“Ben, old fellow,” Robert Strafford said, looking up, and feeling at once the comfort of his presence. There was no talk between them: they sat together by the fireside, whilst Hilda lingered outside on the verandah. At last Robert spoke. “My best trees are gone,” he said half-dreamily; “the best part of my ranch is ruined.” “We’ll redeem it,” Ben answered, “you and I together.” Robert shook his head. [Illustration: “THERE WAS NO TALK BETWEEN THEM.”] “There’s no redeeming it,” he said quietly; “I’ve made another failure of my life, and dragged the girl into it this time. And I can’t forgive myself. And she has been so good and patient all through this wretched day. She has not come out to anything very gay, has she?” For the moment Ben’s thoughts turned sympathetically to Hilda, and he regretted his hasty words. No; Bob was right: she had not come out to anything very gay: a barren life, a worn-out worker, and a ruined ranch,--not a particularly sumptuous marriage portion for any one. “I think I shall take her down to the river,” he said suddenly. “She half wanted to go, and it is not safe for her alone.” Robert nodded as though in approval, and showed no further interest in outside things. Ben saw that it was better to leave him alone, and slipped out quietly, having asked no questions about the reservoir. But he soon saw for himself that the finest part of Robert’s ranch was a scene of desolation, and his heart ached for his friend. Then he came round to the honeysuckle verandah, and saw Hilda still standing there. She looked utterly listless and depressed. “May I take you down to the river?” he asked, in his own kind way. “Bob is better alone, and the walk will do you good. Put on some thick boots, for the mud is something awful. You don’t mind heavy walking?” “No, indeed,” she answered eagerly, “I shall be glad to come.” In a few minutes they were making their way down to the valley, now sticking in the mud, and now going valiantly onwards without interruption. At first Ben could not bring himself to speak of the trouble which had befallen his friend; he felt as though Hilda did not understand, or as though she did not care. Yet it was impossible that she did not care. No, she was, so he argued, probably one of those reserved characters, who keep their emotions in an iron safe, proof against all attacks. But at last he could no longer keep silent on the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts. “It is a most disastrous affair, this bursting of the reservoir,” he said. “Bob slaved like a nigger at that earth dam. I never saw any fellow work so hard. And there never was a doubt in our minds about it being as firm as a rock. He has not told me a word about it yet, and I did not like to ask. He will tell me in his own time.”