Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the Colonel came up just then, but, moved by some sudden impulse, she nodded as if in agreement.

It was afternoon when she awakened from a refreshing sleep, and descending to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat thoughtfully still a while in a chair beside the stove.  Then, stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and slipped out one of them.  It was a portrait of a boy and pony, but there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find it.  The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed the arrogance, which did not, however, seem out of place there in the lad’s face.  It was also a comely face, but there was a hint of sensuality in it that marred its beauty.  Then with a growing perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded beside the team.  Winston was not arrogant, but resolute, and there was no stamp of indulgence in his face.  Indeed, the girl had from the beginning recognized the virility in it that was tinged with asceticism and sprang from a simple strenuous life of toil in the wind and sun.

Just then there was a rustle of fabric, and she laid down the photograph a moment too late, as her aunt came in.  As it happened, the elder lady’s eyes rested on the picture, and a faint flush of annoyance crept into the face of the girl.  It was scarcely perceptible, but Miss Barrington saw it, and though she felt tempted, did not smile.

“I did not know you were down,” she said.  “Lance is still asleep.  He seemed very tired.”

“Yes,” said the girl.  “That is very probable.  He left the railroad before daylight, and had driven round to several farms before he came to Macdonald’s, and he was very considerate.  He made me take all the furs, and, I fancy, walked up and down all night long, with nothing on but his indoor clothing, though the wind went through the building, and one could scarcely keep alive a few feet from the stove.”

Again the faint flicker of color crept into the girl’s cheek, and the eyes that were keen as well as gentle noticed it.

“I think you owe him a good deal,” said Miss Barrington.

“Yes,” said her niece, with a little laugh which appeared to imply a trace of resentment.  “I believe I do, but he seemed unusually anxious to relieve me of that impression.  He was also good enough to hint that nothing he might have done need prevent me being—­the right word is a trifle difficult to find—­but I fancy he meant unpleasant to him if I wished it.”

There was a little twinkle in Miss Barrington’s eyes.  “Are you not a trifle hard to please, my dear?  Now, if he had attempted to insist on a claim to your gratitude you would have resented it.”

“Of course,” said the girl reflectively.  “Still, it is annoying to be debarred from offering it.  There are times, aunt, when I can’t help wishing that Lance Courthorne had never come to Silverdale.  There are men who leave nothing just as they found it, and whom one can’t ignore.”