"Yes, in a way, but there's a difference," Foster replied. "In eastern
Manitoba and Ontario the bush is choked and tangled, and runs nearly
eight hundred miles. The small pines are half burned in places; in
others they're wrecked and rotten, and lean across each other as if
they were drunk. Then you can travel all day without finding an
opening, unless it's a lonely lake or a river tumbling among the rocks."

"It sounds depressing," Mrs. Featherstone remarked. "We must hope you
will find your stay here a pleasant change."

"The curious thing is that it doesn't feel strange. All I've seen so
far, including the Garth, seems familiar."

"But perhaps that isn't remarkable. You are English and were, I dare
say, brought up in the country and used to our mode of life."

Foster saw Alice glance at him and felt he must be frank.

"No," he said, "my life in England was different from yours. It was
spent in monotonous work, and when I went home at night to a shabby
room in a street of small dingy houses it was too late, and I was often
too dejected, to think of amusements. Twice I spent a glorious ten
days among the hills, but that was all I saw of England unspoiled by
tramway lines and smoke, and the holidays cost a good deal of
self-denial. Railway fares were a serious obstacle."

Alice smiled, but he thought the look she gave him hinted at approval.

"Self-denial isn't so unusual as you seem to think. We know something