Miss Deringham stooped over the box that he might not see her face.  It was merely the skirt of an evening dress which had displayed itself, but she had guessed what the man was thinking, and remembering his excuse was not displeased with him.  When the box was in the wagon she took out a dollar, and then for no special reason put it back again.  The man was a bush teamster, but she did not feel equal to offering him a piece of silver.  She swung herself up into the wagon with her foot in his hand, and wondered whether it could be by intent that he stood bare-headed while she did it.  Then her father climbed in, and the man at the station laughed as he said, “What’s the odds, Harry, you don’t spill the whole freight on the dip to the ford?”

The teamster, who made no answer, shook the reins, and they went lurching over a horrible trail down the valley, while Miss Deringham delightedly breathed in the scent of the cedars and felt the lash of snow-chilled wind bring the blood to her face.  She, however, wished that the bundle of straw which served as seat would not move about so much, and fancied her father would have been more comfortable had he not been menaced by a jolting piece of machinery.  Their progress was rudely interrupted presently, for the teamster standing upright reined the horses in on their haunches, and the girl saw a line of loaded ponies straggling up the winding trail.  One of the men who plodded behind them glanced at the driver of the wagon with an ironical grin, and Miss Deringham saw a warmer colour creep into the sun-darkened cheek.  This was, she fancied, a man with a temper.

“Now,” he said, and then stopped suddenly.  The other man’s grin became more pronounced.  “You can start in,” he said.  “We’re not bashful.”

The teamster said nothing, but a faint twinkle replaced the anger in his eye, when as they started again Miss Deringham glanced at him questioningly.  “That,” he said, “wasn’t quite fair to me.  They knew I couldn’t talk back, you see.”

Miss Deringham laughed, and when an hour or two later he pulled the horses up beside a lake and made one or two alterations to enhance her comfort, glanced at him again.

“Did you come out here from England?” said she.

The man’s face grew a trifle grim.  “No,” he said gravely.  “Whatever could have made you think that of me?”

There were reasons why the girl could not explain, and the man stretched out an arm with a little proud gesture that became him curiously.  “I am a Canadian first and last,” said he.  “Isn’t this country good enough for anybody?”

Miss Deringham was forced to admit that it apparently was.  A blue lake gleaming steely blue in the sunlight stretched away before them between the towering firs, and beyond it lay an entrancing vision of great white peaks.

“You do not like England, then?” said she.

The teamster smiled a little.  “That,” he said, “is not a fair question to ask me.  You and your father live there, don’t you?”