Daylight had not broken across the prairie when, floundering through a foot of dusty snow, Winston reached the Grange. He was aching from fatigue¹ and cold, and the deerskin jacket stood out from his numbed² body stiff with frost, when, leaning heavily on a table, he awaited Colonel Barrington. The latter, on entering, stared at him, and then flung open a cupboard and poured out a glass of wine.  
"Drink that before you talk. You look half-dead," he said.
 
Winston shook his head. "Perhaps you had better hear me first."
 
Barrington thrust the glass upon him. "I could make nothing of what you told me while you speak like that. Drink it, and then sit still until you get used to the different temperature."
 
Winston drained the glass, and sank limply into a chair. As yet his face was colorless, though his chilled flesh tingled³ horribly as the blood once more crept into the surface tissues. Then he fixed⁴ his eyes upon his host as he told his story. Barrington stood very straight watching his visitor, but his face was drawn⁵, for the resolution which supported him through the day was less noticeable in the early morning, and it was evident now at least that he was an old man carrying a heavy load of anxiety. Still, as the story proceeded, a little blood crept into his cheeks, while Winston guessed that he found it difficult to retain his grim immobility.
 
"I am to understand that an attempt to reach the Grange through the snow would have been perilous⁶?" he said.
 
"Yes," said Winston quietly.
 
The older man stood very still regarding him intently, until he said, "I don't mind admitting that it was distinctly regrettable!"
 
Winston stopped him with a gesture. "It was at least unavoidable, sir. The team would not face the snow, and no one could have reached the Grange alive."
 
"No doubt you did your best--and, as a connection of the family, I am glad it was you. Still--and there are cases in which it is desirable to speak plainly--the affair, which you will, of course, dismiss from your recollection, is to be considered as closed now."
 
Winston smiled, and a trace of irony⁷ he could not quite repress was just discernible in his voice. "I scarcely think that was necessary, sir. It is, of course, sufficient for me to have rendered a small service to the distinguished⁸ family which has given me an opportunity; of proving my right to recognition, and neither you, nor Miss Barrington, need have any apprehension⁹ that I will presume upon it!"
 
Barrington wheeled round. "You have the Courthorne temper, at least, and perhaps I deserved this display of it. You acted with commendable¹⁰ discretion¹¹ in coming straight to me--and the astonishment¹² I got drove the other aspect of the question out of my head. If it hadn't been for you, my niece would have frozen."
 
"I'm afraid I spoke¹³ unguardedly, sir, but I am very tired. Still, if you will wait a few minutes, I will get the horses out without troubling the hired man."
 
Barrington made a little gesture of comprehension, and then shook his head. "You are fit for nothing further, and need rest and sleep."
 
"You will want somebody, sir," said Winston. "The snow is very loose and deep."
 
He went out, and Barrington, who looked after him with a curious expression in his face, nodded twice as if in approval. Twenty minutes later, he took his place in the sleigh that slid away from the Grange, which lay a league behind it when the sunrise flamed across the prairie. The wind had gone, and there was only a pitiless brightness and a devastating¹⁴ cold, while the snow lay blown in wisps, dried dusty and fine as flour by the frost. It had no cohesion¹⁵, the runners sank in it, and Winston was almost waist-deep when he dragged the floundering team through the drifts. A day had passed since he had eaten anything worth mention, but he held on with an endurance which his companion, who was incapable¹⁶ of rendering¹⁷ him assistance, wondered at. There were belts of deep snow the almost buried sleigh must be dragged through, and tracts¹⁸ from which the wind had swept the dusty covering, leaving bare the grasses the runners would not slide over, where the team came to a standstill, and could scarcely be urged to continue the struggle.
 
At last, however, the loghouse rose, a lonely mound¹⁹ of whiteness, out of the prairie, and Winston drew in a deep breath of contentment when a dusky figure appeared for a moment in the doorway²⁰. His weariness seemed to fall from him, and once more his companion wondered at the tirelessness of the man, as floundering on foot beside them he urged the team through the powdery drifts beneath the big birch bluff²¹. Winston did not go in, however, when they reached the house, and when, five minutes later, Maud Barrington came out, she saw him leaning with a drawn face very wearily against the sleigh. He straightened himself suddenly at the sight of her, but she had seen sufficient, and her heart softened²² towards him. Whatever the man's history had been he had borne a good deal for her.
 
The return journey was even more arduous²⁴, and now and then Maud Barrington felt a curious throb²⁵ of pity for the worn-out man, who during most of it walked beside the team; but it was accomplished²⁶ at last, and she contrived²⁷ to find means of thanking him alone when they reached the Grange.
 
Winston shook his head, and then smiled a little. "It isn't nice to make a bargain," he said. "Still, it is less pleasant now and then to feel under an obligation, though there is no reason why you should."
 
Maud Barrington was not altogether pleased, but she could not blind herself to facts, and it was plain that there was an obligation. "I am afraid I cannot quite believe that, but I do not see what you are leading to."
 
Winston's eyes twinkled. "Well," he said reflectively, "I don't want you to fancy that last night commits you to any line of conduct in regard to me. I only asked for a truce²⁸, you see."
 
Maud Barrington was a trifle nettled²⁹. "Yes?" she said.
 
"Then, I want to show you how you can discharge any trifling³⁰ obligation you may fancy you may owe me, which of course would be more pleasant to you. Do not allow your uncle to sell any wheat forward to you, and persuade him to sow every acre that belongs to you this spring."
 
"But however would this benefit you?" asked the girl.
 
Winston laughed. "I have a fancy that I can straighten up things at Silverdale, if I can get my way. It would please me, and I believe they want it. Of course a desire to improve anything appears curious in me!"
 
Maud Barrington was relieved of the necessity of answering, for the Colonel came up just then, but, moved by some sudden impulse, she nodded as if in agreement.
 
It was afternoon when she awakened³¹ from a refreshing³² sleep, and descending³³ to the room set apart for herself and her aunt, sat thoughtfully still a while in a chair beside the stove. Then, stretching out her hand, she took up a little case of photographs and slipped out one of them. It was a portrait of a boy and pony³⁴, but there was a significance in the fact that she knew just where to find it. The picture was a good one, and once more Maud Barrington noticed the arrogance³⁵, which did not, however, seem out of place there in the lad's face. It was also a comely³⁶ face, but there was a hint of sensuality in it that marred³⁷ its beauty. Then with a growing perplexity she compared it with that of the weary man who had plodded³⁸ beside the team. Winston was not arrogant³⁹, but resolute⁴⁰, and there was no stamp of indulgence in his face. Indeed, the girl had from the beginning recognized the virility⁴¹ in it that was tinged⁴² with asceticism⁴³ and sprang from a simple strenuous⁴⁴ life of toil⁴⁵ in the wind and sun.
 
Just then there was a rustle⁴⁶ of fabric⁴⁷, and she laid down the photograph a moment too late............