tempered, yet Derek had glimpses of primitive cruelty within. He had seen her knock a rabbit on the head with a stick and smile at its whimpering. She had told him, showing all her little teeth, how ermines were trapped by the licking of frosty steel—held to the trap by their tongues. Wasn't that fonny? Yet she would sit on the floor by Jock, the collie, and stroke him till he was hypnotized.
Derek loved to watch her. He became more and more contented. And yet—he was never ten minutes alone without beginning to dream about Grace Jerrold. He would picture what his life might have been had he married her. He could not forget her. He thought it strange that he should be living in comparative content with one woman, while his mind dwelt with another.
One foggy morning in mid-December Derek was confronted in the lane by the figure of a man who stepped suddenly from the shelter of a little clump of cedars. It was Jammery.
"Good morning, Mr. Vale," he said in his soft voice. "I guess you're surprised to see me, eh?"
"Yes, I am. The last I heard of you was from Bob Gunn at The Duke of York."
Jammery's brow darkened. "Yes, they refused me a drink for being an Indian, which was hardly fair for, as I've told you I can't even speak their language. I may have a dash of the bow and arrow in me, but it's far enough away. It was Bob who testified I was an Indian, curse him." Though he had frowned, his voice was gentle as ever.
Derek walked on down the lane. The sod was wet and spongy, for the snow had melted, and the creek, swollen by snow and rain, rushed in coffee-coloured torrents between
