Winston turned over the journal, and then smiled at her. "Is there anything of moment in your letters?"
"No," said the girl, with a little laugh. "I scarcely think there is--a garden party, a big reception, the visit of a high official, and a description of the latest hat. Still, you know, that is supposed to be enough for us."
"Then I wonder whether you will find this more interesting: 'The bears made a determined rally yesterday, and wheat moved back again. There was later in the day a rush to sell, and prices now stand at almost two cents below their lowest level.'"
"Yes," said Maud Barrington, noticing the sudden intentness of his pallid face. "I do. It is serious news for you?"
"And for you! You see where I have led you. Ill or well, I must start for Winnipeg to-morrow."
Maud Barrington smiled curiously. "You and I and a handful of others stand alone, but I told you I would not blame you whether we won or lost. Do you know that I am grateful for the glimpses of the realities of life that you have given me?"
Winston felt his pulses throb faster, for the girl's unabated confidence stirred him, but he looked at her gravely. "I wonder if you realize what you have given me in return? Life as I had seen it was very grim and bare--and now I know what, with a little help, it is possible to make of it."
"With a little help?" said Maud Barrington.
Winston nodded, and his face which had grown almost wistful hardened. "Those who strive in the pit are apt to grow blind to the best--the sweetness and order, and all the little graces that mean so much. Even if their eyes are opened, it is usually too late. You see, they lose touch with all that lies beyond the struggle, and without some one to lead them they cannot get back to it. Still, if I talk in this fashion you will laugh at me, but every one has his weakness now and then--and no doubt I shall make up for it at Winnipeg to-morrow. One can not afford to be fanciful when wheat is two cents down."
Maud Barrington was not astonished. Tireless in his activities and, more curious still, almost ascetic in his mode of life, the man had already given her glimpses of his inner self and the vague longings that came upon him. He never asked her pity, but she found something pathetic in his attitude, for it seemed he knew that the stress and the turmoil alone could be his. Why this was so she did not know, but it was with a confidence that could not be shaken now she felt it was through no fault of his. His last words, however, showed her that the mask was on again.