“Then we will free ourselves of the obligation with the next remittance Jack sends in,” said Townshead impatiently.

The girl’s face grew troubled.  “I am afraid that will not be for some little time,” she said.  “Poor Jack.  You surely remember he is lying ill?”

“It is especially inconvenient just now,” said Townshead querulously.  “It has also been a sore point with me that a son of mine should hire himself out as a labourer.  I am sorry I let him go, the more so because the work upon the ranch is getting too much for me.”

Nellie Townshead said nothing, though she sighed as she pictured the young lad, who had been stricken by rheumatic fever as a result of toiling waist-deep in icy, water, lying uncared for in the mining camp amidst the snows of Caribou.  She did not, however, remind her father that it was she who had in the meanwhile done most of the indispensable work upon the ranch, and Townshead would not in any case have believed her, for he had a fine capacity for deceiving himself.

In place of it she spread out some masculine garments about the stove and coloured a trifle when her father glanced at her inquiringly.  “The creek must be running high and Mr. Alton and his partner will be very wet,” she said.  “I am warming a few of Jack’s old things for them.  They cannot go back to Somasco to-night, you know.”

“I confess that it did not occur to me,” said Townshead languidly.  “No, I suppose one could scarcely expect them to, and we shall have to endure their company.”

A faint sparkle that had nothing to do with laughter crept into the girl’s eyes, for there were times when her father tried her patience.  “I wonder if it occurred to you that we shall probably starve to-morrow unless Mr. Alton, who is apparently not to be paid for it, makes what must be a very arduous march to-night?” she said.

“I’m afraid it did not,” said Townshead, with a fine unconcern.  “I think you understand, my dear, that I leave the commissariat to you, and you have a way of putting things which jars upon one occasionally.”

A little trace of colour crept into the girl’s cheek, but it faded again as she sat down beside the stove.  Still, now and then she pricked her fingers with the needle, which she had not done before, and finally laid down the fabric and laughed softly.  “There is,” she said, “something distinctly humorous in the whole position.”

“You,” said her father, “had always a somewhat peculiar sense of humour.”

“Well,” said his daughter with a slight quiver of her lips, “I feel that I must either cry or laugh to-night.  Do you know there is scarcely enough for breakfast in the house, and that I am dreadfully hungry now?”

Townshead glanced at her reproachfully.  “Either one or the other would be equally distasteful to me,” he said.