Dusk was closing in when George and Edgar alighted at a little English station.  Casting an eager glance about, George was disappointed to see nobody from his cousin’s house waiting to meet him.  In another moment, however, he was warmly greeted by Ethel West.

“A very hearty welcome, George,” she said.  “You’re looking very fit, but thinner than you were when you left us.  Stephen’s waiting outside.  He told Muriel we would drive you over; Herbert’s away somewhere.”

“How’s everybody?” George inquired.

“Sylvia looked as charming as ever when I last saw her a few days ago,” Ethel answered with a smile, which George was too eager to notice was somewhat forced.  “The rest of us, are much as usual.  But come along; we’ll send over afterward for your heavy things.”

They turned toward the outlet, and found Stephen having some trouble with a horse that was startled by the roar of steam.  Edgar got up in front of the high trap, George helped Ethel to the seat behind, and they set off the next moment, flying down the wet road amid a cheerful hammer of hoofs and a rattle of wheels.  For the first few minutes George said little as he looked about.  On one side great oaks and ashes raised their naked boughs in sharp tracery against the pale saffron glow in the western sky.  Ahead, across a deep valley, which was streaked with trains of mist, wide moors and hills rolled away, gray and darkly blue.  Down the long slope to the hollow ran small fields with great trees breaking the lines of hedgerows; and the brawling of a river swollen by recent rain came sharply up to him.

It was all good to look upon, a beautiful, well-cared-for land, and he felt a thrill of pride and satisfaction.  This was home, and he had come back to it with his work done.  A roseate future stretched away before him, its peaceful duties brightened by love, and the contrast between it and the stress and struggle of the past two years added to its charm.  Still, to his astonishment, he thought of the sterner and more strenuous life he had led on the western plains with a faint, half-tender regret.

By and by Edgar’s laugh rang out.

“The change in my brother is remarkable,” Ethel declared.  “It was a very happy thought that made us let him go with you.”

“I’m not responsible,” George rejoined.  “You have the country to thank.  In some way, it’s a hard land; but it’s a good one.”

“Perhaps something is due to Miss Taunton’s influence.”

Edgar leaned over the back of the seat.

“That,” he said, “is a subject of which I’ve a monopoly; and I’ve volumes to say upon it as soon as there’s a chance of doing it justice.  George, I hear that Singleton, who told us about the wheat, is home on a visit.  Stephen has asked him over; you must meet him.”

George said he would be glad to do so, and turned to Ethel when Edgar resumed his conversation with his brother.

“I wired Herbert to have everything ready at my place, though I shall spend the night at Brantholme.”

“The Lodge is let.  Didn’t you know?”

“I understood that the man’s tenancy ran out a few weeks ago.”

“He renewed it.  Herbert didn’t know you were coming over; the terms were good.”

“Then I’m homeless for a time.”

“Oh, no!” said Ethel.  “Stephen wanted me to insist on your coming with us now, but I know you will want to see Muriel and have a talk with her.  However, we’ll expect you to come and take up your quarters with us to-morrow.”

George looked at her in some surprise.

“I’d be delighted, but Herbert will expect me to stay with him, and, of course ­”

“Sylvia hadn’t arrived this afternoon; she was at Mrs. Kettering’s,” Ethel told him.  “But remember that you must stay with us until you make your arrangements.  We should find it hard to forgive you if you went to anybody else.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, only that Herbert’s the obvious person to entertain me,” George replied, though he was a little puzzled by the insistence, and Ethel abruptly began to talk of something else.

Darkness came, but there were gleams of cheerful light from roadside cottages, and George found the fresh moist air and the shadowy woods they skirted pleasantly familiar.  This was the quiet English countryside he loved, and a sense of deep and tranquil content possessed him.  He failed to notice that Ethel cleverly avoided answering some of his questions and talked rather more than usual about matters of small importance.  At length they reached the Brantholme gates, and Stephen looked down as George alighted.

“We’ll expect you over shortly; I’ll send for your baggage,” he said as he drove off.

