She also admitted that she could have gone considerably further in the case of the man on whose account she had been somewhat anxiously turning over _The Colonist_, which she had done regularly during the last few weeks, without, she fancied, her father, who purchased a good many provincial papers, becoming aware of it.
There was, however, once more nothing whatever in it about the adventures of any prospectors, though the paper in question now and then detailed such things at length; and she laid it down with a little sigh of weariness, for two men, in one of whom she was interested, had gone up into the wilderness some time earlier, and nothing apparently had been heard of them since.

Gregory Kinnaird had, it seemed, won credit as well as blame, serving the Empire under arms in steamy Africa; but it was, she felt, a sterner and longer fight the men who were up against it--and she liked the expressive phrase--made with savage nature in the west.
After all, the rush on a rebel stockade was soon over, while it seemed to her that the march through the black pine forest, half-fed, with provisions running out, the sleeping in dripping fern or slushy snow, and the staggering along the rangeside under a crushing load for days together, with galled feet and shoulders that bled beneath the pack-straps, was a much more difficult matter.

Weston, her camp attendant, had done all these things, and, as very frequently happened, had so far gained nothing by them.

She was glad that he had done them, for the pride of a colonizing people was strong in her, but, after all, that was not why she loved him.

Indeed, it was rather hard to find a reason for the latter fact.