CHAPTER XI
A REVELATION
The sun had just dipped, leaving a rim of flaring color on the edge of the vast plain, when Prescott sat smoking on the stoop of the Leslie homestead a week after his evening walk with Gertrude. Leslie and his wife were simple people from Ontario, who had prospered in the last few years. Their crops had escaped rust and hail and autumn frost, and as a result of this, the rancher had replaced his rude frame dwelling with a commodious house, built, with lower walls of brick and wood above, in a somewhat ornate style copied from the small villas which are springing up on the outskirts of the western towns.
Leslie, an elderly, brown-faced man, sat near Prescott; the Jernynghams, who had driven over to welcome his friends, were inside, talking to Mrs. Leslie.
“Guess you don’t know much about the English people we’re expecting?” Leslie asked.
“No,” said Prescott; “only that they’re friends of the Jernynghams. I don’t think I’ve even heard their names yet.”
“Mrs. Leslie knows,” rejoined the farmer; “I forget it. I feel kind of sorry now that she agreed to take them in, but you made a point of it, and if the man’s not so blamed stand-offish, I’ll have somebody to talk to.”
“I wouldn’t talk too much about Cyril Jernyngham.”