George, to his keen disappointment, found only Mrs. Lansing waiting for him in the hall, though she received him very cordially,

“Herbert had to go up to London; he didn’t get your wire in time to put off the journey,” she explained.  “I’m sorry he can’t be back for a few days.”

“It doesn’t matter; he has to attend to his business,” George rejoined.  “But where’s Sylvia?”

“She hasn’t come back from Susan’s,” said Mrs. Lansing, quickly changing the subject and explaining why Herbert had re-let the Lodge.  After that, she asked George questions until she sent him off to prepare for dinner.

George was perplexed as well as disappointed.  Neither Ethel nor Muriel seemed inclined to speak about Sylvia ­it looked as if they had some reason for avoiding any reference to her; but he assured himself that this was imagination, and during dinner he confined his inquiries to other friends.  When it was over and Muriel led him into the drawing-room, his uneasiness grew more keen.

“Herbert thought you would like to know as soon as possible how things were going,” Muriel said, as she took a big envelope from a drawer and gave it to him.

“He told me this was a rough statement of your business affairs.”

“Thanks,” said George, thrusting it carelessly into his pocket.  “I must study it sometime.  But I’ve been looking forward all day to meeting Sylvia.  Wouldn’t Susan let her come?”

Mrs. Lansing hesitated, and then, leaning forward, laid her hand on his arm.

“I’ve kept it back a little, George; but you must be told.  I’m afraid it will be a shock –­Sylvia is to marry Captain Bland in the next few weeks.”

George rose and turned rather gray in the face, as he leaned on the back of a chair.

“I suppose,” he said hoarsely, “there’s no doubt of this?”

“It’s all arranged.”  Mrs. Lansing made a compassionate gesture.  “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, or how hateful it was to have to give you such news.”

“I can understand why Sylvia preferred to leave it to you,” he said slowly.  “How long has this matter been going on?”

Mrs. Lansing’s eyes sparkled with anger.

“I believe it began soon after you left.  I don’t know whether Sylvia expects me to make excuses for her, but I won’t do anything of the kind; there are none that could be made.  She has behaved shamefully!”

“One must be just,” George said with an effort.  “After all, she promised me nothing.”

“Perhaps not in so many words.  But she knew what you expected, and I have no doubt she led you to believe ­”

George raised his hand.

“I think there’s nothing to be said ­the thing must be faced somehow.  I feel rather badly hit; you won’t mind if I go out and walk about a little?”

Mrs. Lansing was glad to let him go; the sight of his hard-set face hurt her.  In another minute he was walking up and down the terrace, but he stopped presently and leaned on the low wall.  Hitherto he had believed in Sylvia with an unshaken faith, but now a flood of suspicion poured in on him; above all, there was the telling fact that as soon as he had gone, she had begun to lead on his rival.  The shock he had suffered had brought George illumination.  Sylvia could never have had an atom of affection for him; she had merely made his loyalty serve her turn.  She had done so even before she married Dick Marston; though he had somehow retained his confidence in her then.  He had been a fool from the beginning!

The intense bitterness of which he was conscious was wholly new to him, but it was comprehensible.  Just in all his dealings, he expected honesty from others, and, though generous in many ways, he had not Bland’s tolerant nature; he looked for more than the latter and had less charity.  There was a vein of hardness in the man who had loved Sylvia largely because he believed in her.  Trickery and falseness were abhorrent to him, and now the woman he had worshiped stood revealed in her deterrent reality.

After a while he pulled himself together, and, going back to the house, entered Herbert’s library where, less because of his interest in the matter than as a relief from painful thoughts, he opened the envelope given him and took out the statement.  For a few moments the figures puzzled him, and then he broke into a bitter laugh.  The money that he had entrusted to his cousin’s care had melted away.

