ake him into the house and get some dry things on him."

The dark man, who was still standing in the doorway, swung aside to let
them pass as the settler steered the young man into the "house;" then
swung back again. He stood, drooping rather, with one hand on the
door-post; his big, wild, dark eyes kept glancing round and round the
room and even at the ceiling, seeming to overlook or be unconscious of
the faces after the first keen glance, but always coming back to rest on
the door in the partition of the boys' room opposite.

"Won't you sit down by the fire and rest and dry yourself?" asked the
settler's wife, rather timidly, after watching him for a moment.

He looked at the door again, abstractedly it seemed, or as if he had not
heard her.

Then Uncle Abe (who, by the way, was supposed to know more than he
should have been supposed to know) spoke out.

"Set down, man! Set down and dry yerself. There's no one there except
the boys--that's the boys' room. Would yer like to look through?"

The man seemed to rouse himself from a reverie. He let his arm and
hand fall from the doorpost to his side like dead things. "Thank you,
missus," he said, apparently unconscious of Uncle Abe, and went and sat
down in front of the fire.

"Hadn't you better take your wet coat off and let me dry it?"

"Thank you." He took off his coat, and, turning the sleeve, inside
out, hung it from his knees with the lining to the fire then he leaned
forward, with his hands on his knees, and stared at the burning logs
and steam. He was unarmed, or, if not, had left his pistols in the
saddle-bag outside.

Andy Page, general handy-man (who was there all the time, but has not
been mentioned yet, because he didn't mention anything himself which
seemed necessary to this dark picture), now remarked to the stranger,
with a wooden-face expression but a soft heart, that the rain would be
a good thing for the grass, mister, and make it grow; a safe remark
to make under the present, or, for the matter of that, under any
circumstances.

The stranger said, "Yes; it would."

"It will make it spring up like anything," said Andy.

The stranger admitted that it would.

Uncle Abe joined in, or, rather, slid in, and they talked about the
drought and the rain and the state of the country, in monosyllables
mostly, with "Jesso," and "So it is," and "You're right there," till the
settler came back with the young man dressed in rough and patched, but
dry, cl