Alton stopped him with a gesture.  “My temper’s not what it was a few weeks ago,” he said.  “Now, you sit still and listen to me.”

He had scarcely commenced his story when the smile died out of Seaforth’s eyes.  He seemed to listen with breathless intentness, and his voice shook a little as he said, “And you asked her to marry you.  Did you think for a moment that she would?”

Alton appeared to consider.  “I didn’t think at all,” he said.  “It seemed the one thing I could do, and I did it.”

“The city hasn’t made much difference in you,” said Seaforth, watching his comrade intently.  “It must have been a load off your mind when she refused you?”

Alton straightened himself a little.  “I don’t like the way you put it, Charley.  Whoever gets Miss Townshead will have a treasure.  The girl’s good all through.  Now I think I’ve told you everything, and I don’t ask if you believe me.”

There was a flicker of warmer colour under Seaforth’s bronze, and a curious glint in his eyes.

“Yes,” he said slowly; “I think she is too good even for you, and you have done all that any one could have expected of you, without keeping up the farce any longer.  I am glad you did not ask if I believed you—­because I could scarcely have forgiven you that question.  Do you think I don’t know—­both of you—­better?”

The last words were a trifle strained, and Alton stared at his comrade in bewildered astonishment, for Seaforth had betrayed himself in his passion.  Then there was silence for a full minute until he said very quietly—­

“And I never guessed.”

“No?” said Seaforth, still a trifle hoarsely.  “And now I think you know.”

Alton nodded, and there was a very kindly smile in his eyes.  “Yes; I’m beginning to understand—­a good deal,” he said.  “I’m very glad, for there are not many girls like Miss Townshead in the Dominion.  Charley, you’re a lucky man, but why have you been so long over it?  It never struck me that you were bashful.”

Seaforth smiled mirthlessly.  “If you will listen a few minutes you will see how fortunate I am.  You never asked me what brought me out from the old country, Harry.”

Alton gravely pressed his arm.  “There are times when one must talk.  Go on, if it will do you good,” he said.

It was not an uncommon story Seaforth told that night, and Alton, who had heard it, slightly varied, several times already, could fill up the gaps when his comrade ceased, and the drip from the branches splashing upon the canvas replaced his disjointed utterance.  Seaforth was very young when it happened and the woman older than him.

“Now you see what kept me silent.  It wasn’t a nice thing to tell—­you,” he said.

Alton glanced at him with grave sympathy, and then stared at the fire.  “And what became of her?  I saw her picture once—­in a twenty-five cent album,” he said.  “A woman of that kind would know what she was about?”