"Naturally," said Colina. "He knows everything about it."

"If you want my advice," Ambrose said diffidently, "do not trust him too far."

She looked at him in astonishment. "Mr. Strange is almost like one of the family. He's been father's right-hand man for years and years.

Father says he's the best servant the company possesses."

"That may be," said Ambrose doggedly, "but a good servant makes a bad master. After all, he is not one of us. If you value my advice at all you will never let him know he is running things."

"How can I help it? I haven't told him yet what has happened; but Dr.

Giddings and I agreed that he must be told. He never mixes with the natives."

"Of course he must know your father was wounded, but he needn't be told how seriously. If I were you I would make him inform me of every detail of the business on the pretext of repeating it to your father.

And I would issue orders to him as if they came from your father's bed."

"How can I?" said Colina. "I know nothing of the business."

"I can help you," said Ambrose--"if you want me to. I know it."

"But, Ambrose," she objected, "what reason have you to feel so strongly against Mr. Strange?"

"No reason," he said; "only an instinct. I believe he's a crook."

"Father relies on him absolutely."

"Maybe his influence with your father was sometimes unfortunate."

Colina's eyebrows went up. "Influence! Father would hardly allow his judgment to be swayed by a breed."

"You're a woman," said Ambrose earnestly. "You should not despise these feelings that we have sometimes and cannot give a reason for. I saw Strange on my way here. I exchanged only half a dozen words with him, yet I am as sure as I can be that he was glad of the accident to your father and hopes to profit by it somehow."

Colina was still incredulous.

"Look what he wrote me this morning!" she cried. "It sounds so genuine."

She handed him a note from the desk. He read:

DEAR MISS COLINA:

They are saying that your father has been taken ill; that the doctor has been with him all night. I am more distressed than I can tell you.

You know what he is to me! Do send me some word. He was so cheerful and well yesterday that I cannot believe it can be serious. Native gossip always magnifies everything.

If it is all right to speak to him about business, will you remind him that a deputation from the farmers is due at the store this morning to receive his final answer as to the price of wheat this year. As far as I know his intention is to offer one-fifty a bushel, but something may have come up to cause him to change his mind. Unless he is very ill, I would rather not take this responsibility upon myself.

Do let me have word from you.

G.S.

"Anybody can write letters," said Ambrose. "It sounds to me as if he was just trying to find out how bad your father is. He could easily put the farmers off."

"I can't believe he's as bad as you say," said Colina gravely. "Why, he was here long before I was born. But I will be prudent. With your help I'll try to run things myself."

Ambrose sent her a grateful glance--shot with apprehension. He dreaded what was still to come.

"This question of the price of the wheat," Colina went on; "we have to give him an answer or confess father is very ill."

Ambrose nodded gloomily.

"Fortunately that is easy," she continued; "for he spoke about it at dinner last night. He means to pay one-fifty." She moved toward the desk. "I'll send a note over at once."

The critical moment had arrived--even more swiftly than he feared. He could not think clearly, for the pain he felt.

"Ah, Colina, I love you!" he cried involuntarily.

She paused and smiled over her shoulder.

"I know," she said, surprised and gentle. "That's why you're here."

"I've got to advise you honestly," he cried, "no matter what trouble it makes."

"Of course," she said. "What's the matter, Ambrose?"

"You should offer them one-seventy-five for their wheat."

The eyebrows went up again. "Why?"

"It's only fair. Two dollars would be fairer."

"But father said one-fifty."

"Your father is wrong in this instance."

Colina frowned ominously.

"How do you know?" she demanded.

"I know the price of flour at the different posts," he said deprecatingly. "I know the risks that must be allowed for and the fair profit one expects."

"Do you mean to say that father is unfair?" she cried.

He was silent. An unlucky word had betrayed him. He could have bitten his tongue. Still, he reflected sullenly, it was bound to come. You can't make black white, however tenderly you describe it.

Colina sprang to her feet.

"Unfair!" she cried. "That is to say a cheat! You can say it while he is lying up-stairs desperately wounded!"

"Colina, be reasonable," he implored. "The fact that he is suffering can't make a wrong right."