“How lovely,” exclaimed Flora. “I don’t want to return to the North, with its bitter memories.”
Just then footsteps were heard approaching, and we drew apart in some confusion. The next instant the door opened and the factor himself appeared, nourishing a paper in one hand.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
GOOD NEWS.
Colin Macdonald, I have omitted to state, was rather more than sixty years of age; a stalwart, bearded, well-preserved Scotchman, who had grown gray in the service of the Hudson Bay Company. He was an old friend of mine, as I had visited Fort Garry on previous occasions.
“Good-morning, Carew,” he began. “Overslept yourself—eh? Miss Hatherton would insist on waiting for you—lucky dog that you are! But here is something that will interest you.”
“Dispatches?” I exclaimed eagerly.
“Right you are.”