But what amused Hector was their anxiety to know just why he was going home and their unshakable conviction—in spite of all he could say—that his was a mission of love.
"Of course you're going home to get married, Mr. Adair!" pretty little Miss Sinclair—Mrs. Jim Hackett now—declared, a roguish look in her eyes. "Now, listen to me—don't deny it, because I know better. I can see it in your face. And is it any wonder? What else should a man go East for, I'd like to know? You men are all alike—lose your hearts to the first pretty girl who comes along to tell you about 'Home.' Who is she—one of those prying visitors, perhaps, or that moon-faced newspaper girl I saw you with when the train came in?—The hussy! But I don't blame her, Mr. Adair. You know, I once had quite a soft spot for you myself—and now! Such a fine, big, bronzed fellow, handsome as a dream, so young to hold the rank, that beautiful red coat—oh, don't blush! You know it's true, young man! Yes, you do! Would any of your men dare to talk to you like this? I guess not, eh? Never mind. Don't deny you're bringing a bride back with you, because you surely will. She's a lucky girl, whoever she is!"
"I tell you, you're talking nonsense," Hector laughed. "What should I get married for?"
"I like that! 'Nonsense!' 'What should I get married for?'! It isn't nonsense. It's quite time you were thinking of it."
When the sojourn was over and Hector was once more in the comparative solitude of the train, he began to ponder over this attitude. It was a strange thing that all his friends should naturally assume that he was going home to get married and, finding themselves in error, should insist that it was time he began to think of it. Obviously, they considered it inevitable that he should now contemplate entering into the holy state. As he had never given it a moment's thought till now, it was equally obvious that he must be unlike the general run of men of his age, by whom his friends, of course, judged him. Strange that he had never realized it before!
Struggling against this knowledge—the knowledge of his peculiar individuality—he next tried to tell himself that most men of his age were unattached or, at any rate, single. But his own experience rebelled against the lie. He saw that most men had at least been in love—honestly, desperately in love—before they reached his years; and he had never been in love; no, not once. Perhaps, though, this was easily explained. He had left Eastern Canada while still far too young to feel a great passion; since that time he had been so busy with his work that he had not had time to think of anything else. Besides, he had never found in the North-West a woman of such radiant beauty and soul as to meet with his ideal, which he knew was extraordinarily high. Many had pitched themselves at his head; none had satisfied him. In the East, where women were so much more numerous, now that he was to see the women of the East with a man's eyes, he might come across some-one who could light the divine spark. On the other hand, he wondered if he was one in whose life love had no place. There were people, after all, who had gone through life in that loneliness. Or perhaps he was one of those to whom Destiny allots one and only one grand passion, which was still to come.
In the end he laughed, calling himself a sentimental ass. Time enough to think of love when it came, and when love came, of marriage.
At Alma John met them and Mrs. Adair. And Hector gathered her into his arms, murmuring rapturously:
"Mother, I'm so glad to be home!"
II