that I
had a temperament."

"Gosh, I could have broken that to you twenty-five years ago," said
Ernest. "Only I supposed obvious facts were as plain to you as to other
people. Here she comes for her afternoon's work, bless her, pink
umbrella, pink nighty and all. What a lucky dog Von Minden is."

Roger chuckled and joined Gustav, who moved hastily to continue his
brick making back of the lady's chair.

Working so, he was facing the ranch and presently he saw Charley cross
the alfalfa field to join Dick. A moment later, the two figures were
following the team across the field. Next Felicia flashed down the
trail, a tiny dot of blue, and shortly he saw Dick lift her to one of
the horse's backs. Roger's mind harked back to old days. He recalled
Charley's father giving her and him just such a ride over the fertile
corn fields of home. And he pondered for a moment on the thing called
fate.

There was a little hand that clung to his as he and Charley scuffled up
the dusty road to the farm. There was Dick's ruddy boyish face, sternly
disapproving. There was a childish treble, "I shall love Charley. She'll
take such care of me as never was on sea nor land. Aunt May says so."
And finally there was the woman's voice. "Go home to bed now, or you
won't be fit for work to-morrow. And that work is about the most
important thing in this valley now."

And now, Charley drove a team over a desert field, while he--what was he
doing after all? Roger rose abruptly and lighting his pipe began to
stroll aimlessly around the camp. Was this dream that had worked itself
into the very fiber of his nature worth while? The desert, shimmering in
endless silence about him, seemed very far from that world of machinery
that he had worshiped so long. Supposing that Charley did bring the
desert to bearing. Supposing that he did harness the sun and start an
empire to building in these barren wastes. To what avail?

Though his dream were the very foundation of their existence, men would
fight here for the supremacy of riches, just as of old. And why not?
Through the welter of cut-throat striving man had won his intelligence.
Who was he to endeavor to lessen that competition?

How restless, how discontented he had been for nearly ten years! Was he
not missing the best of life and was not happiness the real goal of
living? And did not men get the only real joy from wife and child? Did
any work that did not focus round these two bring real content?