Stirling was never addicted to mincing matters, but Weston could not quite repress a grin.
“It would make things a little difficult if Major Kinnaird understands that,” he said.
“Then you must see that he doesn’t. You can fix it somehow. It’s up to you.”
He rose, as if there were nothing more to be said, and then as he moved away he turned and waved his hand.
“I’ll have you moved up a grade on the pay-roll.”
He started down the river in another half-hour, and left Weston thoughtful. He had never seen his employer before; but it was evident that the latter had made a few inquiries concerning him, and had been favorably informed.
For another fortnight Weston tactfully carried out his somewhat difficult task; and then it was with a curious sense of regret that he stood one evening in a little roadside station. Major Kinnaird was apparently counting the pile of baggage some little distance away, his wife and daughter were in the station-room, and Ida and Weston stood alone where the track came winding out of the misty pines. She glanced from him to the forest, and there was just a perceptible hint of regret in her voice.
“It has been very pleasant, and in one way I’m almost sorry we are going to Vancouver,” she said. “This”—and she indicated the wall of hillside and the shadowy bush—“grows on one.”
Weston nodded gravely.
“It does,” he said. “You have been up among the high peaks, and you’ll never quite forget them, even in the cities. Now and then you’ll feel them drawing you back again.”