The hotel-keeper laughed a little.  “I’m kind of sorry for Winston because there’s grit in him, and he’s never had a show,” he said.  “Still, I figure he’s not worth your going out gunning after, Nettie.”

The girl said nothing, but there was a little flush in her face which had not been there before, when she busied herself with the dishes.

In the meanwhile Winston was harnessing two bronco horses to a very dilapidated wagon.  They were vicious beasts, but he had bought them cheap from a man who had some difficulty in driving them, while the wagon had been given him, when it was apparently useless, by a neighbor.  The team had, however, already covered thirty miles that day, and started homewards at a steady trot without the playful kicking they usually indulged in.  Here and there a man sprang clear of the rutted road, but Winston did not notice him or return his greeting.  He was abstractedly watching the rude frame houses flit by, and wondering, while the pain in his side grew keener, when he would get his supper, for it happens not infrequently that the susceptibilities are dulled by a heavy blow, and the victim finds a distraction that is almost welcome in the endurance of a petty trouble.

Winston was very hungry, and weary alike in body and mind.  The sun had not risen when he left his homestead, and he had passed the day under a nervous strain, hoping, although it seemed improbable, that the mail would bring him relief from his anxieties.  Now he knew the worst, he could bear it as he had borne the loss of two harvests, and the disaster which followed in the wake of the blizzard that killed off his stock; but it seemed unfair that he should endure cold and hunger too, and when one wheel sank into a rut and the jolt shook him in every stiffened limb, he broke out with a hoarse expletive.  It was his first protest against the fate that was too strong for him, and almost as he made it he laughed.

“Pshaw!  There’s no use kicking against what has to be, and I’ve got to keep my head just now,” he said.

There was no great comfort in the reflection, but it had sustained him before, and Winston’s head was a somewhat exceptional one, though there was as a rule nothing in any way remarkable about his conversation, and he was apparently merely one of the many quietly-spoken, bronze-faced men who are even by their blunders building up a great future for the Canadian dominion.  He accordingly drew his old rug tighter round him, and instinctively pulled his fur cap lower down when the lights of the settlement faded behind him and the creaking wagon swung out into the blackness of the prairie.  It ran back league beyond league across three broad provinces, and the wind that came up out of the great emptiness emphasized its solitude.  A man from the cities would have heard nothing but the creaking of the wagon and the drumming fall of hoofs, but Winston heard the grasses patter as they