"Yes, that is it. And the tiredness comes from mental strain. Poor Mary! It seems so hard for her to be happy, yet in all her life she has never lacked anything she wanted save one, and even that I am in hopes she will get yet, if only she has the patience to wait for it."

Katherine's heart gave a painful bound. What was this one thing that Mary Selincourt wanted but could not have-yet? But she could not answer the question with any satisfaction to herself, and she stood silently watching while Mr. Selincourt took his place in the boat. Then she turned and went back up the path again: but her feet dragged in spite of herself; it was as if some instinct told her she was going to meet a heartache.

Mary welcomed her back with a smile, and, reaching out her arm, dragged a comfortable chair nearer the couch. "Come and sit here, you poor, tired Katherine. What a shame that you should have had to toil all day, until your very feet ache with tiredness, while I have lain here and sighed because the hours crept along so slowly!"

"But that is only because you could not use your foot; you don't find time drag when you are able to get about," Katherine remarked, setting her head back against the cushions with a sigh of content, for the chair was of a restful pattern, and she was tired enough to feel the cushions a welcome luxury.

"No, indeed, I can always make sure of interest and amus.e.m.e.nt when I have two feet available for service, but I was not cut out for the peaceful avocation of the couch invalid, and I just loathe inaction. I would rather have had your day," Mary said with a sigh.

"Are you sure? To begin with, you don't know what sort of a day I have had, and to continue, you have never had to work for your living, and don't know how it feels," Katherine rejoined, thinking of the stuffy heat of the store, the flies, the pickled pork, and the mola.s.ses, which had all tried her patience so sorely in the latter part of the day.

Mary's face took on an injured expression. "Do you think it is quite kind of you to taunt me with never having tasted the sweets of independence?" she asked.

"But you are independent of the necessity to toil," said Katherine.

"That is not true independence. Riches might take to themselves wings, banks might break, investments fail, then where should I be? I am only independent because fate has given me the use of money I have never earned. But you are different; you can carve your own destiny, and are master of yourself."

"Am I? Don't indulge in any such mistaken ideas, I beg of you," broke in Katherine, with a little grimace as in fancy she smelled again the soap and the brimstone which had offended her so much in the store. "I set out to be a school teacher, and came home from Montreal with my head packed full of theories concerning how teaching ought to be done, and how I meant to do it. The first disappointment came when I found there were no children of school age obtainable, except Miles and Phil; for it is very hard to theorize upon one's own kith and kin, at least I found it so. Night school, also, is not an easy practice-ground for new methods, which was disappointment number two; and then came Father's illness, which has settled once and for all the question of my teaching, and has caged me up to the business of the store, whether I would or no. So how can I carve my own destiny, pray?"

Mary clapped her hands. "Why, can't you see that is what you are doing all the time? In spite of adverse circ.u.mstances you have done your very utmost, and consequently your very best. You have been brave, patient, cheerful, and always you have spent yourself for others until--"

"Oh, spare me any more, and let us talk about something else!" cried Katherine impatiently; her cheeks were getting hot, and her memory was pointing to many a time when she had been neither brave, nor patient, nor cheerful.

"Yes, of course we will talk of something else, and now you shall have the reverse of the picture, for I want to talk about myself," Mary said, with a quick flush which made the heart of the other turn chill and cold, with dread of what might be coming next.

"Self is a sorry subject for over-much meditation, don't you think? And introspection is very bad for invalids," Katherine said nervously.

"I'm not an invalid, not in that sense at least; I am only incapacitated through having twisted my ankle. But I simply must confide in somebody, or I don't know what will happen to me. I can't open my heart to my daddy; he has had cares enough concerning me already; while if I tried to tell Mrs. Burton she would be so shocked that she would refuse to come and look after me any more; then whatever would become of me until I can get about and look after myself again?"

Katherine laughed, although her heart was heavy as lead. It was plain she would have to be taken into confidence whether she would or no. It was equally plain that she would have to face the consequences afterwards, for she was not the sort of girl who would be untrue to herself.

"So you have no scruples about shocking me? Or is it that you think I am not easily shocked?"

"A little of both, I think," Mary replied with a sigh of relief. "The fact is, you are so strong and brave that you inspire confidence."

"Is that meant for a compliment, and do I have to feel grateful?" asked Katherine.

"That is as you please. But tell someone I must, or I think the miserable business will wear me out, for I cannot sleep. Katherine, I was nearly suicide and murderer too on that awful morning in the tide-hole."

"What nonsense! What will you be saying next?" cried Katherine with forced cheerfulness; but the colour faded from her cheeks.

"I am not talking nonsense, but unvarnished truth. I might have been saved easily enough, and Mr. Ferrars need have suffered no inconvenience save a wetting, but for my own fault; for he was there long before the water reached the place where I had fallen."

"But why--?" began Katherine, then stopped short, remembering that she did not want to ask questions, nor to seek information.

"But why wasn't I saved before, were you going to say?" said Mary. "Because I would not let myself be. The fact is, down at the bottom I am a coward, just that and nothing more. My life has been so sheltered and easy, too, that there has been nothing to stir into activity any latent bravery that I might have had. Mr. Ferrars could not reach me, or it is probable he would have pulled me from the ledge where I was lying by sheer force. As it was, he waited in the water for a long lime, until the tide rose high enough for him to reach me. It was almost high enough; I realized that in another moment I should be dragged into the water, whether I would or no, and I just felt that I could not bear it: so I sprang up with a wild impulse to rush somewhere, anywhere-but I had forgotten my twisted ankle, the pain from which was so intense that I reeled, lost my balance, and was into the water all in a moment."

"Anyone might have felt like that, and acted just the same under the circ.u.mstances," said Katherine, pitifully. This confession was so utterly different from anything she had expected to hear that her heart grew lighter in spite of herself.

