In the meantime he wondered what she was like.  Her letters indicated a cultivated mind, and he knew she had a post at a Toronto school; but one could not expect much from the daughter of the broken-down prospector he had met in the North.  Strange had worked spasmodically at the mine, where he was employed because labor was scarce.  He was not a good workman, and when he had earned a small sum generally bought provisions and went off into the bush to re-locate a silver lode he claimed to have found when he was young.  He came back ragged and disappointed, and when liquor could be got indulged freely before he resumed his work.

Nobody believed his tale; Strange’s lode was something of a joke.  The miners called him a crank, and Thirlwell had doubted if he was quite sane, but he persisted in his search and sometimes Black Steve Driscoll went North with him.  It was suspected that Driscoll made an unlawful profit by selling the Indians liquor, which perhaps accounted for his journeys with Strange.  As they returned from the last expedition their canoe capsized in a rapid near the mining camp, and although Driscoll reached land exhausted, Strange’s body was never found.  Thirlwell knew his daughter’s address, and sent her news of the accident, which led to an exchange of letters.  Now he would shortly see her, give her the particulars she wanted, and then their acquaintance would end, although he liked the hotel and might stay for a few days’ fishing.

His pipe went out and he was half asleep when a girl crossed the lawn.  She came nearer, as if to avoid the glistening showers the nickeled sprinklers threw upon the thirsty grass, and Thirlwell watched her drowsily, noting her light, well-balanced movements and the grace of her tall figure.  She wore a big white hat and a thin summer dress that he thought was very artistically made.  There was something aristocratic about her, and he imagined she belonged to a party that had landed from a fine steam yacht.  Then he noted with some surprise that she was coming to him.

She stopped and Thirlwell got up, imagining that she had made a mistake.  Her face, like her figure, hinted at strength tempered by proud self-control.  She had brown hair with a ruddy tint that caught the light, gray eyes that met his with a calm, inquiring glance, and firm red lips.  Thirlwell was not a critic of female beauty, but he saw that she had dignity and charm.  In the meantime, he wondered what she wanted.

“Mr. Thirlwell, I suppose?” she said.

He bowed and she resumed:  “Then I must thank you for coming here to meet me.  I am Agatha Strange.”

It cost Thirlwell an effort to hide his surprise; indeed, he wondered with some embarrassment whether he had succeeded, for this was not the kind of girl he had expected to meet.

“It was not much out of my way, and I wanted to see the lake,” he replied, as he brought a chair.