to her an insubstantial memory.  She had been happy, but in the depths of the mind she knew that she might not have been happy very long.  Her husband’s piteous death had stamped upon her, indeed, a few sharp memories; she saw him always,—­as the report of a brother officer, present at his funeral, had described him—­wrapped in the Flag, and so lowered to his grave, in a desert land.  This image effaced everything else; the weaknesses she knew, and those she had begun to guess at.  But at the same time she had not been crushed by the tragedy; she had often scourged herself in secret for the rapidity with which, after it, life had once more become agreeable to her.  She knew that many people thought her incapable of deep feeling.  She supposed it must be true.  And yet there were moments when a self within herself surprised and startled her; not so much, as yet, in connection with persons, as with ideas, causes—­oppressions, injustices, helpless suffering; or, as now, with a new nation, visibly striking its “being into bounds.”

During her widowhood she had lived much with her mother, and had devoted herself particularly to this only brother, a delicate lad—­lovable, self-indulgent and provoking—­for whom the unquestioning devotion of two women had not been the best of schools.  An attack of rheumatic fever which had seized him on leaving Christchurch had scared both mother and sister.  He had recovered, but his health was not yet what it had been; and as at home it was impossible to keep him from playing golf all day, and bridge all night, the family doctor, in despair, recommended travel, and Elizabeth had offered to take charge of him.  It was not an easy task, for although Philip was extremely fond of his sister, as the male head of the family since his father’s death he held strong convictions with regard to the natural supremacy of man, and would probably never “double Cape Turk.”  In another year’s time, at the age of four and twenty, he would inherit the family estate, and his mother’s guardianship would come to an end.  He then intended to be done with petticoat government, and to show these two dear women a thing or two.

* * * * *

The dinner was good, as usual; in Elizabeth’s eyes, monstrously good.  There was to her something repellent in such luxurious fare enjoyed by strangers, on this tourist-flight through a country so eloquent of man’s hard wrestle with rock and soil, with winter and the wilderness.  The blinds of the car towards the next carriage were rigorously closed, that no one might interfere with the privacy of the rich; but Elizabeth had drawn up the blind beside her, and looked occasionally into the evening, and that endless medley of rock and forest and lake which lay there outside, under the sunset.  Once she gazed out upon a great gorge, through which ran a noble river, bathed in crimson light; on its way, no doubt, to Lake Superior, the vast, crescent-shaped lake she had dreamed of in her school-room days, over