Nevertheless it was true that the elder Hamilton Spence, now deceased, had been a far-sighted man.  Benis had always cherished a warm admiration for the commercial astuteness which he conceived himself to have inherited.  He would have been, he thought, exactly like his father—­if he had cared for the drudgery of business.  So it was a habit of his, when in a quandary, to consider what his parent would have done and then to do likewise—­an excellent rule if he had ever succeeded in applying it properly.  But there were always so many intruding details.  Take the present predicament, for instance.  He could scarcely picture his father in these precise circumstances.  To do so would be to presuppose actions on the part of that astute ancestor quite out of keeping with his known character.  Would Hamilton Spence, senior, have crossed a continent at the word of one of whom he knew nothing, save that he wrote an agreeable letter?  Would he have engaged (and paid for in advance) board and lodging at a place wholly supposititious?  Would he have neglected to ask for references?  Hamilton Spence, junior, was forced to admit that he would not.

But those letters of old Farr had been so blamed plausible!

Well, anyhow, he would have the pleasure of meeting and outfacing the old rascal.  This satisfaction he had expected the night before.  But upon their arrival at the “picturesque though humble” cottage (after a climb at the memory of which his leg still shuddered), it was found that Dr. Farr was not at home.

“He has probably gone ‘up trail’” Miss Farr had said casually, “and in that case he won’t be back until morning.”

“Did you say up?” The professor’s voice held incredulity.  Whereupon his hostess had most unkindly smiled:  “You’re not much of a walker, are you?” was her untactful comment.

“My leg—­” He had actually begun to tell her about his leg!  Luckily her amused shrug had acted as a period.  He felt very glad of this now.  To have admitted weakness would have been weak indeed.  For the girl was so splendidly strong!  Only a child, of course, but so finely moulded, so superbly strung—­light and lithe.  How she had swung up the trail, a heavy packet in either hand, with scarcely a quickened breath to tell of the effort!  Her face?—­he tried to recall her face but found it provokingly elusive.  It was a young face, but not youthful.  The distinction seemed strained and yet it was a real distinction.  The eyes were grey, he thought.  The eyebrows very fine, dark and slanted slightly, as if left that way by some unanswered question.  The nose was straight, delightful in profile.  The mouth too firm for a face so young, the chin too square—­ perhaps.  But even as he catalogued the features the face escaped him.  He had a changing impression, only, of a graceful contour, warm and white, dark careless eyes, and hair—­quantities of hair lying close and smooth in undulated waves—­its color like nothing so much as the brown of a crisping autumn leaf.  He remembered, though, that she was poorly dressed—­and utterly unconscious, or careless, of being so.  And she had been amused, undoubtedly amused, at his annoyance.  A most unfeminine girl!  And that at least was fortunate—­ for he was very, very weary of everything feminine!