer cakes in the ice-box, and you’ve not told me what you want in the way of drinks. La, young folks never think of the comforts. I’m sure I don’t know what you’ll do without your mother, girl. Some o’ these times your carelessness will get your parties made a laughing-stock of. Come along, Hervey.”

The old lady bustled out, bearing her son off in triumph to the kitchen. She was quite happy again now. Her scheme for her son’s welfare had shut out all thought of his bad news. Most women are like this; the joy of giving to their own is perhaps the greatest joy in the life of a mother.

In the hall they met the flying, agitated figure of the hired girl, Mary.

“Oh, please, ’m, there’s such a racket going on by the barn. There’s Andy an’ the two dogs fighting with a great, strange, three-legged dog wot looks like a wolf. They’re that mussed up that I don’t know, I’m sure.”

“It’s that brute Neche of mine,” said Hervey, with an imprecation. “It’s all right, girl; I’ll go.”

Hervey rushed out to the barn. The great three-legged savage was in the midst of a fierce scrimmage. Two farm dogs were attacking him. They were both half-bred sheep-dogs. One was making futile attempts to get a hold upon the stranger, and Neche was shaking the other as a terrier would shake a rat. And Andy, the choreman, was lambasting the intruder with the business end of a two-tine hay-fork, and shouting frightful curses at him in a strong American accent.

As Hervey came upon the scene, Neche hurled his victim from him, either dead or dying, for the dog lay quite still where it fell upon the snow. Then, impervious to the onslaught of the choreman, he seized the other dog.

“Come out of it, Andy,” cried Hervey.

The hired man ceased his efforts at once, glad to be done with the savage. Hervey then ran up to the infuriated husky, and dealt him two or three terrible kicks.

The dog turned round instantly. His fangs were dripping with blood, and he snarled fiercely, his baleful eyes glowing with ferocity. But he slunk off when he recognized his assailant, allowing the second dog to run for its life, howling with canine fear.

Andy went over to the dog that was stretched upon the snow.

“Guess ’e’s done, boss,” he said, looking up at Hervey as the latter came over to his side. “Say, that’s about the slickest scrapper round these parts. Gee-whizz, ’e went fur me like the tail end o’ a cyclone when I took your plug to the barn. It was they curs that kind o’ distracted his attention. Mebbe thar’s more wolf nor dog in him. Mebbe, I sez.”

“Yes, he’s a devil-tempered husky,” said Hervey. “I’ll have to shoot him one of these days.”

“Wa’al, I do ’lows that it’s a mercy ’e ain’t got no more’n three shanks. Mackinaw! but he’s handy.”

The four women had watched the scene from the kitchen door. Hervey came over to where they were standing.

“I’m sorry, mother,” he said. “Neche has killed one of your dogs. He’s a fiend for fighting. I’ve a good mind to shoot him now.”

“No, don’t go for to do that,” said his mother. “We oughtn’t to have sent Andy to take your horse. I expect the beast thought he was doing right.”

“He’s a brute. Curse him!”

Prudence said nothing. Now she moved a little away from the house and talked to the dog. He was placidly, and with no show of penitence, lying down and licking a laceration on one of his front legs. He occasionally shook his great head, and stained the snow with the blood which dripped from his fierce-looking ears. He paused in his operation at the sound of the girl’s voice, and looked up. Her tone was gentle and caressing. Hervey suddenly called to her.

“Don’t go near him. He’s as treacherous as a dogone Indian.”

“Come back,” called out her mother.

The girl paid no attention. She called again, and patted her blue apron encouragingly. The animal rose slowly to his feet, looked dubiously in her direction, then, without any display of enthusiasm, came slowly towards her. His limp added to his wicked aspect, but he came, nor did he stop until his head was resting against her dress, and her hand was caressing his great back. The huge creature seemed to appreciate the girl’s attitude, for he made no attempt to move away. It is probable that this was the first caress the dog had ever known in all his savage life.

Hervey looked on and scratched his beard thoughtfully, but he said nothing more. Mrs. Malling went back to the kitchen. Sarah Gurridge alone had anything to say.

“Poor creature,” she observed, in tones of deep pity. “I wonder how he lost his foot. Is he always fighting? A poor companion, I should say.”

Hervey laughed unpleasantly.

“Oh, he’s not so bad. He’s savage, and all that But he’s a good friend.”

“Ah, and a deadly enemy. I suppose he’s very fond of you. He lets you kick him,” she added significantly.

“I hardly know–and I must say I don’t much care–what his feelings are towards me. Yes, he lets me kick him.” Then, after a pause, “But I think he really hates me.”

And Hervey turned abruptly and went back into the kitchen. He preferred the more pleasant atmosphere of his mother’s adulation to the serious reflections of Sarah Gurridge.