During the next two or three minutes he leaned back, motionless, in his chair; then he took up a pencil and lighted a cigar.  Since he was ruined, he might as well ascertain how it had happened, and two facts became obvious from his study of the document:  Herbert had sold sound securities, and had mortgaged land; and then placed the proceeds in rubber shares.  This was perhaps permissible, but it did not explain what had induced an astute business man to hold the shares until they had fallen to their remarkably low value.  There was a mystery here, and George in his present mood was keenly suspicious.  He had no doubt that Herbert had left the statement because it would save him the unpleasantness of giving a personal explanation; moreover, George believed that he had left home with that purpose.  Then he made a few rough calculations, which seemed to prove that enough remained to buy and stock a farm in western Canada.  This was something, though it did not strike him as a matter of much consequence, and he listlessly smoked out his cigar.  Then he rose and rejoined Mrs. Lansing.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go over to Wests’ to-morrow,” he said.  “They pressed me to spend some time with them, and there are arrangements to be made on which they want my opinion.  Edgar is taking up land in Canada.”

Mrs. Lansing looked troubled.

“Was there anything disturbing in the paper Herbert gave me for you?  He doesn’t tell me much about his business, but I gathered that he was vexed about some shares he bought on your account.  I should be sorry if they have gone down.”

“You would hardly understand; the thing’s a little complicated,” George said with reassuring gentleness.  “I’m afraid I have lost some money; but, after all, it isn’t my worst misfortune.  I’ll have a talk with Herbert as soon as he comes home.”

He left Brantholme the next morning and was received by Ethel when he arrived at Wests’.

“We have been expecting you,” she said cordially.

“Then you know?”

“Yes.  I’m very sorry; but I suppose it will hardly bear talking about.  Stephen is waiting for you; he’s taking a day off and Edgar’s friend, Singleton, arrives to-night.”

Singleton duly made his appearance, but he was not present when George and Stephen West sat down for a talk after dinner in the latter’s smoking-room.  Presently George took out the statement and handed it to his host.

“I want advice badly and I can’t go to an outsider for it,” he said.  “I feel quite safe in confiding in you.”

West studied the document for a while before he looked up.

“The main point to be decided is ­whether you should sell these shares at once for what they will bring, or wait a little?  With your permission, we’ll ask Singleton; he knows more about the matter than anybody else.”

Singleton came in and lighted a cigar, and then listened carefully, with a curious little smile, while West supplied a few explanations.

“Hold on to these shares, even if you have to make a sacrifice to do so,” he advised.

“But they seem to be almost worthless,” George objected.

“Perhaps I had better go into the matter fully,” said Singleton.  “I’ll do so on the understanding that what I’m about to tell you reaches nobody else.”

George looked at West, who nodded.

“Well,” explained Singleton, “I’ve come over on a flying visit about this rubber business.  The original company ­the one in which you hold shares ­was got up mainly with the idea of profiting by the rather reckless general buying of such stock.  Its tropical possessions were badly managed, though a little good rubber was shipped, and when prices reached their highest point Mr. Lansing sold out.”

“If he had sold my shares at the same time, there should have been a satisfactory margin?”

“Undoubtedly.  Extensive selling, however, shakes the confidence of speculators, and a man desirous of unloading would accordingly prefer everybody else to hold on.”

“I think I am beginning to understand now,” George said grimly.

“Then,” Singleton went on, “a new company was projected by the promoters of the first one, and I was sent out to report on its prospects.  At the last moment Mr. Lansing withdrew, but his associates sent me south again.  The slump he had foreseen came; nobody wanted rubber shares in any but firmly established and prosperous companies.  Lansing had cleared out in time and left his colleagues to face a crushing loss.”

“I don’t see how all this bears upon the subject,” George interrupted.

“Wait.  You may be thankful Lansing didn’t sell your shares.  I found that the company could be placed upon a paying basis, and, what is more, that the older one possessed resources its promoters had never suspected.  In fact, I discovered how its output could be greatly increased at an insignificant cost.  I came home at once with a scheme which has been adopted, and I’ve every reason to believe that there will be marked rise in the shares before long.  Anyway, there’s no doubt that the company will be able to place high-class rubber on the market at a cost which will leave a very satisfactory margin.”

George was conscious of strong relief.  It looked as if his loss would be small, and there was a chance of his stock becoming valuable; but another thought struck him.

“When was it that Herbert sold his shares?”

“At the beginning of last winter.”

“Shortly before we mentioned that you might come home,” West interposed pointedly.

