to genial September--or so it seemed after our day of
midwinter in the heights. Next day we returned to Colorado Springs.

Our stay in the mountains was at an end, but the memory of those
burnished domes, those dark-hued forests, and the sound of those foaming
streams, remain with us to this day.--All the way down the long slope to
the Mississippi River, we reverted to this "circuit," recalling its most
impressive moments, its noblest vistas. It had been for my bride a
procession of wonders, a colossal pageant--to me it was a double
satisfaction because of her delight. With a feeling that I had in some
degree atoned for my parsimony in the matter of an engagement ring and
for the drab prose of our marriage ceremony, I brought the first half of
our wedding journey to a close in Chicago.

I now looked forward to the meeting between my mother and her new
daughter. This was, after all, the important part of my venture. Would
my humble home content my artist bride?

In preparation I began to sing small. "Don't expect too much of the
Garland Homestead," I repeated. "It is only an angular, slate-colored
farm-house without a particle of charm outside or in. It is very far
from being the home I should like you to be mistress of, and my people
you must bear in mind, are pioneers, survivals of the Border. They are
remote from all things urban."

To this the New Daughter responded loyally, "I am sure I shall like your
home and I _know_ I shall love your mother."

As women of her race have done from the most immemorial times, she had
left her own tribe and was about to enter the camp of her captor, but
she pretended to happiness, resolute to make the best of whatever came.

Our friends in Chicago smiled when I told them where we had been. Lorado
said, "A Honeymoon in the heart of the Rockies is just like you"--but I
cared nothing for his gibes so long as Zulime was content, and I had but
to over-hear her account of her trip to be reassured. To her it had been
a noble exploration into a marvelous country.

This was the day before Thanksgiving, and with a knowledge that the old
folks were counting the hours which intervened, I wrested Zulime from
her friends, and hurried her to the train. "Dear old mother! I know just
how she is waiting and watching for you. We must not fail her."

* * * * *

It was just daylight as we stepped down from the Pullman at West Salem,
but father was there! Seated in