“That’s so,” said Jack; “it will take all our forces hard at it all summer to get one hundred acres ready.”

Eagerly the boy’s mind sprang forward into plans for the summer’s campaign.  His enthusiasm stirred French to something like vigorous action, and even waked old Mackenzie out of his aboriginal lethargy.  That very day Kalman rode down to Wakota to consult his friend Brown, upon whose guidance in all matters he had come more and more to depend.  Brown’s Canadian training on an Ontario farm before he entered college had greatly enriched his experience, and his equipment for the battle of life.  He knew all about farming operations, and to him, rather than to French or to Mackenzie, Kalman had come to look for advice on all practical details connected with cattle, horses, and crops.  The breach between the two men was an unspeakable grief to the lad, and all the greater because he had an instinctive feeling that the fault lay with the man to whom from the first he had given the complete and unswerving devotion of his heart.  Without explaining to Kalman, French had suddenly ceased his visits to Wakota, but he had taken care to indicate his desire that Kalman continue his studies with Brown, and that he should assist him in every way possible with the work he was seeking to carry on among the Galicians.  This desire both Brown and Kalman were only too eager to gratify, for the two had grown into a friendship that became a large part of the lives of both.  Every Sunday Kalman was to be found at Wakota.  There, in the hospitable home of the Browns, he came into contact with a phase of life new and delightful to him.  Brown’s wife, and Brown’s baby, and Brown’s home were to him never-ending sources of wonder and joy.  That French was shut out from all this was the abiding grief of Kalman’s life, and this grief was emphasized by the all-too-evident effect of this exclusion.  For with growing frequency French would ride off on Sunday afternoon to the Crossing, and often stay for three or four days at a time.  On such occasions life would be to Kalman one long agony of anxiety.  Through the summer he bore his grief in silence, never speaking of it even to Brown; but on one occasion, when French’s absence had been extended from one Sunday to the next, his anxiety and grief became unsupportable, and he poured it forth to Brown.

“He has not been home for a week, Mr. Brown, and oh!  I can’t stand it any longer,” cried the distracted boy.  “I can’t stay here while Jack is over there in such a terrible way.  I must go to him.”

“He won’t like it, Kalman,” said Brown; “he won’t stand it, I am afraid.  I would go, but I know it would only offend him.”

“I am going down to the Crossing to-day,” said Kalman.  “I don’t care if he kills me, I must go.”