This confirmed George’s suspicions; he could readily understand Herbert’s preferring that he should stay away, but he remembered that it was Sylvia’s letter which had decided him to remain in Canada.  In the statement left him, he had been charged with half of certain loans Herbert had made to her, and he wondered whether this pointed to some collusion between them.  He thought it by no means improbable.

“I understand that Herbert knows nothing about these new developments, and has no idea that the future of the two undertakings is promising?” he said.

Singleton laughed.

“Not the slightest notion.  If he suspected it, there would be nothing to prevent his buying shares; nothing will transpire until the shareholders’ meeting, which will not be held for some time.  Lansing retired and sold out, because he was convinced that both companies were worthless.”  He paused and added dryly:  “I can’t see why we should enlighten him.”

“Nor can I,” responded George; and West nodded.

“Then,” said Singleton, “when Lansing learns the truth, it will be too late for him to profit by the knowledge.  I believe he has thrown away the best chance he ever had.”

Shortly afterward Edgar came in and they talked of something else; but two days later Herbert returned and George went over to Brantholme.  He was shown into the library where Herbert was sitting, and the latter was on his guard when he saw his cousin’s face.  He greeted him affably, however, and made a few inquiries about his farming.

George stood looking at him with a fixed expression.

“I think,” he said shortly, “we had better talk business.”

“Oh, well,” replied Herbert.  “I suppose you have studied my statement.  I needn’t say that I regret the way matters have turned out; but one can’t foresee every turn of the market, or avoid a miscalculation now and then.  It would hurt me if I thought this thing had anything to do with your going to Stephen’s.”

“We won’t discuss that.  I gave you authority to look after my affairs; I want it back.”

Herbert took a document from a drawer and laid it on the table.

“Here it is.  But won’t you let me try to straighten matters out?”

“Can they be straightened out?”

“Well,” said Herbert with some embarrassment, “I’m afraid there’s a serious loss, but it would be wiser to face it and sell off the shares.”

“I can do what seems most desirable without any further assistance.”

George leaned forward and, as he picked up the document, a flush crept into his cousin’s face.

“I hardly expected you would take this line.  Do you think it’s right to blame me because I couldn’t anticipate the fall in value?”

“It strikes me that the situation is one that had better not be discussed between us,” George rejoined, with marked coldness.  “Besides, my opinion won’t count for much in face of the very satisfactory financial results you have secured.  I’m sorry for what has happened, on Muriel’s account.”

He turned and went out; and met Ethel on reaching West’s house.

“I must try to arrange for an interview with Sylvia and Captain Bland,” he told her.  “There are matters that should be explained to them.”

“Won’t it be painful?”

“That can’t be allowed to count.”

“After all,” said Ethel thoughtfully, “it’s no doubt the proper course.”

A week later he visited Mrs. Kettering’s, and was shown into a room where Sylvia awaited him alone.  After the first glance at him, she turned her eyes away.

“George,” she said, “I’m afraid I’ve behaved badly.  Can you forgive me?”

“I think so,” he answered with a forced smile.  “Anyway, I’ll try, and I’d like you to be happy.  But it wouldn’t be flattering if I pretended that I wasn’t hurt.”

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “you were always so generous!”

He stood silent a moment or two looking at her.

She had cunningly tricked him and killed his love; but she was very attractive with her pretty, helpless air.  He knew this was false, but there was no profit in bitterness; he would not cause her pain.

“It’s more to the purpose that I’m hard, which is fortunate in several ways.  But I came to talk about the farm; that is why I suggested that Captain Bland should be present.”

“The farm?” Sylvia regarded him with a trace of mockery.  “That you should think of it is so characteristic of you!”

George smiled.

“I can’t help my matter-of-fact nature, and I’ve found it serviceable.  Anyway, the farm must be thought of.”  He laid a hand gently on her shoulder.  “Sylvia, I’m told that Bland isn’t rich.  If he loves you, take him fully into your confidence.”

She blushed, which he had scarcely expected.

