Part 39 (1/2)

Brooke, who understood a little about Western journalism, waited until they stopped, for the thing was becoming comprehensible to him.

”Now,” he said, ”I know how the story got out. I didn't think the doctor would be guilty of anything of that kind, but no doubt he told the little schoolmaster at the settlement, who is a friend of his, and, I believe, addicted to misusing ink. Still, you see, the thing is evidently inaccurate. Do I look as if I could do without anything to eat for a week?”

One of the girls again favored him with a scrutinizing glance. ”Well,”

she said, with a little twinkle in her eyes, ”you certainly look as though square meals were scarce at the Dayspring.”

Brooke laughed, and then glancing round saw Barbara approaching. He fancied that she could not well have avoided seeing him unless she wished to, but she pa.s.sed so close that her skirt almost touched him, and then stopped, apparently smiling down on a matronly lady a few yards away. Brooke felt his face grow warm, and was glad that his companions'

questions covered his confusion.

”Who'd you get to do the funeral? There wouldn't be any kind of clergyman up there.”

”No,” said Brooke, grimly. ”We had to manage it ourselves--that is, the doctor did. I'm afraid it wasn't very ceremonious--and it was snowing hard at the time.”

He sat silent a moment while a little s.h.i.+ver ran through him as he remembered the bitter blast that had whirled the white flakes about the two lonely men, and shaken a mournful wailing from the thras.h.i.+ng pines.

”How dreadful!” said one of his companions. ”The story only mentioned the big glacier, and the forest lying black all round.”

Brooke fancied he understood the narrator's reticence, for there were details the doctor was not likely to be communicative about.

”The big glacier was, at least, three miles away, and n.o.body could have seen it from where we stood,” he said, evasively.

Just then, and somewhat to his relief, Mrs. Devine came up to him.

”There are two or three people here who heard you play at the concert, and I have been asked to try to persuade you to do so again,” she said.

”Clarice Marvin would be delighted to lend you her violin.”

Seeing that it was expected of him, Brooke agreed, and there was a brief discussion during the choosing of the music, in which two or three young women took part. Then it was discovered that the piano part of the piece fixed upon was unusually difficult, and the girl who had offered Brooke the violin said, ”You must ask Barbara, Mrs. Devine.”

Barbara, being summoned, made excuses when she heard what was required of her, until the lady violinist looked at her in wonder.

”Now,” she said, ”you know you can play it if you want to. You went right through it with me only a week ago.”

A faint tinge of color crept into Barbara's cheek, but saying nothing further, she took her place at the piano, and Brooke bent down towards her when he asked for the note.

”It really doesn't commit you to anything,” he said. ”Still, I can obviate the difficulty by breaking a string.”

Barbara met his questioning gaze with a little cold smile.

”It is scarcely worth while,” she said.

Then she commenced the prelude, and there was silence in the big room when the violin joined in. Nor were those who listened satisfied with one sonata, and Barbara had finished the second before she once more remembered whom she was playing for. Then there was a faint sparkle in her eyes as she looked up at him.

”It is unfortunate that you did not choose music as a career,” she said.

Brooke laughed, though his face was a trifle grim.

”The inference is tolerably plain,” he said. ”I really think I should have been more successful than I was at claim-jumping.”