The Triumph of John Kars | Page 6

held in the Mission
House. It was a pastoral that held every element of beauty, but as an
anachronism in the fierce setting north of "sixty" it was even more
perfect.
Allan Mowbray looked on at all these things in his brief enough leisure.
Nor was he insensible to the changed conditions of comfort in his own
home, due to the persistent genius of his partner. The old, rough
furnishings had gone to be replaced by modern stuff, which must have

demanded a stupendous effort in haulage from the gold city of Leaping
Horse, nearly three hundred miles distant. But Ailsa was pleased. That
was his great concern. Ailsa was living the life he had always desired
for her, and he was free to roam the wilderness at his will. He blessed
the day that had brought Murray McTavish into the enterprise.
Just now Allan had been away from the Fort nearly the whole of the
open season. His return was awaited by all. These journeys of his
brought, as a result, a rush of business to the Fort, and an added life to
the Mission. Then there was the mother, and her now grown children,
waiting to welcome the man who was their all.
But Allan Mowbray had not yet returned, and Jessie, young, impulsive,
devoted, was living in a fever of apprehension such as her experienced
mother never displayed.
Supper was ready at the house when Murray and Jessie arrived from
the Fort. Ailsa Mowbray was awaiting them. She regarded them
smilingly as they came. Her eyes, twins, in their beauty and coloring,
with her daughter's, were full of that quiet patience which years of
struggle had inspired. For all she was approaching fifty, she was a
handsome, erect woman, taller than the average, with a figure of
physical strength quite unimpaired by the hard wear of that bitter
northern world. Her greeting was the greeting of a mother, whose chief
concern is the bodily welfare of her children, and a due regard for her
domestic arrangements.
"Jessie's young yet, and maybe that accounts for a heap. But you,
Murray, being a man, ought to know when it's food time. I guess it's
been waiting a half hour. Come right in, and we'll get on without
waiting for Alec. The boy went out with his gun, an' I don't think we'll
see him till he's ready."
Jessie's serious eyes had caught her mother's attention. Ailsa Mowbray
possessed all a mother's instinct. Her watch over her pretty daughter,
though unobtrusive, was never for a moment relaxed. Some day she
supposed the child would have to marry. Well, the choice was small
enough. It scarcely seemed a thing to concern herself with. But she did.

And her feelings and opinions were very decided.
Murray smilingly accepted the blame for their tardiness.
"Guess it's up to me," he said. "You see, Jessie was good enough to let
me yarn about the delights of this slice of God's country. Well, when a
feller gets handing out his talk that way to a bright girl, who doesn't
find she's got a previous engagement elsewhere, he's liable to forget
such ordinary things as mere food."
Mrs. Mowbray nodded.
"That's the way of it--sure. Specially when you haven't cooked it," she
said, with a smile that robbed her words of all reproach.
She turned to pass within the rambling, log-built house. But at that
moment two dogs raced round the angle of the building and fawned up
to her, completely ignoring the others.
"Guess Alec's--ready," was Murray's smiling comment.
There was a shadow of irony in the man's words, which made the
mother glance up quickly from the dogs she was impartially caressing.
"Yes," she said simply, and without warmth. Her regard though
momentary was very direct.
Murray turned away as the sound of voices followed in the wake of the
dogs.
"Hello!" he cried, in a startled fashion. "Here's Father José,
and--Keewin!"
"Keewin?"
It was Jessie who echoed the name. But her mother had ceased
caressing the dogs. She stood very erect, and quite silent.
Three men turned the corner of the house. Alec came first. He was tall,

a fair edition of his mother, but without any of the strength of character
so plainly written on her handsome features. Only just behind him
came Father José and an Indian.
The Padre of the Mission was a white-haired, white-browed man of
many years and few enough inches. His weather-stained face, creased
like parchment, was lit by a pair of piercing eyes, which were full of
fire and mental energy. But, for the moment, no one had eyes for
anything but the stoic placidity of the expressionless features of the
Indian. The man's forehead was bound with a blood-stained bandage of
dirty cloth.
Ailsa Mowbray's gentle eyes widened.