The sun was dipping towards the black ridge of firs on the shoulder of a hill when Deringham and his daughter rode down the winding trail into the Somasco valley.  The girl gazed about her with eager curiosity, but the man who rode in silence apparently saw nothing, and it was only when his horse stumbled into a rut that he glanced round for a moment abstractedly.  Deringham had much to occupy his mind just then, for while it was generally understood that he had made the journey at a physician’s recommendation, he had reasons for choosing British Columbia to recuperate in.

He still retained control of the finances of Carnaby with the concurrence of the trustees, who were country gentlemen of no business capacity, and as it suited the family lawyer to remain on good terms with him nothing more than a very perfunctory account of his stewardship had been demanded.  The late owner of Carnaby had been a man of simple tastes and unbending pride, who had a faint contempt for his kinsman, and refrained from inquiries respecting finances while there was no stoppage of supplies.  There were one or two men who suspected that Deringham had profited by his relative’s supineness, but it was only a vague surmise, and they did not know that the legacy bequeathed him had little more than an apparent value.  Deringham had been unfortunate in his latest ventures, and could foresee considerable difficulty in extricating himself from a distinctly unpleasant position if the new heir decided to take immediate possession of his property.  The latter had, however, shown no great desire to do so, and Deringham had accepted a commission from the trustees to ascertain his intentions.

A company of which he was one of the promoters had also invested somewhat unhappily in Western mines, and Deringham, who purposed to see what could be done with the depreciated securities, intended that the expenses of his sojourn in the mountain province should be borne by the shareholders.  He had acquired considerable facility in the art of managing them, but the owner of Carnaby was an unknown quantity and Deringham was anxious.

Presently his daughter reined in her pony.  “Stop a moment, father.  That must be the ranch,” she said.

The man drew bridle, and for a moment forgot his perplexities as he gazed at the scene before him.  Far down in the valley lay a still blue lake with a great white peak shining ethereally at its northern end.  Dark pines rolled about it, growing smaller and smaller up the hillside until they dwindled with spires clean cut against the azure into a gossamer filigree.  Between them and the water stupendous forest shrouded all the valley, save where an oblong of pale verdure ran back from the fringe of boulders and was traversed by the frothing streak of a river whose roar came up hoarsely across the pines in long pulsations.