In spite of himself John Allandale could not refrain from smiling at the grotesque picture the monumental Lablache made as he lumbered towards the stack of kindling.
When "Lord" Bill returned Lablache was bending over the stove beside the girl.
"I've thrown the harness on the horses—watered and fed 'em," he said, taking in the situation at a glance. "Say, Doc," turning to Abbot, "better rouse your good lady."
"She'll be down in a tick," said Jacky, over her shoulder. "Here, doctor, you might get a kettle of water—and Bill, see if you can find some bacon or stuff. And you, uncle, came and sit by the stove—you're cold."
Strange is the power and fascination of woman. A look—a glance—a simple word and we men hasten to minister to her requirements. Half an hour ago and all these men were playing for fortunes—dealing in thousands of dollars on the turn of a card, the passion for besting his neighbor uppermost in each man's mind. Now they were humbly doing one girl's bidding with a zest unsurpassed by the devotion to their recent gamble.
She treated them indiscriminately. Old or young, there was no difference. Bunning-Ford she liked—Dr. Abbot she liked—Lablache she hated and despised, still she allotted them their tasks with perfect impartiality. Only her old uncle she treated differently. That dear, degenerate old man she loved with an affection which knew no bounds. He was her all in the world. Whatever his sins—whatever his faults, she loved him.
CHAPTER IV - AT THE FOSS RIVER RANCH
Spring is already upon the prairie. The fur coat has already been exchanged for the pea-jacket. No longer is the fur cap crushed down upon the head and drawn over the ears until little more than the oval of the face is exposed to the elements; it is still worn occasionally, but now it rests upon the head with the jaunty cant of an ordinary headgear.
The rough coated broncho no longer stands "tucked up" with the cold, with its hind-quarters towards the wind. Now he stands grazing on the patches of grass which the melting snow has placed at his disposal. The cattle, too, hurry to and fro as each day extends their field of fodder. When spring sets in in the great North-West it is with no show of reluctance that grim winter yields its claims and makes way for its gracious and all-conquering foe. Spring is upon everything with all the characteristic suddenness of the Canadian climate. A week—a little seven days—and where all before had been cheerless wastes of snow and ice, we have the promise of summer with us. The snow disappears as with the sweep of a "chinook" in winter. The brown, saturated grass is tinged with the bright emerald hue of new-born pasture. The bared trees don that yellowish tinge which tells of breaking leaves. Rivers begin to flow. Their icy coatings, melting in the growing warmth of the sun, quickly returning once more to their natural element.