Mary laughed in a dreary, mirthless fashion. "Do you know it is a bitter humiliation to me to owe my life to Jervis Ferrars?" she said brusquely.

"Why?" demanded Katherine, the question dragged from her in spite of herself.

A wave of hot colour surged over Mary's face; it was not often she blushed, but now she was crimson. "I don't think I can tell you that," she replied unsteadily. "In any case it is immaterial to the story, except that he once asked me a boon I would not grant; and for that I have been sorry ever since, which shows the contrary-mindedness of women, don't you think?"

Katherine nodded; speak she could not. This was worse than anything she had expected. Mrs. Burton had suggested that Mary was in love with Jervis, but here was Mary herself plainly intimating that Jervis had once asked for her love, but that she had refused him, only to regret her refusal ever since.

"He is such a good fellow," went on Mary, with a yearning note in her voice which stabbed Katherine like actual pain. "When Father asked him about the affair in the tidehole, he never once said anything about my fearful panic, which so nearly cost him his life; and the very fact of his reticence has made me feel the meanest creature on the face of the earth. I can scarcely look my father in the face, and when he pities me for having been in such sore straits I feel like sinking through the couch from very shame."

"Why don't you tell Mr. Selincourt then?" asked Katherine bluntly. "He would understand how panic had unnerved you, and certainly he would not judge you harshly."

"I can't tell him; I am not brave enough. I told you I was a coward, and so I am, especially in matters of that sort. It is an awful thing to me to lose anyone's good opinion. My pride, I suppose; but really I can't help it," Mary answered with a shrug.

"Yet you have told me," said Katherine, forcing a smile. "Were you not afraid of losing my good opinion, or was it that you did not care?"

"I was just desperate; I had to own up to someone, and so, from love of contrast I suppose, I turned to you, who are always brave," Mary said.

Katherine shook her head: "You make a great mistake; I am a horrible coward underneath. I think all girls are; it is one of the weaknesses of our nature which neither training nor hardship will overcome."

"Do you expect me to believe you when you talk like that?" asked Mary. "What about that time when you got on to the ice to get Jervis Ferrars out of Oily Dave's flooded house? Do you think a girl who was a coward could have done that?"

"I could not have done it if I had stayed to think about it," replied Katherine, a soft flush stealing into her cheeks. "But there was no time to think about oneself, the thing had to be done quickly, so it was easy enough. If I had set out from home that morning, knowing what was in front of me, I could not possibly have faced it, of that I am quite sure."

"In other words, what it really amounts to is this: we are all cowards by nature, but it is possible, by cultivating the grace of self-sacrifice, so to forget ourselves in our care for others that we can rise above our natural cowardice, and become as brave or braver than men," said Mary.

"It sounds like a sermon put that way," Katherine replied with a laugh. "Why don't you take to writing books, if you can express yourself so much to the point?"

"Because, before writing books successfully, one must have lived, not merely existed, as I have done," Mary answered a little sadly. Then she said in a different tone; "You have done me a lot of good, and I shall sleep to-night like a top-the first real rest I have had since that miserable morning on the rocks."

"I shall sleep too, I hope, for I have a big day's work to-morrow,"

Katherine said, rising to go.

"Give me a kiss, dear, just to show me that you don't despise me for being a coward, or rather for remaining a coward," Mary said, drawing Katherine's head down.

There was a wild desire in Katherine's heart to push off those caressing hands, and rush away in all haste: but she did not yield to it, realizing that this also was a time for self-forgetting; so, stooping, she kissed Mary on both cheeks.

CHAPTER XXII

A Business Offer

A fortnight slipped away. August had come in, with lengthening nights, which sometimes had a touch of Arctic cold in them. But it was glorious summer still, and although in those uncultivated wastes there was little harvest from the land, the harvest of the sea went merrily on. Mary Selincourt was out and about again, limping a little at first, and leaning on a stick, but soon gaining strength enough to go about as usual; only now, made wise by experience, she took good care to avoid places of danger like the tideholes.

Since that evening of confidential talk with Katherine, Mary had honestly striven for the grace of self-forgetfulness; but the virtue is not learned in one lesson, nor yet in two, and she would probably have given up striving, through disgust at her own failures, if her pride had not been deeply stirred, and the obstinate part of her nature brought into full play.

Pleading hard work as an excuse, Katherine avoided her after that evening, from a secret dread of any more confidences. This was easier than it otherwise would have been, owing to Mrs. Burton having taken the twins over to Fort Garry to spend a week with Mrs. M'Crawney, which left Katherine with the burden of housekeeping on her shoulders in addition to the business of the store.

Jervis Ferrars came up sometimes in the evening to sit and talk with the invalid on every subject under the sun, from lunar rainbows to earthquakes, but he got little chance of speech with Katherine, who was always feverishly busy over some task which absorbed her whole attention.

The day after Mrs. Burton came back from Fort Garry another vessel arrived from Liverpool to anchor off Seal Cove. Only one more boat would be likely to get in before winter came again, and when an occasion is so rare it is likely to be made much of. The captain held a sort of reception on board, to which everyone in Seal Cove was invited. The M'Krees came down from the second portage with all their babies; Mrs. Jenkin appeared in finery which no one even dreamed she possessed; and Oily Dave was magnificent in a frock-coat of shiny black cloth, worn over a football sweater of outrageous pattern.

Katherine and her father were the only stay-at-homes, but 'Duke Radford was not fit for excursions of that sort, and if Katherine had gone Miles must have stayed at home, which would have been rather hard on a boy as fond of ships as he was. But although everyone went to the reception, some of them did not stay long, and one of the first to leave was Mr. Selincourt, who had himself rowed up river and landed at the store to ask Katherine if she would give him a cup of tea.