"You send all your eggs to Vancouver?"

"Ay!"

"How many do you send per week, on an average?"

"Ask Margaret,--she'll tell you."

I turned and addressed Mrs. Clark, who looked over at her husband sadly.

"When the season is good, maybe fifty dozen a week; sometimes more, sometimes not so many, Mr. Bremner. Of course, in the winter, there's a falling off."

"I understand, Mrs. Clark.

"I have a big demand from the Camps for eggs," I explained. "What I get, I have to order from Vancouver. Now, it costs you money to send your eggs to the market there, and it costs me money to bring mine from the market. Why cannot we create a home exchange? I could afford to pay you at least five cents a dozen more than you are getting from the city dealers, save you and myself the freight charges, and still I could be money ahead and I would always be sure of having absolutely fresh stock. Besides, I would pay cash for what I got."

Andrew Clark nodded his head. "A capital plan, my boy,--a capital plan. Man," he exclaimed testily, "Joe, wi' all his smartness, would never have thought o' that in a thousand years."

I laughed. "Why!--there is no thinking to it, Andrew. It is simply the A.B.C. of arithmetic.

"What do you say to the arrangement then?" I asked.

"Better ask Margaret,--she looks after the chickens. That's her affair."

I turned to the quiet old woman, and she heartily agreed with the plan.

"Would you ask Andrew, Mr. Bremner, if we had better not take supplies from your store in part payment for the eggs?" she inquired.

I put the question to Andrew as things began to dawn in my mind.

"Tell her it'll suit me all right," he agreed.

And so--I acting as spokesman and go-between,--the arrangement was made that I should use all the output of the chicken-farm and pay a price of five cents per dozen in advance of the Vancouver market price on the day of each delivery.

I rose to go, bidding good-night to the old people. Rita came down to the boat. Her face was anxious and she was searching mine for something she feared to find.

"Poor little girl," I exclaimed, as I laid my hand on her head. "How long has this been going on between your grandmother and grand-dad?"

Her eyes filled.

"Oh! George,--it ain't grandmother's fault. She'd give her soul if grand-dad would only speak to her. It's killing her gradual, like a dry rot."

"How long has it been going on?" I asked again.

"Oh!--long's I can remember; near about ten years. There was a quarrel about something. Grandmother wanted to visit some one in Vancouver.

Grand-dad didn't want her to go. At last he swore by the Word of G.o.d if she went he'd never speak to her again. Grandmother cried all night, and next day she went. When she came back, grand-dad wouldn't speak to her; and he ain't ever spoken to her since."

"My G.o.d!" I exclaimed with a shudder.

"That's why Joe ain't struck on staying at the ranch. Says it's like a deaf and dumb asylum."

I didn't blame Joe.

Good G.o.d! I thought. What a life! What an existence for this poor woman! What a h.e.l.l on earth!

I became madly enraged at that dour old rascal, who would dare to sour a home for ten years because of a vow made in a moment of temper.

If any one deserved to be stricken dumb forever, surely he was that one! And saying a grace at the tea-table that would put a bishop to scorn,--all on top of this: oh! the devilish hypocrisy of it!

Rita came close to me and laid her head lightly on my shoulder.

"Don't be cross at grand-dad, George. He's a mighty good grand-dad.

There ain't a better anywhere. In everything, but speaking to grandmother, he's a good grand-dad."

I could not trust myself to say much. I climbed into the boat and made to push off.

"A good grand-dad," I exclaimed bitterly; "good mule, you mean.

"Rita,--I know what would cure him."

"No!--you don't, George,--for you don't know grand-dad."

"Yes!--I know what would cure him, Rita."

"What?"

"A rope-end, well applied." And I pushed off.

She ran into the water up to her knees and caught hold of the stern of my boat.

"You ain't mad with me, George," she cried anxiously.

"No, no! Rita. Poor little woman,--why should I be?"

She pouted.

"Thought maybe you was.

"Well,--if you ain't, won't you kiss me before you go, George?"

I leaned forward. She held up her face innocently and I kissed her lightly on the lips.

And to me, the kiss was as sweet and fresh as a mountain dew-drop.

She sighed as if satisfied that our friendship had held good, then she ran out of the water, up the beach and into the house.