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So for half an hour Jean's letter lay at her side untouched Jean was so far outside her dreams and hopes that afternoon but at length she lifted it and these were the words she read: DEAR MISS THORA: I was hearing since last spring that thou wert going to be married on the son of the Rev. Dr. Macrae on the young man called John Calvin Macrae.

Merton, self-denying and resolved, did not accompany his lady; he read a novel, wrote letters, and felt desolate. All was peace, all breathed of the Sabbath calm. 'Very odd there's no call from the machine, said Mr. Macrae anxiously. 'It is Sunday, said Merton. 'Still, they might send us something. 'They scarcely favoured us last Sunday, said Merton.

They were not of his flock but he longed to take care of them. "I heard singing as I came through the garden," he said, "and it was not your voice, Conall." "It was Ian Macrae singing," Conall answered, "and he will gladly sing for thee, sir."

"MacRae, you and Smith know the mouth of Sage Creek, and the ford there. That's where they'll camp to-night. I doubt if they'll cross the river till morning. If you ride you can make it in three hours. From there they plan to follow Milk River to the Missouri and catch a down-stream boat. But you'll get them to-night. You must. Now give me another drink and drift!" "We'll get them, Goodell."

Indeed, it was amazing to note how the master had succeeded in arousing in the whole school an intense spirit of emulation. From little Johnnie Aird up to Thomas Finch, the pupils carried the hearts of soldiers. Through fractions, the "Rule of Three," percentages, and stocks, the senior class swept with a trail of glory. In vain old Peter MacRae strewed their path with his favorite posers.

By the dank breath of the wind, the ominous overcasting of the sky, all the little signs that a prairie-wise man learns to read, we knew that a storm was close at hand. Shelter there was none, nor food, and we stood in need of both. "You're right," MacRae admitted. "But how are we going to help it? We'll just have to grin and tough it out."

'The doctor is still with him, said Mr. Macrae; 'a case of concussion of the brain, he says it is. But you go out and take the air, you must be careful of yourself. Bude remained with the millionaire, Merton sauntered out to look at the river: running water drew him like a magnet. By the side of the stream, on a woodland path, he met Lady Bude.

A peaceable citizen would sure do well on the other side of the line if sheriffs and marshals took a lay-off to feed themselves when a man was in the middle of his complaint. How long do you suppose it will take that fat slob to get a squad of these soldier-policemen on the trail of that ten thousand?" MacRae laughed dryly.

Peter Ferrara's house at the Cove stood empty and deserted in the spring sun. People had to shift, to grasp opportunities as they were presented, MacRae knew. They could not take root and stand still in one spot like the great Douglas firs. But he missed the familiar voices, the sight of friendly faces. He had nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company.

There is a world of difference between contributing blindly work which seems suitable to the style of a paper and sending in matter designed to attract the editor personally. Mr. Macrae, whose pupil I had been at Cambridge, was the author of my letter of introduction. At St. Gabriel's, Mr. Macrae had been a man for whom I entertained awe and respect.