A quick flush appeared on the boy's face. “I guess I was queer that day, Jane,” he said. “I know I felt queer.” “Yes, that's it,” said Jane, delighted by some sudden recollection. “You were queer then, and now you're just ornary. My, you were sick and you were cross, too, awful cross that day. I guess it was the headick. I get awfully cross, too, when I have the headick. I don't think you will be cross again ever, will you, Larry?” Larry, smiling at her, replied, “I'll never be cross with you, Jane, anyway, never again.” CHAPTER VII THE GIRL OF THE WOOD LOT June, and the sun flooding with a golden shimmer a land of tawny prairie, billowy hills, wooded valleys and mountain peaks white with eternal snows, touching with silver a stream which, glacier-born, hurled itself down mountain sides in fairy films of mist, rushed through canyons in a mad torrent, hurried between hills in a swollen flood, meandered along wide valleys in a full-lipped tide, lingered in a placid lake in a bit of lowland banked with poplar bluffs, and so onward past ranch-stead and homestead to the great Saskatchewan and Father Ocean, prairie and hills, valleys and mountains, river and lake, making a wonder world of light and warmth and colour and joyous life. Two riders on rangey bronchos, followed by two Russian boarhounds, climbed the trail that went winding up among the hills towards a height which broke abruptly into a ridge of bare rock. Upon the ridge they paused. “There! Can you beat that? If so, where?” The lady swept her gauntletted hand toward the scene below. Mrs. Waring-Gaunt was tall, strongly made, handsome with that comeliness which perfect health and out-of-doors life combine to give, her dark hair, dark flashing eyes, straight nose, wide, full-lipped curving mouth, and a chin whose chiselled firmness was softened but not weakened by a dimple, making a picture good to look upon. “There!” she cried again, “tell me, can you beat it?” “Glorious! Sybil, utterly and splendidly glorious!” said her brother, his eyes sweeping the picture below. “And you too, Sybil,” he said, turning his eyes upon her. “This country has done you well. By jove, what a transformation from the white-faced, willowy--” “Weedy,” said she. “Well, as it's no longer true, weedy--woman that faded out of London, how many--eight years ago!” “Ten years, ten long, glorious, splendid years.” “Ten years! Surely not ten!” “Yes, ten beautiful years.” “I wish to God I had come with you then. I might have been--well, I should have been saved some bumps and a ghastly cropper at last.”