"My name is Bayne, from Red Pine, Mr. Innes. I am interested in knowing what sort of a chap your preacher is. He comes out to our section, but I never met him till to-day."

"Oh, he's no that bad," said Innes cautiously.

"Not worth a cent," said a little, red headed man standing near. "He can't preach for sour apples."

"I wadna just say that, Mr. Hayes," said Innes.

"How do you know, Innes?" retorted Hayes. "You know you fall asleep before he gets rightly started."

"I aye listen better with ma eyes shut."

"Yes, and snore better, too, Mac," said Hayes. "But I don't blame you.

Most of them go to sleep anyway. That's the kind of preacher he is."

"What sort of a chap is he? I mean what sort of man?"

"Well, for one thing, he's always buttin' in," volunteered a square-built military looking man standing near. "If he'd stick to his gospel it wouldn't be so bad, but he's always pokin' his nose into everything."

"But he's no that bad," said Innes again, "and as for buttin' in, McFettridge, and preachin' the gospel, I doubt the country is a good deal the better for the buttin' in that him and his likes have done this past year. And besides, the bairns all like him."

"Well, that's not a bad sign, Mr. Innes," said Sandy Bayne, "and I'm not sure that I don't like him myself. But I guess he butts in, all right."

"Oh, ay! he butts in," agreed Innes, "but I'm no so sure that that's no a part of his job, too."

CHAPTER III

A QUESTION OF CONSCIENCE

The Dunbars lived in a cottage on a back street, which had the distinction of being the only home on the street which possessed the adornment of a garden. A unique garden it was, too. Indeed, with the single exception of Judge Hepburn's garden, which was quite an elaborate affair, and which was said to have cost the Judge a "pile of money,"

there was none to compare with it in the village of Wapiti.

Any garden on that bare, wind-swept prairie meant toil and infinite pains, but a garden like that of the Dunbars represented in addition something of genius. In conception, in design, and in execution the Dunbars' garden was something apart. Visitors were taken 'round to the back street to get a glimpse of the Dunbars' cottage and garden.

The garden was in two sections. That at the back of the cottage, sheltered by a high, close board fence covered with Virginia creeper, was given over to vegetables, and it was quite marvellous how, under Richard Dunbar's care, a quarter of an acre of ground could grow such enormous quantities of vegetables of all kinds. Next to the vegetable garden came the plot for small fruits--strawberries, raspberries, currants, of rare varieties.

The front garden was devoted to flowers. Here were to be found the old fashioned flowers dear to our grandmothers, and more particularly the old fashioned flowers native to English and Scottish soil. Between the two gardens a thick row of tall, splendid sunflowers made a stately hedge. Then came larkspur, peonies, stocks, and sweet-williams, verbenas and mignonette, with borders of lobelia and heliotrope. Along the fence were sweet peas, for which Alberta is famous.

But it was the part of the garden close about the front porch and verandah where the particular genius of Richard Dunbar showed itself.

Here the flowers native to the prairie, the coulee, the canyon, were gathered; the early wind flower, the crowfoot and the buffalo bean, wild snowdrops and violets. Over trellises ran the tiny morning-glory, with vetch and trailing arbutus. A bed of wild roses grew to wonderful perfection. Later in the year would be seen the yellow and crimson lilies, daisies white and golden, and when other flowers had faded, golden rod and asters in gorgeous contrast. The approach to the door of the house was by a gravel walk bordered by these prairie flowers.

The house inside fulfilled the promise of the garden. The living room, simple in its plan, plain in its furnishing, revealed everywhere that touch in decorative adornment that spoke of the cultivated mind and refined taste. A group of rare etchings had their place over the mantel above a large, open fireplace. On the walls were to be seen really fine copies of the world's most famous pictures, and on the panels which ran 'round the walls were bits of pottery and china, relics of other days and of other homes.

But what was most likely to strike the eye of a stranger on entering the living room was the array of different kinds of musical instruments.

At one end of the room stood a small upright piano, a 'cello held one corner, a guitar another; upon a table a cornet was deposited, and on the piano a violin case could be seen, while a banjo hung from a nail on the wall.

Near the fireplace a curiously carved pipe-rack hung, with some half dozen pipes of weird design, evidently the collection of years, while just under it a small table held the utensils sacred to the smoker.

When Barry entered he found the table set and everything in readiness for tea.

"Awfully sorry I'm too late to help you with tea, dad. I have had a long walk, and quite a deuce of a time getting home."

"All right, boy. Glad you are here. The toast is ready, tea waiting to be infused. But what happened? No, don't begin telling me till you get yourself ready. But hurry, your meeting hour will be on in no time."

"Right-o, dad! Shame to make a slavey of you in this way. I'll be out in a jiffy."

He threw off his coat and vest, shirt and collar, took a pail of water to a big block in the little shed at the back, soused his head and shoulders in it with loud snorting and puffing, and emerged in a few minutes looking refreshed, clean and wholesome, his handsome face shining with vigorous health.

Together they stood at the table while the son said a few words of reverent grace.

"I'm ravenous, dad. What! Fried potatoes! Oh, you are a brick."

"Tired, boy?"

"No. That reminds me of my thrilling tale, which I shall begin after my third slice of toast, and not before. You can occupy the precious minutes, dad, in telling me of your excitements in the office this afternoon."

"Don't sniff at me. I had a few, though apparently you think it impossible in my humdrum grey life."

"Good!" said Barry, his mouth full of toast. "Go on."

"Young Neil Fraser is buying, or has just bought, the S.Q.R. ranch.

Filed the transfer to-day."

"Neil Fraser? He's in my tale, too. Bought the S.Q.R.? Where did he get the stuff?"

"Stuff?"

"Dough, the dirt, the wherewithal, in short the currency, dad."

"Barry, you are ruining your English," said his father.

"Yum-yum. Bully! Did you notice that, dad? I'm coming on, eh? One thing I almost pray about, that I might become expert in slinging the modern jaw hash. I'm appallingly correct in my forms of speech. But go on, dad.

I'm throwing too much vocalisation myself. You were telling me about Neil Fraser. Give us the chorus now."

"I don't like it, boy," said his father, shaking his head, "and especially in a clergyman."

"But that's where you are off, dad. The trouble is, when I come within range of any of my flock all my flip vocabulary absolutely vanishes, and I find myself talking like a professor of English or a maiden lady school ma'am of very certain age."

"I don't like it, boy. Correct English is the only English for a gentleman."

"I wonder," said the lad. "But I don't want to worry you, dad."

"Oh, as for me, that matters nothing at all, but I am thinking of you and of your profession, your standing."

"I know that, dad. I sometimes wish you would think a little more about yourself. But what of Neil Fraser?"

"He has come into some money. He has bought the ranch."