The sun was sinking behind a sky of golden fleeces. Through the dazzling cloud-rims streamed the lava of sunny light, flooding The Qu'Appelle with its restful glow. Below lay the lake, a rippling basin of molten gold.

Everywhere the shadowy greens of the crests were checkered with square patches of ripe wheat. Some fields were mellow for the sickle. Upon the morrow the binders would hum the overture of the harvest symphony.

Two watchers sat on the Grant lawn drinking in the liquid glow of the west. Down upon them rolled a field of Red Knight, covering the terrace to their feet. The light of a blazing summer and its dews and rains lay before them, stored in a forest of magic heads. The grain was standing thick and erect, its cream-gold surface dappled with pursuing waves of shade and shine. The eyes of the watchers rested on the sea of plumes. They were talking of it.

"Wonderful! Indeed!" exclaimed Margaret softly. "It is as wonderful as Ned and his father think it is."

"Yes!" agreed Andy. "I for one believe it will far surpass their hopes. And yet I am scarcely qualified to judge since the ride of a certain girl to the rescue of The Red Knight. His precious gold kernels were the sesame that opened her eyes. I have a natural bias toward him but he is a marvel all the same and the king of cereals. The scientists, the cereal breeders, even the millers agree with the Pullars and the farmers in pronouncing The Red Knight a wonder grain. I believe with old Edward Pullar that it will be the elixir of life to millions of farmers. It is interesting to conjure just what this will mean to the future of our country. Beyond a doubt it will draw the strong of the earth to the virile North."

Andy paused musing for a time. Then he said gently:

"There is something great, magnificently great in all this, something that dwarfs The Red Knight himself."

At his words the girl sought her companion's eyes. Swiftly she divined his thoughts.

"You mean somebody is great, do you?" said she.

Andy nodded thoughtfully.

"Yes. There is Edward Pullar and Ned, himself, and the little mother. These dear neighbours of ours have been great in vision and patience. We have not understood. Most people about Pellawa never will. The old homestead at The Craggs has been a place of unobtrusive but astounding achievement. These quiet farmers are mighty benefactors. What farmers they are!"

"Look!" cried Margaret, suddenly pointing into the west.

Along the distant edge of the wheat were moving three shapes, black shadows of riders suspended in the amber light as they skimmed along the high shoulder of an upper bench. A moment only were they visible. Then they melted into the yellow sea.

"The McClures!" announced Margaret, a reflective light shining in her eyes. "This is Mary's first ride—since the storm. She is happy to-night."

"I am sure she is. But how do you know?" mused Andy.

"The curvetings of Bobs assured me," was the reply. "Mary is in the happy mood that inspires Bobs with a foolish notion that he has wings instead of legs and must fly away."

"Which reminds me," said Andy with a smile, "that I, too, am foolishly happy. Have you observed my grove lately? If not, better take a careful look."

Margaret followed his gesture. She saw a strange white object among the trees. Her eyes brightened, but dissembling with feminine facility, she looked up in na?ve curiosity.

"It is the gable of our roof," explained Andy, looking deep into the clear eyes. "I cut down that old rotten elm that you might get a glimpse of what is to be expected—of you. Hum!"

Margaret made no reply except a widening of innocent eyes.

"To resume," continued Andy. "It will be plastered before the frost; during the winter we shall finish it. Then, after seeding, some day in June——"

Andy paused. The gaze of his companion was gratifyingly intent. He waited.

"Well?" came the incurious query.

"Well!" was the deliberate reply. "What so rare as a bride in June?"

Margaret read the face above her, read it deeply, gravely, for a moment, then released an entrancing smile.

"Would you care to really know?" was her arch reply.

"Would I?"

"Then hear! It is the bold fellow who conspires with himself against her."

Edward Pullar was passing among his head-row plots, spending a busy hour in the cool of the twilight. His eyes were ashine and a cheerful humming proclaimed a happy worker, deeply in love with his work. And it was so, for was not the Red Knight scaling another wall in the grand assault? Already the aged gleaner had harvested a wealth of selected heads and the tub on the kitchen floor was the receptacle of several gallons of the astonishing brown-red kernels. There was a prophetic light on the old man's face as he plucked the wonderful heads. So deep was his self-communion that he was startled when a voice called for the second time:

"Mr. Pullar!"

The voice was powerful but suppressed, its tone familiar. The old man looked up in surprise.

Before him stood Rob McClure and his wife. With instinctive gentility he doffed his hat and bowed.

"Good-evening to you, friends!" was his cordial greeting.

"Thank you for your kindness, Edward Pullar," was McClure's slow reply. "I have ridden over to see you though you may not de............