WHEN THE DAY BROKE

All night long the tide of fortune ebbed and flowed around the table where Rance Belmont and John Corbett played the game which is still remembered and talked of by the Black Creek old settlers when their thoughts run upon old times.

Just as the daylight began to show blue behind the frosted panes, and the yellow lamplight grew pale and sickly, Rance Belmont rose and stretched his stiffened limbs.

“I am sorry to bring such a pleasant gathering to an end,” he said, with his inscrutable smile, “but I believe I am done.” He was searching through his pockets as he spoke. “Yes, I believe the game is over.”

“You’re a mighty good loser, Rance,” George Sims declared with admiration.

The other men rose, too, and went out to feed their horses, for the storm was over and they must soon be on the road.

When John Corbett and Rance Belmont went out into the kitchen, Maggie Corbett was chopping up potatoes in the frying-pan with a baking-powder can, looking as fresh and rested as if she had been asleep all night, instead of holding a lonely vigil beside a stovepipe-hole.

John Corbett advanced to the table and solemnly deposited the green box thereon; then with painstaking deliberation he arranged the contents of his pockets in piles. Rance Belmont’s watch lay by itself; then the bills according to denomination; last of all the silver and a slip of brown paper with writing on it in lead-pencil.

When all was complete, he nodded to Maggie to take charge of the proceedings.

Maggie hastily inspected the contents of the green box, and having satisfied herself that it was all there, she laid it up, high and dry, on the clock shelf.

Then she hastily looked at the piles and read the slip of brown paper, which seemed to stand for one sorrel pacer, one cutter, one set single harness, two goat robes.

“Rance,” said Maggie, slowly, “we don’t want a cent that don’t belong to us. I put Da at playing with you in the hope he would win all away from you that you had, for we were bound to stop you from goin’ away with that dear girl if it could be done, and we knew you couldn’t go broke; but now you can’t do any harm if you had all the money in the world, for she’s just gone home a few minutes ago with her man.”

Rance Belmont started forward with a smothered oath, which Mrs. Corbett ignored.

“So take your money and horse and all, Rance. It ain’t me and Da would keep a cent we haven’t earned. Take it, Rance” shoving it toward him “there’s no hard feelin’s now, and good luck to you! Sure, I guess Da enjoyed the game, and it seems he hadn’t forgot the way.” Maggie Corbett could not keep a small note of triumph out of her voice.

Rance Belmont gathered up the money without a word, and, putting on his cap and overcoat, he left the Black Creek Stopping-House. John Corbett carried the green box upstairs and put it carefully back in its place of safety, while Maggie Corbett carefully peppered and salted the potatoes in the pan.

When Robert Grant, of the Imperial Lumber Company, of Toronto, wakened from his slumber it was broad daylight, and the yellow winter sun poured in through the frosted panes. The events of the previous night came back to him by degrees; the sore place on his face reminding him of the slight difference of opinion between himself and his new friend, young Mr. Brown.

“Pretty nice, tasty room this young fellow has,” he said to himself, looking around at the many evidences of daintiness and good taste. “He’s a dandy fine young fellow, that Brown. I could take to him without half trying.”

Then he became conscious of low voices in the next room.

“Hello, Brown!” he called.

Fred appeared in the doorway with a smiling face.

“How do you feel this morning, Mr. Grant?” he asked.

“I feel hungry,” Mr. Grant declared. “I want some more of your good prairie cooking. If I get another meal of it I believe I’ll be able to make friends with my son-in-law. When are you going to let me get up?”

Just then there was a rustle of skirts and Evelyn came swiftly into the room.

“Oh, father! father!” she cried, kissing the old man over and over again. “You will forgive me, won’t you?”

The old man’s voice was husky with happy tears.

“I guess we won’t talk about forgiveness, dearie we’re about even, I think but we’ve had our lesson. I’ve got my girl back and, Evelyn, I want you and Fred to come home with me for Christmas and forever. You’ve got the old man solid, Evelyn. I couldn’t face a Christmas without you.”

Evelyn kissed him again without speaking.

“I will apologize to your man, Evelyn,” the old man said, after a pause. “I haven’t treated the boy right. I hope he won’t hold it against me.”

“Not a bit of it,” declared Evelyn. “You don’t know Fred that’s all.”

“Oh, how did you get here, Evelyn? Do you live near here? I have been so glad to see you I forgot to ask.”

“Mr. Brown brought me over,” said Evelyn, unblushingly. “He came over early this morning to tell me you were here. Wasn’t it nice of him?”

“He’s a dandy fellow, this young Brown,” said the old man, and then stopped abruptly.

Evelyn’s eyes were sparkling with suppressed laughter.

“But where is Fred?” her father asked, with an effort, and Evelyn watched him girding himself for a painful duty.

“I’ll call him,” she said, sweetly.

The old man’s grey eyes grew dark with excitement and surprise as his friend Brown came into the room and stood beside Evelyn and quite brazenly put his left arm around her waist. His face was a study in emotions as his quick brain grasped the situation. With a prolonged whistle he dropped back on the pillow, and pulling the counterpane over his face he shook with laughter.

“The joke is all on me,” he cried. “I have been three or four different kinds of a fool.”

Then he emerged from the bed-clothes and, sitting up, grasped Fred’s outstretched hand.

“There’s one thing, though, I am very proud of, Fred,” he said; “I may not be a good judge of humanity myself, but I am glad to know that my girl had all her wits about her when she went to pick out a man for herself!”

Randolph and Reginald stayed in hiding until it was established beyond all doubt that their brother Fred was alive and well. Then they came back to the “Sailors’ Rest,” and life for them went on as before.

At Christmas time a bulky letter and a small white box came addressed to them, bearing the postmark of Bournemouth.

The brothers seized their letter with undiluted joy; it was addressed in a bold, masculine hand, a lawyer’s undoubtedly a striking though perhaps not conclusive proof that Aunt Patience had winged her flight.

They were a little bit disappointed that it had not black edges they had always imagined that the “blow” would come with black edges.

Reginald opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor.

Randolph opened it, read it, and let it fall to the floor.

It contained a thick announcement card, with heavy gold edge, and the news that it carried was to the effect that on December the first Miss Priscilla Abigail Patience Brydon had been united in marriage to Rev. Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland, Rector of St. Albans, Tilbury-on-the-Stoke, and followed this with the information that Mr. and Mrs. Alfred William Henry Curtis Moreland would be at home after January the first in the Rectory, Appleblossom Court, Parklane Road, Tilbury-on-the-Stoke.

The envelope also contained a sweetly happy, fluttery little note from Aunt Patience, saying she hoped they were well, and that she would try to be a good mother to the Rector’s four little boys.

The small white box contained two squares of wedding cake!