mosses and the red of withered fern. The sky cleared as they turned
homewards, and when they reached the Garth an angry crimson glow spread
across the west.

Tea was brought them in the hall and Foster, who had changed his
clothes, which was a rare luxury in Canada, sat with much content in a
corner by the hearth. He had been out in the raw wind long enough to
enjoy the rest and warmth, and the presence of two English ladies added
to the charm. Mrs. Featherstone was knitting, but Alice talked to her
father about the shooting and what he had noted on the farms. Foster
thought her cleverer than the others, but it was obvious that her
interest was not forced. She understood agriculture and her remarks
were singularly shrewd.

In a sense, this was puzzling, for she had, in an extra degree, the
fastidious refinement that marked the rest, and with it a touch of
quiet haughtiness. Although she often smiled, she was characterized by
a restful calm, and her glance was steady and level. Alice was tall,
with unusually regular features, brown eyes, and brown hair, but Foster
could not analyze her charm, which was somehow strengthened by a hint
of reserve. He was in the glow of the fire, and imagined that she once
or twice gave him a glance of thoughtful scrutiny.

The room was getting dim, but lights had not been brought, and the red
glow outside filled the large oblong of the casement window. Dark fir
branches cut against the lurid color and Foster, looking out, saw the
radiance strike through the straight rows of trunks.

"Something like Ontario, isn't it?" said Featherstone, indicating the
trees.