the cattle; he caught the sweet breath of decaying verdure, and through
all, the fresh, biting air of the new-land autumn, pleasantly stinging
his face.

Something kept saying to his mind: "It's all good. It's life and light,
and all good." But his nerves were being tried; his whole nature was
stirred.

He took the letter from his pocket again, and read it in the fading
light. It was native, naive, brutal, and unconsciously clever--and the
girl who had written it was beautiful. It had only a few lines. It
asked him why he had deserted her, his wife. It said that he would find
American law protected the deluded stranger. It asked if he had so soon
forgotten the kisses he had given her, and did he not realize they were
married? He felt that, with her, beneath all, there was more than
malice; there was a passion which would run risks to secure its end.

A few moments later he was in the room where his mother, with her strong,
fine, lonely face, sat sewing by the window. The door opened squarely on
her, and he saw how refined and sad, yet self-contained, was the woman
who had given him birth. The look in her eyes warmly welcomed him. Her
own sorrows made her sensitive to those of others, and as Carnac entered
she saw something was vexing him.

"Dear lad!" she said.

He was beside her now, and he kissed her cheek. "Best of all the world,"
he said; and he did not see that she shrank a little.

"Are you in trouble?" she asked, and her hand touched his shoulder.