From that day on Paul seemed to become more a member of the household than simply one of “the bunch.” In the McConnell living-room stood a really fine piano which the Irishman had taken off the hands of a young Englishman who had been called home and had in reckless haste sold everything and gone. Once Paul had been introduced to the instrument it became the regular custom that after the boys had “fed up and washed up” an invitation would come down to the bunk house, delivered in person as a rule by Molly, in something like the following terms, “Ma wants you to come up and play some music for us, Paul. The rest of you kids can come up too if you like.” With which invitation the boys would be meekly content. Thus night after night it was their custom to sit entranced, all unconscious of the flight of time, under the weird witchery that flowed from those long, sinewy fingers while Paul wandered at will from “Ole Dan Tucker,” “Money Musk,” and “Turkey in the Straw” to “The Moonlight” or a Bach fugue, or, best of all in Molly’s estimation, one of Paul’s own improvisations. One thing, however, Paul always insisted upon, and in this he was loyally backed up by “the bunch,” that Molly must first play one of her pieces, “Silvery Waves,” “Woodland Echoes,” “Clayton’s Grand March,” or, by special request, “The Maiden’s Prayer.” Happy evenings these were to them all: to Paul, revelling once more in the long-lost joy of communing with the great masters of music, and in renewing memories of his boyhood years; to the boys; and to Pa and Ma McConnell, keeping time with foot and hand to rollicking reel and jig which, as nothing else could, brought back with almost painful reality the good old times in old Ontario or Nova Scotia or in a very humble cabin on “the dear ould sod beyant the sea”; and to Molly, sitting with wide blue eyes staring into space, her heart rocked with mingled emotions whose meaning she could not fathom. But these nights, as all nights will, passed with the passing summer, and with the approach of winter new plans had to be made. One day when the snow began to fly and the cowboys were beginning “to strike for the bright lights,” there to relieve themselves of their summer’s pay that burned like molten metal in their pockets, McConnell, after a long and serious conversation with his shrewd and motherly spouse, lured his “kid cow-puncher” into his private den, to have “a little chaw about things.” “Got any plans for the winter, Paul?” he asked abruptly, after exhausting such subjects of conversation as were of mutual knowledge to them. “Yes,” said Paul, “I’m going to study to be an engineer—going to Vancouver or some other place where I can get teaching and experience in an office.” “Why! you ain’t got no schoolin’. It takes a lot of schoolin’ to be an engineer, and a lot of money.” “I know,” said Paul gloomily, “but I know the books, and——” “‘Know the books’? An’ what d’ ye mean by that?”