afts
--A blaze upon the waters to the east,
A blaze upon the waters to the west,
--but no sail.

_----From Enoch Arden._

ALMOST every person in the neighbourhood was interested in Arthur
Wemyss's new home which he had built on the bank of Plover Creek, a
small stream that dawdled aimlessly across the prairie from Lang's
Lake to the Souris River. Plover Creek followed the line of least
resistance all the way along, not seeming to care how often it
changed its direction, but zigzagging and even turning around and
doubling on itself sometimes. Its little dimpled banks, treeless save
for clumps of silver willow, gave a pleasing variety to the prairie
scenery.

It was on one of the highest of these banks that Arthur had built his
house, and it was a pleasant outlook for any one who loves the long
view that the prairie gives, where only the horizon obstructs the
vision.

Behind the house, which faced the setting sun, was an old "buffalo
run," a narrow path, grass-grown now, but beaten deep into the earth
by the hoofs of innumerable buffalo that long ago came down to the
little stream to drink. It had been a favourite killing-place, too,
for the Indians, as the numerous buffalo bones, whitened by the sun
and frost of many seasons, plainly showed.

Arthur had made a fantastic "rockery" of skulls and shanks and ribs,
and filled it in with earth, enough to furnish growth for trailing
nasturtiums, whose bright red and yellow blossoms were strangely at
variance with their sombre setting.

Arthur had won for himself many friends among the people of the
neighbourhood by his manly, upright ways and by his courteous manner,
and every one in the neighbourhood, particularly the women, were
interested in the coming of Thursa. Mrs. Motherwell, Mrs. Slater, and
Mrs. Watson had each promised to set a hen on thirteen eggs--which
number is supposed to lose its unluckiness when applied to eggs--to
give Thursa a start in poultry. Arthur thanked them warmly, but just
for a minute he found himself wondering how Thursa would look feeding
chickens. He knew that she was adorable at tennis or golf, and
although attending to fowl is not really more strenuous than these,
still it is different. But everything looks rosy at twenty-five, and
Arthur was supremely happy dreaming of the coming of Thursa.

His father and mother had sent him a phonograph for his Christmas
present the previous year, and it had been an unend