Winston afterwards wondered how many miles he walked that night, for though the loghouse was not longer than thirty feet, the cold bit deep; but at last he heard a sigh as he glanced towards the stove, and immediately swung round again.  When he next turned, Miss Barrington stood upright, a little flushed in face but otherwise very calm, and the man stood still, shivering in spite of his efforts and blue with cold.  The wind had fallen, but the sting of the frost that followed it made itself felt beside the stove.

“You had only your deerskin jacket—­and you let me sleep under all the furs,” she said.

Winston shook his head, and hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt, when he remembered that it must have been evident to his companion that the furs did not get into the position they had occupied themselves.

“I only fancied you were a trifle drowsy and not inclined to talk,” he said, with an absence of concern, for which Miss Barrington, who did not believe him, felt grateful.  “You see,”—­and the inspiration was a trifle too evident—­“I was too sleepy to notice anything myself.  Still, I am glad you are awake now, because I must make my way to the Grange.”

“But the snow will be ever so deep, and I could not come,” said Maud Barrington.

Winston shook his head.  “I’m afraid you must stay here, but I will be back with Colonel Barrington in a few hours at latest.”

The girl deemed it advisable to hide her consternation.  “But you might not find the trail,” she said.  “The ravine would lead you to Graham’s homestead.”

“Still,” said Winston slowly, “I am going to the Grange.”

Then Maud Barrington remembered, and glanced aside from him.  It was evident this man thought of everything, and she made no answer when Winston, who thrust more billets into the stove, turned to her with a little smile.

“I think we need remember nothing when we meet again, beyond the fact that you will give me a chance of showing that the Lance Courthorne whose fame you know has ceased to exist.”

Then he went out, and the girl stood with flushed cheeks looking down at the furs he had left behind him.

CHAPTER XI

MAUD BARRINGTON’S PROMISE

Daylight had not broken across the prairie when, floundering through a foot of dusty snow, Winston reached the Grange.  He was aching from fatigue and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed body stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited Colonel Barrington.  The latter, on entering, stared at him, and then flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.

“Drink that before you talk.  You look half-dead,” he said.

Winston shook his head.  “Perhaps you had better hear me first.”

Barrington thrust the glass upon him.  “I could make nothing of what you told me while you speak like that.  Drink it, and then sit still until you get used to the different temperature.”