: The Hound From The North by Cullum Ridgwell Bull Charles Livingston Illustrator - Fiction

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h-bells on the horses' backs. The dark figure moved out on to the trail, and stood gazing after the sleigh. For a full minute he stood thus. Then he turned again and swiftly became lost in the black depths whence he had so mysteriously appeared.

GREY'S LAST WORDS

Rigid, hideous, stands the Leonville school-house sharply outlined against the sky, upon the summit of a high, rising ground. It stands quite alone as though in proud distinction for its classic vocation. Its flat, uninteresting sides; its staring windows; its high-pitched roof of warped shingles; its weather-boarding, innocent of paint; its general air of neglect; these things strike one forcibly in that region of Nature's carefully-finished handiwork.

However, its cheerless aspect was for the moment rendered less apparent than usual by reason of many people gathered about the storm-porch, and the number and variety of farmers' sleighs grouped about the two tying-posts which stood by the roadside in front of it An unbroken level of smooth prairie footed one side of the hill, whilst at the back of the house stretched miles of broken, hilly woodland.

The wedding party had arrived from Loon Dyke Farm. Hephzibah Malling had gathered her friends together, and all had driven over for the happy event amidst the wildest enthusiasm and excited anticipation. Each girl, clad in her brightest colours beneath a sober outer covering of fur, was accompanied by her attendant swain, the latter well oiled about the hair and well bronzed about the face, and glowing as an after-effect of the liberal use of soap and water. A wedding was no common occurrence, and, in consequence, demanded special mark of appreciation. No work would be done that day by any of those who attended the function.

But the enthusiasm of the moment had died out at the first breath of serious talk--talk inspired by the non-appearance of the bridegroom. The hour of the ceremony was close at hand and still he had not arrived. He should have been the first upon the scene. The elders were agitated, the younger folk hopeful and full of excuses for the belated groom, the Minister fingered his great silver timepiece nervously. He had driven over from Lakeville, at much inconvenience to himself, to officiate at the launching of his old friend's daughter upon the high seas of wedded life.

The older ladies had rallied to Mrs. Malling's side. The younger people held aloof. There was an ominous grouping and eager whispering, and eyes were turned searchingly upon the grey trail which stretched winding away towards the western horizon.

The Rev. Charles Danvers, the Methodist minister of Lakeville, was the central figure of the situation, and at whom the elder ladies fired their comments and suggestions. There could be no doubt, from the nature and tone of these remarks, that a panic was spreading.

"It's quite too bad, you know," said Mrs. Covill, an iron-grey haired lady of decided presence and possessing a hooked nose. "I can't understand it in a man of Mr. Grey's business-like ways. Now he's just the sort of man whom I should have expected would have been here at least an hour before it was necessary."

"It is just his sort that fail on these occasions," put in Mrs. Ganthorn pessimistically. "He's just too full of business for my fancy. What is the time now, Mr. Danvers?"

"On the stroke of the half-hour," replied the parson, with a gloomy look. "My eyesight is not very good; can I see anything on the trail, or is that black object a bush?"

"Bush," said some one shortly.

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