"Then it was understood," Blake answered firmly.
"I can't let you off."
"Well," she said; "if it will bring you home any quicker, dear! But how long must you stay?"
"I can't tell; there may be much to do and, if Harding needs me, I must see it out, but I won't delay a minute more than's needful. You know we may have to live in Canada?"
"Yes," she said shyly; "I won't object. Where you are will be home."
Then Foster opened the door. "The car's waiting, and it's coming on to rain."
Millicent went out with him; and Blake, who sailed next day, found, on reaching the timber belt, that, as he had predicted, there was much to be done. After some months' hard work, Harding, who was confident that the oil would pay handsomely, left him in charge while he set off for the cities to arrange about pipes and plant and the raising of capital. It was early winter when he returned, satisfied with what he had accomplished, and Blake saw that he would be able to visit England in a few weeks.
He was sitting in their office shack one bitter day when a sledge arrived with supplies, and the teamster brought him a telegram. His face grew grave as he opened it and read—
"Bertram killed in action.—Challoner."
"This sets you free, doesn't it?" Harding remarked after expressing his sympathy.