Ranching for Sylvia | Page 2

stay
in Canada," he said by and by. "You never wrote, and"--he hesitated--"I
heard only once from Dick."
Dick was her dead husband's name, and she sat silent a few moments
musing, and glancing unobtrusively at George. He had not changed
much since she last saw him, on her wedding-day, though he looked a
little older, and rather more serious. There were faint signs of weariness
which she did not remember in his sunburned face. On the whole,
however, it was a reposeful face, with something in it that suggested a
steadfast disposition. His gray eyes met one calmly and directly; his
brown hair was short and stiff; the set of his lips and the contour of his
jaw were firm. George had entered on his thirtieth year. Though he was
strongly made, his appearance was in no way striking, and it was
seldom that his conversation was characterized by brilliancy. But his
friends trusted him.

"It's difficult to speak of," Sylvia began. "When, soon after our
wedding, Dick lost most of his money, and said that we must go to
Canada, I felt almost crushed; but I thought he was right." She paused
and glanced at George. "He told me what you wished to do, and I'm
glad that, generous as you are, he wouldn't hear of it."
George looked embarrassed.
"I felt his refusal a little," he said. "I could have spared the money, and
I was a friend of his."
He had proved a staunch friend, though he had been hardly tried. For
several years he had been Sylvia's devoted servant, and an admirer of
the more accomplished Marston. When the girl chose the latter it was a
cruel blow to George, for he had never regarded his comrade as a
possible rival; but after a few weeks of passionate bitterness, he had
quietly acquiesced. He had endeavored to blame neither; though there
were some who did not hold Sylvia guiltless. George was, as she well
knew, her faithful servant still; and this was largely why she meant to
tell him her tragic story.
"Well," she said, "when I first went out to the prairie, I was almost
appalled. Everything was so crude and barbarous--but you know the
country."
George merely nodded. He had spent a few years in a wheat-growing
settlement, inhabited by well-bred young Englishmen. The colony,
however, was not conducted on economic lines; and when it came to
grief, George, having come into some property on the death of a
relative, returned to England.
"Still," continued Sylvia, "I tried to be content, and blamed myself
when I found it difficult. There was always so much to do--cooking,
washing, baking--one could seldom get any help. I often felt worn out
and longed to lie down and sleep."
"I can understand that," said George, with grave sympathy. "It's a very
hard country for a woman."

He was troubled by the thought of what she must have borne for it was
difficult to imagine Sylvia engaged in laborious domestic toil. It had
never occurred to him that her delicate appearance was deceptive.
"Dick," she went on, "was out at work all day; there was nobody to talk
to--our nearest neighbor lived some miles off. I think now that Dick
was hardly strong enough for his task. He got restless and moody after
he lost his first crop by frost. During that long, cruel winter we were
both unhappy: I never think without a shudder of the bitter nights we
spent sitting beside the stove, silent and anxious about the future. But
we persevered; the next harvest was good, and we were brighter when
winter set in. I shall always be glad of that in view of what came after."
She paused, and added in a lower voice:
"You heard, of course?"
"Very little; I was away. It was a heavy blow."
"I couldn't write much," explained Sylvia. "Even now, I can hardly talk
of it--but you were a dear friend of Dick's. We had to burn wood; the
nearest bluff where it could be cut was several miles away; and Dick
didn't keep a hired man through the winter. It was often very cold, and I
got frightened when he drove off if there was any wind. It was trying to
wait in the quiet house, wondering if he could stand the exposure. Then
one day something kept him so that he couldn't start for the bluff until
noon; and near dusk the wind got up and the snow began to fall. It got
thicker, and I could not sit still. I went out now and then and called, and
was driven back, almost frozen, by the storm. I could scarcely see the
lights a few yards away; the house shook. The memory of that awful
night will haunt