Meanwhile their own home was a “temple of industrious peace.”  Elizabeth was a prairie housewife like her neighbours.  She had indeed brought out with her from Cumberland one of the Martindale gardeners and his young wife and sister; and the two North-Country women shared with the farm mistress the work of the house, till such time as Anderson should help the husband to a quarter-section of his own, and take someone else to train in his place.  But the atmosphere of the house was one of friendly equality.  Elizabeth—­who had herself gone into training for a few weeks at St. Anne’s—­prided herself on her dairy, her bread, her poultry.  One might have seen her, on this winter afternoon, in her black serge dress with white cap and apron, slipping into the kitchen behind the dining-room, testing the scones in the oven, looking to the preparations for dinner, putting away stores, and chatting to the two clear-eyed women who loved her, and would not for the world have let her try her strength too much!  For she who was so eagerly planning the help of others must now be guarded and cherished herself—­lest ill befall!

But now she was at the window watching for Anderson.

The trail from Donaldminster to Battleford passed in front of the house, dividing the farm.  Presently there came slowly along it a covered wagon drawn by a pair of sorry horses and piled at the back with household possessions.  In front sat a man of slouching carriage, and in the interior of the wagon another figure could be dimly seen.  The whole turn-out gave an impression of poverty and misfortune; and Elizabeth looked at it curiously.

Suddenly, the wagon drew up with a jerk at the gate of the farm, and the man descended, with difficulty, his limbs being evidently numb with cold.

Elizabeth caught up a fur cloak and ran to the door.

“Could you give us a bit of shelter for the night?” said the man sheepishly.  “We’d thought of getting on to Battleford, but the little un’s bad—­and the missus perished with cold.  We’d give you no trouble if we might warm ourselves a bit.”

And he looked under his eyebrows at Elizabeth, at the bright fire behind her, and all the comfort of the new farmhouse.  Yet under his shuffling manner there was a certain note of confidence.  He was appealing to that Homeric hospitality which prevails throughout the farms of the Northwest.

And in five minutes, the horses were in the barn, the man sitting by the kitchen fire, while Elizabeth was ministering to the woman and child.  The new-comers made a forlorn trio.  They came from a district some fifty miles further south, and were travelling north in order to take shelter for a time with relations.  The mother was a girl of twenty, worn with hardship and privation.  The father, an English labourer, had taken up free land, but in spite of much help from a paternal Government, had not been able to fulfil his statutory obligation, and had now forfeited his