Now after the passage of the years, the daughter of his former master had come to that bit of Alberta soil, seeking in her turn to wrest a living from the land, fighting a desperate fight with poverty, disease and the blows and buffets of the wild new land which "makes or breaks" a man.
As he rode along the rough roads, chirping absently to the old geldings that plugged slowly along, the doctor's mind persistently traveled back to a sunny day in June in the old land. He was a barefooted boy in a large stable yard. A little girl was there—a very little girl, with thick, brown, curly hair, crushed under a Derby hat, and she was leaning over from her seat on her pony's back to coax—to command favors of the stable boy. She wished to ride Spitfire. Angus was not to tell "Pop," which was her inelegant term for the Earl of Loring. He was to bring the animal around to the far end of the south garden that evening, and she would be there under the bushes. He was not to forget, mind! He'd be sorry if he did.
He did not forget. He kept the tryst with the daughter of the earl, but he brought not the forbidden horse. He well recalled the furious, passionate little figure that crawled from out the bush and assailed him with bitter reproach and blows. Mechanically, Dr. McDermott's hand went up to the cheek where her crop had flashed, and he was moved afresh by the memory of the child's wild imploring voice, begging forgiveness, the touch of the small impetuous hand upon his hurt face, and the soft smudge of her tear—drenched face against his own.
Twenty-five years ago! He rode on and on through the Alberta sunshine, his wide Stetson tilted above a rugged face, whose chief charm lay in the sturdy honesty of its expression.
CHAPTER V
Nettie sat listlessly on the single step of the Day shack, her hands loosely clasped in her lap. The ripening grain gleamed in the sunlight, golden as her own thick braids. The field seemed to ripple and stir under the breeze that moved over the heavily laden stalks.
This was a crop year, and even upon the rocky land of the D. D. D. the grain pushed up resistlessly. Yet as she looked out upon those waving fields, which represented largely the labor of her own and her brothers' hands, Nettie felt no sense of gratification or pride. For suddenly her world had changed and darkened.
The poor, shiftless, happy-go-lucky homesteader of the D. D. D. was dead, and of all that family of twelve only she remained. County officials had taken away the younger ones, who were to be "put out" for adoption, while neighboring farmers had snapped up the growing boys, as "likely timber for hard work."