That was all Deringham saw at first sight, but he realized that it was very beautiful, and then commenced to note details with observant eyes.  There was a sawmill beside the river, for he could faintly hear a strident scream and see the blue smoke drifting in gauzy wisps across the hill.  The square log-house which stood some little distance from the lake looked well built and substantial, and the road that wound through the green oblong had been skilfully laid with rounded strips sawn off the great fir-trunks.  Sleek cattle stood apparently ready for dispatch in a corral, the yellowing oats beyond them were railed off by a six-foot fence, and behind the rows of sawn-off stumps which ringed about the clearing great trunks and branches lay piled in the confusion of the slashing.  Deringham was not a farmer, but he was a man of affairs, and all he saw spoke to him of prosperity that sprang from strenuous energy and administrative ability.

“You are very silent,” said his daughter.  “What are you thinking?”

Deringham laughed a little, somewhat mirthlessly.  “It occurs to me that whatever our unknown relative may be he is a good rancher, if this is his handiwork,” he said.  “Well, we shall see him very shortly.”

The girl’s fingers tightened a little on the switch she held.  “We know what we shall find,” she said with a gesture of cold disdain.  “It would be so much easier if he had only been an educated Englishman!”

“Still,” said Deringham dryly, “since we are ousted from Carnaby I do not see that it makes any great difference.”

Miss Deringham’s eyes sparkled, and a spot of colour tinged her cheeks.  Her mother had been one of the Altons who had long been proud of Carnaby, and the instincts of the landholding race were strong within her.

“No?” she said, with a little scornful inflection.  “And you could look on while a cattle-driving boor made himself a laughing-stock at Carnaby?”

Deringham smiled again.  “I am,” he said, “inclined to feel sorry for the Canadian, but you will at least be civil to him.”

Miss Deringham made a little gesture of impatience.  “You do not suppose I should be openly resentful?” she said.

Her father still appeared ironically amused.  “I do not know that it would be necessary, but I fancy the Canadian will have cause to regret he is an Alton,” he said.  “No doubt it would be some solace to you to make him realize his offences, but I scarcely think it would be advisable.”

Then they rode down into the valley, through oatfields, and between the tall fir-stumps that rose amidst the fern, under the boughs of an orchard, and up to the square log-house.  Nobody came out to receive them, or answered their call, and Deringham, dismounting, helped his daughter down, and tethering the horses passed through the verandah into the house.  The long table in the big log-walled room they entered was littered with unwashed plates.  Torn over-alls and old knee-boots lay amidst the axes and big saws in one corner, the dust was heavy everywhere, and rifles and salmon-spears hung upon the walls.  There was no sign of taste or comfort.  Everything suggested grim utility, and the house was very still.  The girl, who was tired, sat down with a little gesture of dismay.