The Hound From The North. Cullum Ridgwell

eyes and ready laugh indicated spirits at concert pitch. These three were great friends of Prudence, and were loud in their admiration of her. Peter Furrer, their brother, was with them; he was a red-faced boy of about seventeen, a giant of flesh, and a pigmy of intellect–outside of farming operations. Mrs. Furrer accompanied the party as chaperon–for even in the West chaperons are recognized as useful adjuncts, and, besides, enjoyment is not always a question of age.

      Following closely on the heels of the Furrers came old Gleichen and his two sons, Tim and Harry. Gleichen was a well-to-do “mixed” farmer–a widower who was looking out for a partner as staid and robust as himself. His two sons were less of the prairie than their father, by reason of an education at St. John’s University in Winnipeg. Harry was an aspirant to Holy Orders, and already had charge of a mission in the small neighbouring settlement of Lakeville. Tim acted as foreman to his father’s farm; a boy of enterprising ideas, and who never hesitated to advocate to his steady-going parent the advantage of devoting himself to stock-raising.

      Others arrived in quick succession; a truly agricultural gathering. Amongst the latest of the early arrivals were the Ganthorns; mother, son, and daughter, pretentious folk of considerable means, and recently imported from the Old Country.

      By half-past seven everybody had arrived with the exception of George Iredale and Leslie Grey. The fun began from the very first.

      The dining-table had disappeared from the parlour, as had the rugs from the floor, and somehow a layer of white wax, like an incipient fall of snow, lay invitingly on the bare white pine boarding. And, too, it seemed only natural that the moment she came into the room ready for the fray, Daisy Furrer should make a rush for the ancient piano, and tinkle out with fair execution the strains of an old waltz. Her efforts broke up any sign of constraint; everybody knew everybody else, so they danced. This was the beginning; cards would come later.

      They could all dance, and right well, too. Faces devoid of the absorbing properties of powder quickly shone with the exercise; complexions innocent of all trace of pigments and the toilet arts glowed with a healthy hue and beamed with perfect happiness. There could be no doubt that Prudence and her mother knew their world as well as any hostess could wish. And it was all so easy; no formality, few punctilios to observe–just free-and-easy good-fellowship.

      Mrs. Malling emerged from the region of the kitchen. She was a little heated with her exertions, and a stray wisp or two of grey hair escaping from beneath her quaint lace cap testified to her culinary exertions. She had been stooping at her ovens regardless of her appearance. She found her daughter standing beside the door of the parlour engaged in a desultory conversation with Peter Furrer. Prudence hailed her mother with an air of relief, and the monumental Peter moved heavily away.

      “Oh, mother dear, it’s too bad of you,” exclaimed the girl, gazing at her critically. “And after all the trouble I took with your cap! Look at it now. It’s all on one side, and your hair is sticking out like–like–Timothy grass. Stand still while I fix it.”

      The girl’s deft fingers soon arranged her mother afresh, the old lady protesting all the while, but submitting patiently to the operation.

      “There, there; you children think of nothing but pushing and patting and tittivating. La, but one ’ud think I was going to sit down at table with a King or a Minister of the Church. Nobody’s going to look at me, child–until the victuals come on. Besides, what does it matter with neighbours? Look at old Gleichen over there, bowing and scraping to Mrs. Ganthorn; one would think it wasn’t his way to do nothing else. He’s less elaborate when he’s trailing after his plough. My, but I can’t abide such pretending. Guess some folks think women are blind. And where’s George Iredale? I don’t see him. Now there’d be some excuse for his doing the grand. He’s a gentleman born and bred.”

      “Ah, yes, mother, we all know your weakness for Mr. Iredale,” replied Prudence, with an affectionate finishing pat to the grey old head. “But then he just wouldn’t ‘bow and scrape,’ as you call it, to Mrs. Ganthorn or anybody else. He’s not the sort for that kind of thing. He hasn’t come yet. I’ll bring him to you at once, dear, when he arrives,” she finished up with a laugh.

      “You’re a saucy hussy,” her mother returned, with a chuckle. Then: “But I’d have taken to him as a son. Girls never learn anything now-a-days until they’re married to the man they fancy.”