this"--he gazed at the rugged hills rent by winding dales--"is British
Columbia on a miniature scale."

"Yes," agreed Vane; "it isn't monotonous."

"Now you have hit it! That's the precise difference. We've three belts of
country, beginning at Labrador and running west--rock and pine scrub,
level prairie, and ranges piled on ranges beyond the Rockies. Hundreds of
leagues of each of them, and, within their limits, all the same. But this
country's mixed. You can get what you like--woods, smooth grass-land,
mountains--in a few hours' ride."

Vane smiled.

"Our people and their speech and habits are mixed, too. There's more
difference between county and county in thirty miles than there is right
across your whole continent. You're cast in the one mold."

"I'm inclined to think it's a good one," laughed Carroll. "What's more,
it has set its stamp on you. The very way your clothes hang proclaims
that you're a Westerner."

Vane laughed good-humoredly; but as they clattered through a sleepy
hamlet with its little, square-towered church overhanging a brawling
river, his face grew grave. Pulling up the horse, he handed the reins
to Carroll.

"This is the first stage of my pilgrimage. I won't keep you five
minutes."