At the age of ten the aunt died, after a lingering illness, and in process of time, as the years rolled on, little Mary, besides being the life of the household, became also its presiding deity, and the ruler of all the domestic life and arrangements of the place. When, therefore, the lease of John Truman’s holding expired, and it became a necessity to seek another dwelling, they determined to try their fortunes in the Far West, and of course it was inevitable that Mary should form one of the party. She felt her physical strength was rapidly returning. The pure dry air,—so notable a feature of the Dominion,—the sunshiny days, and the abundant opportunities for out-door life, had, combined with rare constitutional endowments, contributed in no ordinary degree to that recovery which was every day becoming more manifest. With the restoration to health there was a corresponding improvement in spirits, as the buoyancy and elasticity of youth asserted their influence, and she began to throw off much of that gloom and depression, so unnatural to the young, and quite foreign to Mary’s nature, but which the tragic events with which the swift current of her life had been so suddenly arrested sufficiently accounted for. The elder Barton had not been unmoved, although a silent spectator of the change that was taking place. He had witnessed, with a daily increasing interest, her growing health; but it was with even more satisfaction that he marked the improvement in her spirits, as it indicated the arrival of that period when, with some degree of assurance, he might hope to be able to express to her in words the feelings which he had allowed himself to cherish towards her. Life at the Ranch was uneventful as a rule, and comparatively lonely. Visitors were rare, and the settlers, with their own people, were thrown much together, not only during the hours of labour, but for that companionship which human nature naturally looks for. The frequent opportunities which such occasions offered for little delicate attentions, kind inquiries, and the like, John was not slow in taking advantage of, nor in noting their effect. The encouragement which such attentions received was not much; nor could it be regarded as a very safe foundation on which to build hope for the future, yet he did not feel altogether without warrant for so doing. So when, one evening after the work of the day was over, as the twilight was deepening, and Mary was standing at the entrance to the dairy, watching the stars as they one by one made themselves visible, Barton’s approach was all unnoticed until he was close upon her. "What, star-gazing, my lass?" he exclaimed. "Well, what if I was, Mr. Impudence," she retorted. "Oh, nothing," he replied, somewhat at a loss what to say. "It’s a lovely night for star-gazing, as you call it," she added, with a little less asperity in her tones, as if to make amends for the sharpness of her previous retort.