the man. There was nothing in his appearance that would have aroused a
stranger's interest, or attracted more than a passing glance, as he
stood before her in a very old fur coat, with a fur cap that was in
keeping with it held in his hand.

His face had been bronzed almost to the color of a Blackfeet Indian's
by frost and wind and sun, but it was of English type from the crisp
fair hair above the broad forehead to the somewhat solid chin. The
mouth was hidden by the bronze-tinted mustache, and the eyes alone were
noticeable. They were gray, and there was a steadiness in them which
was almost unusual even in that country where men look into long
distances. For the rest, he was of average stature, and stood
impassively straight, looking down upon the girl, without either grace
or awkwardness, while his hard brown hands suggested, as his attire
did, strenuous labor for a very small reward.

"Well," said the girl, with Western frankness, "there's a kind of stamp
on Lance that you haven't got. I figure he brought it with him from
the old country. Still, one might take you for him if you stood with
the light behind you, and you're not quite a bad-looking man. It's a
kind of pity you're so solemn."

Winston smiled. "I don't fancy that's astonishing after losing two
harvests in succession," he said. "You see there's nobody back there
in the old country to send remittances to me."

The girl nodded with quick sympathy. "Oh, yes. The times are bad,"
she said. "Well, you read your letters, I'm not going to worry you."

Winston sat down and opened the first envelope under the big lamp. It