She thanked him, and sitting down was silent for a few moments while she gazed across the lawn.  Some of the guests were sitting in the shadow by the water’s edge, their summer clothes making blotches of bright color among the gray rocks.  Out on the lake, a young man knelt in the stern of a canoe, swinging a paddle that flashed in the sun, while a girl trailed her hand in the sparkling water.  As the craft passed the landing she began to sing.  No breath of wind ruffled the surface now, and the dark pine-sprays were still.  A drowsy quietness brooded over the tranquil scene.

“It is very beautiful,” she said slowly.  “Different, one imagines, from the rugged North!”

“Very different,” Thirlwell agreed, and took out a photograph.  “You will see that by the picture I promised to bring.”

Agatha took the photograph.  It showed a broad stretch of sullen water with a strip of forest on the other side.  The pines were ragged and stunted and some leaned across each other, while the gloomy sky was smeared by the smoke of a forest-fire.  In the foreground, angry waves broke in foaming turmoil among half-covered rocks.  No soft beauty marked the river of the North, and the land it flowed through looked forbidding and desolate.

“The Shadow River,” said Thirlwell.  “You can see the Grand Rapid.  I have marked a cross where the canoe upset.”

Agatha said nothing for a few moments, and Thirlwell was relieved.  He saw she felt keenly, but she was calm.  In the meantime he waited; one learns to wait in the North.

“Thank you; I would like to keep the picture,” she said by and by, and gave him a level glance.  “I suppose you knew my father well?”

“I knew him in a way,” Thirlwell answered cautiously, because he did not want to talk about Strange’s habits.  Perhaps the girl knew her father’s weakness, and if not, it was better that she should think well of him.  Yet Thirlwell imagined she understood something of his reserve.

“Ah!” she said, “you knew him in the bush, but not when he lived at home with us.  I should like to tell you his story.”

“Not if it is painful.”

“It is painful, but I would sooner you heard it,” she replied.  “For one thing, you have been kind—­” She paused, and when she resumed there was a faint sparkle in her eyes.  “I want you to understand my father.  He was my hero.”

Thirlwell made a vague gesture.  He had seen Strange, half drunk, reeling along the trail to the mine, but this did not lessen his sympathy for the girl.  He hoped she had taken his sign to imply that he was willing to listen.

“To begin with, do you believe in the silver lode?” she asked.

“One disbelieves in nothing up yonder,” Thirlwell tactfully replied.  “It’s a country of surprises; you don’t know what you may find.  Besides, there is some silver—­I’m now sinking a shaft—­”

Agatha smiled and he saw she had the gift of humor.  The smile softened her firm lips and lighted her eyes.