ic beneath the wet
hair.

When Susan came to the giving of her personal data--the few facts
necessary to locate and introduce her--her engagement was the item of
most interest. A love story even on the plains, with the rain
dribbling in through the cracks of the canvas, possessed the old,
deathless charm. The doctor and his philanthropies, on which she would
have liked to dilate, were given the perfunctory attention that
politeness demanded. By himself the good man is dull, he has to have a
woman on his arm to carry weight. David, the lover, and Susan, the
object of his love, were the hero and heroine of the story. Even the
married woman forgot the turning of the heel and fastened her mild gaze
on the young girl.

"And such a handsome fellow," she said. "I said to Lucy--she'll tell
you if I didn't--that there wasn't a man to compare with him in our
train. And so gallant and polite. Last night, when I was heating the
water to wash the children, he carried the pails for me. None of the
men with us do that. They'd never think of offering to carry our
buckets."

Her husband who had appeared to be asleep said:

"Why should they?" and then shouted "Gee Haw" and made a futile kick
toward the nearest ox.

Nobody paid any attention to him and Lucy said:

"Yes, he's very fine looking. And you'd never met till you started on
the trail? Isn't that romantic?"

Susan was gratified. To hear David thus commended by other women
increased his value. If it did not make her love him more, it made her
feel the pride of ownership in a desirable possession. There was
complacence in her voice as she cited his other gifts.

"He's very learned. He's read all kinds of books. My father says it's
wonderful how much he's read. And he can recite poetry, verses and
verses, Byron and Milton and Shakespeare. He often recites to me when
we're riding together."

This acquirement of the lover's did not elicit any enthusiasm from
Bella.

"Well, did you ever!" she murmured absently, counting stitches under
her breath and then pulling a needle out of the heel, "Reciting poetry
on horseback!"

But it impressed Lucy, who, still in the virgin state with fancy free
to range, was evidently inclined to romance:

"When you have a little log house in California and live in it with him
he'll recite poetry to you in the evening after the work's done. Won't
that be lovely?"

Susan made no response. Instead she swallowed silently,