The watcher stepped back into the shelter of the maples. She had emerged from them but a moment before and had been on the point of addressing the worker when her capricious will deterred her. She was looking upon the great figure of a man. He was aged, nearing the fullness of the allotted span. His shoulders, however, were square and his back straight. His form rose to a towering height, retaining its lines of strength and was crowned by a shapely head with its resplendent glory of long white hair. The face was noble with a touch of gentleness. The intelligent eyes had a masterful light mingling with the dreaminess of them, while his cheeks had the soft rotundity of a child's and the roses of a girl. Before her stood the father of Ned Pullar. Often had she heard of him. This was the first time she had really beheld him. She was very surprised, agreeably so.

The old man was busy flailing a bag of chaff. So absorbed was he in his employment that he was rudely startled when a woman's voice accosted him gently.

"Mr. Pullar, I believe!"

Looking up suddenly he detected a small girlish figure in white. Her face was attractive with a bright friendliness that set him instantly at ease.

"I am highly honoured," was his reply as he set down his stick and bowed with courtly stateliness. "Is it the little teacher I have the pleasure of greeting?"

"I am Mary McClure!"

The old man walked over and held out his hand with Western hospitality.

"Welcome to The Craggs, lassie. The lad, Ned, has been telling me much about you. Will you not sit down?"

He placed a rustic chair before her.

"I have been waiting for you to call on your new neighbour," said Mary with a smile as she accepted the proffered chair. "But you have not favoured us yet. I am afraid you will find me a very impatient and exacting neighbour, Mr. Pullar."

His eyes twinkled at her speech.

"Well now, that is a pretty rub," said he amusedly. "I shall have to hunt up my visiting cards and call around."

"Now, see that you do," was the girl's reply as she shook an accusing finger at him. "But you must not entertain now, Mr. Pullar. I came over to watch you at work. I am curious to know why you were belabouring that poor sack so roundly."

The old man laughed delightedly.

"I will tell you all about it," was the reply. "I am threshing the wheat that is in it."

"But why do you have to do that with a stick? Is Ned not the best thresher along the Valley?"

A proud look came into the old man's eyes.

"Do you think so, lass?"

"Indeed I do. And so does the whole settlement."

"It is so, I believe," was the frank agreement. "But Ned does not thresh this. Those bags are filled with rare wheat heads selected from our head-row plots. For them I use the flail."

He had pointed to where a line of a dozen bulging grain sacks swung on a stout rope between posts.

Mary's eyes opened.

"Mr. Pullar," said she engagingly, "I have heard most interesting rumours of what a wizard you are with seeds. One man told me solemnly that he believed you could grow a good crop in a field of dry dust. Is it true that you have developed a new variety of wheat?"

For a moment the old man did not answer. Instead he read earnestly the beautiful, vivacious face of the girl and the eyes deep in their intelligence.

"I believe, lassie, you would understand," was his satisfied reflection. "Would you like to hear the truth about The Red Knight?"

Mary looked steadily into the eyes above her. She did not comprehend the meaning of his question but she was fascinated by the noble enthusiasm that swept over the fine old face.

"Tell me. Will you?" was her soft voiced reply.

"Come with me," said he. "I will show you something."

The tone of his voice deeply impressed her. She knew that she was about to venture into the sacred recesses of a life. She followed him to the porch where rested a tub. Seizing the handle he pulled it out into the sunlight. Lifting a covering he disclosed to her eyes a mass of grain—beautiful wheat, brown-gold in colour, with the wealthy red tinge that tints the peerless milling kernel. The plump, red berries suggested to her heaps of tiny, golden pebbles. She was astonished and silent.

"It is The Red Knight," said he simply, stooping and dipping up a handful. She observed how fondly he held it in the palm of his great hand.

"It is very dear to you," was her gentle remark.

Once again he studied her eyes. They looked up at him with a clear-eyed rapture that provoked his grateful confidence.

"Come, lassie! Rest while I tell you the tale of the finding of The Red Knight.

"It will be forty years, come Maytime again, since I brought Kitty Belaire from the old East over the Valley of The Qu'Appelle to The Craggs. Here we set up a home in the little log hut you can see at the end of the lane. In the log hut was born the first wee bairn. He did not stay with us long and we laid him away in the dip beyond the bluffs. There, too, Ned came to us, filling the sore spot in our hearts left by his little brother. We were happy, the three of us, though we had little to do with, and the work was hard. The years were years of struggle. We fought the winds and the drought, rust, smut, hail and the frost with little success to boast about. One year we had a bumper crop with prices low. Then followed one or two without a harvest. Ned was growing to be a husky little chap when a crop grew on the place that promised us a forty-bushel yield. But one day a black cloud swept over the homestead and in ten minutes it was gone. We had no seed. On the heels of the hail came a drought year. Following it appeared a crop that filled the settlement with hope. We were getting ready to cut when a blight appeared. The rust reduced the yield from forty bushels to five. So passed the years and the battle went against us, with the frost the worst enemy of all. One terrible harvest it came to me that the seed was wrong. It matured too slowly. What we needed was a seed that would come along fast enough to harden before the blight of the rust or the nip of frost. The following harvest I set out on a quest. One day I ............