a girl. Even though Rutter had declared she would be at Walsh, I wasn't
prepared to believe it was Lyn Rowan. Sometimes five years will work a
wonderful change in a woman; or is it that time and distance work some
subtle transition in one's recollection? She didn't give me much time to
indulge in guesswork, though. While I wondered, for an instant, if there
could by any possibility be another woman on God's footstool with quite
the same tilt to her head, the same heavy coils of tawny hair and
unfathomable eyes that always met your own so frankly, she recognized
the pair of us; though MacRae in uniform must have puzzled her for an
instant.

"Gordon--and Sarge Flood! Where in the world did you come from?
And--and----" She stopped rather suddenly, a bit embarrassed. I knew
just as well as if she had spoken the words, that she had been on the
point of asking him what he was doing in the yellow-striped breeches and
scarlet jacket of a Mounted Policeman. Whatever had parted them, she
hadn't held it against him. There was an indefinable something in the
way she spoke his name and looked at him that told me there was still a
soft spot in her heart for the high-headed beggar by my side.

But MacRae--while I was wise to the fact that he was the only friend I
had in that country, and the sort of friend that sticks closer than a
brother, I experienced a sincere desire to beat him over the noodle with
my gun and thereby knock a little of the stiffness out of his
neck--simply saluted the officer, tipped his hat to her, and passed on.
I didn't _sabe_ the play, and when I saw the red flash up into her face
it made me hot, and there followed a few seconds when I took a very
uncharitable view of Mr. Gordon MacRae's distant manner.

The fellow with her, I noticed, seemed to draw himself up very stiff and