"Rita," I put in, "I believe every word of it, and, what is more, I am mighty glad to hear you say it, for the first impression I had of him was, 'Here's a man with a good, open, honest face, and his body is a perfect working machine,--a real man after my own heart.' But he jumped on me with both hands and feet, as I might say;--I jumped back,--and, there we are.

"I know what's wrong with him, Rita. As far as I can see, he has been lucky,--luckier than most men. He has not had a single set-back. He has been what they call a success. He is younger than I am by a year or two, and he owns tugs and superintends camps, while I,--well, I am just starting in. But he has got to putting down all this progress to his own superior ability absolutely. He does not think that, maybe, circ.u.mstances have been kind to him."

Rita looked guardedly at me.

"Don't misunderstand me,--I'm not saying that he has not been clever and has not grasped every opportunity that came his way, worked hard and all that;--Oh! you know what I mean. But he has got to thinking that Joe Clark is everything and no one else is anything. It is bad for any man when he gets that way. Give Joe Clark a set-back or two and he will come out a bigger and a better man.

"He is glutted and bloated with too much of his own way,--that's his trouble."

Rita sighed.

"I guess you're right,--Joe used to be good friends with me. When we were kids, Joe said he was going to marry me when he got big. He don't say that any more though. Guess he's got too big. Tells me all about the fine ladies he meets in Vancouver and Victoria and up the coast.

Wouldn't ever give me a chance, though, to get to know how to talk good, and all that. Oh!--I know I ain't good at grammar. I wanted to be. Joe said schooling just spoiled girls, and I was best at home.

Still, he talks about the ones that has the schooling.

"He started in telling me about his lady friends again, to-day. I didn't want to know about them, so I just told him. I was mad, anyway;--about him and you, I guess. He was mad, too. Said I was fresh. Grand-dad took your part against Joe. Said he liked you anyway. Then he took my part. He knows Joe,--you bet.

"He says, 'That'll do, Joe. You leave Rita be. She's a good la.s.s and you ain't playin' the game fair.'

"I didn't hear any more, for I ran out. Didn't go back either, till Joe cleared out."

"What relation is Joe to the others, Rita?" I asked in puzzlement.

"Joe's an orphan, same as me. His dad was grand-dad's only son, who got killed in a blasting accident up the coast. Joe's mother was a Swede. She died two months after Joe was born. Since Joe got moving for himself, he don't stay around home very much. Sleeps mostly at the Camps or on the tugs. Says grandmother and grand-dad make him tired; says they're silly fools,--because,--because,----"

Tears gathered in Rita's eyes and she did not finish.

I let her pent-up emotion have free run for a while; probably because I was ill at ease and knew I should look an idiot and talk like an imbecile if I tried to console her, although I recalled having heard somewhere that it is generally best to let a woman have her cry out once she gets started.

At last Rita wiped her eyes and looked over at me.

"Guess you think me a baby,--guess I am, too," she said. "Never cried before that I have mind. Never had anybody to cry to."

I smiled. And Rita smiled,--a moist and trembling sort of smile in return.

"Joe Clark has been taking me, same as he takes most things, too much for granted. Thinks I don't know nothing, because I'm up here at the Crescent and not been educated any more'n grandmother and grand-dad could teach me. But I've got feelings and I ain't going to have anything more to do with him. Well,--not till he knows how to treat me, same as I should be treated. Guess not then either. I don't care now. I might not want him later,--might hate him. I believe I shall, too."

There was nothing of the soft, weepy baby about this young lady, and I could see from the flash in her dark eyes and the set of her mouth that she meant every word of what she said.

She was a dainty, pretty, and alluring little piece of femininity; and I could have taken her in my arms and hugged her, only I did not dare, for like as not she would have boxed my ears. All I could say was:

"Good for you, little girl. That's the way to talk."

She smiled, and in little more than no time at all she was back into her merry mood.

We chatted and laughed together at the window until the dusk had crept into darkness and Rita's Isle had become merely a heavy shadow among the mists.

"I got to be getting back," she said at last. "Can you fix up my groceries for me, if you please?"

I went into the store and packed together the few humble necessities which had been Rita's excuse for coming over, although, I discovered later, that Rita was pretty much of a free agent and did not require an excuse to satisfy either her grandmother or her grandfather, both of whom trusted her implicitly.

Time went past quickly in there.

"Rita, it is almost dark. Will you let me accompany you across the Bay? I can fix a tow line behind for your little boat."

"That would be nice," she answered simply. "But I can see in the dark near as well as in the day time. I could row across there blindfold."

As I paddled her over, I thought what a pity it was she could not talk more correctly than she did. It was the one, the only jarring, note in her entire make-up. But for that, she was as perfect a little lady as I had ever met.

Why not offer to teach her English? came the question to me;--and I decided I would some day, but not just then. I would wait until I knew her a little better; I would wait until I had become better acquainted with her people; until the edge of my quarrel with Joe had worn off.

As we grounded on the sh.o.r.e, in front of Rita's home, old Andrew Clark,--short and st.u.r.dy in appearance and dour as any Scot could ever be,--was on the beach. He came down to meet us and invited me up for a cup of tea.

I accepted the invitation, as I had a business project to discuss with the old man, something that should prove a benefit to the store and a financial benefit to him.

He led me into the kitchen, where his wife,--a quiet, white-haired old lady with a loving face and great sad eyes,--was sitting in an armchair darning.

She looked up as we entered.

Andrew Clark did not seek to introduce me, which I thought unmannerly.

I turned round for Rita, but Rita had not followed us in; so I went forward and held out my hand. The dear old woman took it and smiled as if to say, "How sensible of you."

"Sit down and make yourself at home," she said kindly.

She spoke with the accent of an Eastern Canadian, although it was evident she had spent many years in the West.

Andrew Clark still held to his mother tongue,--Lowland Scots. But his speech was also punctuated with Western slang and dialect.

Every article of furniture in that kitchen was home-made:--chairs, table, picture frames, washstands,--everything, and good solid furniture it was too.

The table was already set for tea. Mrs. Clark busied herself infusing the refreshment, then Rita came in and we all sat down together.

Andrew Clark's grace was quite an event,--as long as the ten commandments, sonorous, impressive and flowery.

I found he could talk, and talk well; and of many out-of-the-common subjects he displayed considerably more than a pa.s.sing knowledge.

Margaret Clark,--for that was the lady's name,--was quiet and seemed docile and careworn. She impressed me as being the patient bearer of a hidden burden.

There was something in the manner in which our conversation was conducted that I could not fathom. And I was set wondering wherein its strangeness lay. But, try as I liked, I could not reason it out.

Everybody was agreeable and pleasant; Rita was almost gay. But at the back of it all, time and again it recurred to me,--what is wrong here?

Not until the tea was over and I was seated between Andrew Clark and Margaret before the fire, did the mystery solve itself.

I approached the business part of my visit.

"Mr. Clark, you have two or three hundred chickens on the ranch here."

"Ay," he nodded reflectively, puffing at his pipe.