crop nearly in, fruit trees thriving and a garden growing
like wild-fire--what more could one desire? Then add to riches already
possessed, the surety of a barn and corral in September, and the
probability of twelve pure-bred Shropshire sheep, and what homesteader
would not sing for joy?

That was precisely what Jean MacDonald was doing this sunny August
morning; for it was a girl--a strong, robust girl of twenty-one--who had
taken up the southwestern claim on Virginia's and Donald's mesa. She was
bustling about her little cabin, setting things to rights, and singing for
joy. Her voice, clear, strong, and sweet, rang out in one good old Scotch
song after another--"Robin Adair," "Loch Lomond," and "Up with the Bonnets
of Bonnie Dundee." Sometimes she paused in her sweeping and dusting and
hurried to the porch to look away across the mesa toward the north, and to
speak to Robert Bruce, her horse, who, saddled and bridled, awaited her
coming outside the gate.

"Not yet, Bobby," she called, "not yet! There's no sign of them at all, so
be patient!"

Robert Bruce was quite willing to be patient. There was nourishment in
plenty between the sagebrush clumps, and he wandered at will, his dragging
reins giving sure proof that he would not stray too far.

Meanwhile, his mistress continued her singing and her work. She proudly
dusted her new furniture in the room which served as chamber and parlor,
rearranged her few books in their wall bookcase, swept up the ashes of her
last evening's fire, and brought wood to lay another. Then she turned her
attention to the room which was kitchen and dining-room in one. From a
neat chest of drawers she drew her best and only white table-cloth and
spread it on the table. The table was a little rickety in one leg, but
several folds of newspaper acted as a splendid prop, and quite removed the
difficulty. Her supply of china and silver was scarce, but it would do
with washing between courses. Four chairs were all she had, but they were
quite enough as her guests numbered four. An empty soap-box concealed
beneath the table-cloth, and drawn out only when necessary, would do for
her.

In fifteen minutes everything was in readiness, even to five early
nasturtiums in a tumbler on the dining-table. They had made a special
effort to open that morning, and the homesteader was grateful. She paused
on her way to the creek-refrigerator to look in the sitting-room mirror.
These guests were her very first,