“I have done so ­at least, I allowed Herbert to explain ­there is nothing hidden.”  Then her tone changed to one of light raillery.  “You were always an extremist, George; you can’t hit the happy medium.  Once you believed I was everything that was most admirable, and now ­”

“I think you have done right and wisely in letting Bland know how things stand.  It was only my interest in your future that warranted what I said.”

“Well,” she replied, “we will go up and talk to him; he’s waiting.  You can give your account to him.”

George followed her, but for a while he was conscious of a certain restraint, which he fancied was shared by Bland.  It was difficult to talk about indifferent subjects, and he took out some papers.

“I came to explain the state of Sylvia’s Canadian affairs; she wished you to know,” he said.  “If you will give me a few minutes, I’ll try to make things clear.”

Bland listened gravely, and then made a sign of satisfaction.

“It’s obvious that Sylvia placed her property in most capable hands.  We can only give you our sincere thanks.”

“There’s a point to be considered,” George resumed.  “Have you decided what to do with the property?”

“Sylvia and I have talked it over; we thought of selling.  I don’t see how we could carry on the farm.”

“If you will let the matter stand over for a few weeks, I might be a purchaser.  The land’s poor, but there’s a good deal of it, and I believe that, with proper treatment, it could be made to pay.”

Sylvia looked astonished, Bland slightly embarrassed.

“We never contemplated your buying the place,” he said.

“I’ve grown fond of it; I believe I understand how it should be worked.  There’s no reason why either of you should object to my becoming a purchaser.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Bland agreed.  “Anyway, I can promise that we’ll do nothing about the matter until we hear from you; I don’t think there’s any likelihood of our disputing about the price.  You can fix that at what it’s worth to you.”

George changed the subject; and when he went out, Sylvia smiled at Bland.

“You needn’t have been so sensitive about his buying the farm,” she said.  “It will have to be sold.”

“I suppose so, but I wish we could have given it to him.”

Sylvia touched his cheek caressingly.

“Don’t be foolish; it’s out of the question.  You will have to be economical enough as it is, but you shan’t make any sacrifice that isn’t strictly necessary.”

During the next few weeks George made some visits among his friends, but he returned to the Wests shortly before Edgar sailed for Canada.  On the night preceding his departure they were sitting together when Edgar looked at him thoughtfully.

“George,” he remarked, “I wonder if it has ever struck you that you’re a very short-sighted person?  I mean that you don’t realize where your interest lies.”

“It’s possible,” said George.  “What particular oversight are you referring to?”

“It isn’t easy to answer bluntly, and if I threw out any delicate suggestions, they’d probably be wasted.  You saw a good deal of Flora Grant, and if you had any sense you would have recognized what kind of girl she is.”

“Miss Grant doesn’t need your praise.”

“I’m glad you admit it; appréciation’s sometimes mutual.  Now I can’t undertake to say what Flora implied from your visits, but I’ve no doubt about what her father expected.”

The blood crept into George’s face as he remembered Grant’s manner during their last interview.

“I did nothing that could have led him to believe ­”

“Oh, no!” said Edgar.  “You behaved with the greatest prudence; perhaps frigid insensibility would describe it better.  Of course this is a deplorable intrusion, but I feel I must point out that it may not be too late yet.”

“I’ve felt greatly tempted to buy Sylvia’s farm,” George said thoughtfully.

“That’s good news.  If you’re wise, you’ll consider what I’ve said.”

George did so after Edgar’s departure, though the idea was not new to him.  He had long been sensible of Flora’s charm, and had now and then felt in Canada that it would not be difficult to love her.  Since he had learned the truth about Sylvia, Flora had occupied a prominent place in his mind.  By degrees a desire for her had grown stronger; he had seen how admirable in many ways she was, how staunch and fearless and upright.  Still, he feared to go back; she was proud and might scorn his tardy affection.  He grew disturbed and occasionally moody, and then one day a cablegram was delivered to him.

“Believe you had better come back,” it read, and was signed by Helen Taunton.

George understood what it was intended to convey, and before night he had arranged to purchase Sylvia’s farm.

Three days later he was crossing the Atlantic with an eager and thankful heart.