irie lands to her former kinsmen-in-law, which brought her out here
yesterday and lets her return this morning, is made upon his
suggestion, and is so advantageous that somehow, she doesn't know
why, she almost fears it isn't fair to the other side. The fact is,
the country is passing from the pastoral to the agricultural life, the
prairies are being turned into countless farms, and the people are
getting wealth. So explains Mr. Tarbox, whose happening to come along
this morning bound in her direction is pure accident--pure accident.

"No, the 'A. of U. I.' hasn't done its best," he says again. "For one
thing, I've had other fish to fry. You know that." He ventures a
glance at her eyes, but they ignore it, and he adds, "I mean other
financial matters."

"_'Tis_ so," says Zosephine; and Mr. Tarbox hopes the reason for this
faint repulse is only the nearness of this farmhouse peeping at them
through its pink veil of blossoming peach-trees, as they leisurely
trot by.

"Yes," he says; "and, besides, 'Universal Information' isn't what this
people want. The book's too catholic for them."

"Too Cat'oleek!" Zosephine raises her pretty eyebrows in grave
astonishment--"'Cadian' is all Cat'oleek."

"Yes, yes, ecclesiastically speaking, I know. That wasn't my meaning.
Your smaller meaning puts my larger one out of sight; yes, just as
this Cherokee hedge puts out of sight the miles of prairie fields, and
even that house we just passed. No, the 'A. of U. I.,'--I love to call
it that; can you guess why?" There is a venturesome twinkle in his
smile, and even a playful permission in her own as she shakes her
head.

"Well, I'll tell you; it's because it brings U and I so near
together."

"Hah!" exclaims Madame Beausoleil, warningly, yet with sunshine and
cloud on her brow at once. She likes her companion's wit, always so
deep, and yet always so delicately pointed! His hearty laugh just now
disturbs her somewhat, but they are out on the wide plain again,
without a spot in all the sweep of her glance where an eye or an ear
may ambush them or their walking horses.

"No," insists her fellow-traveller; "I say again, as I said before,
the 'A. of U. I.'"--he pauses at the initials, and Zosephine's faint
smile gives him ecstasy--"hasn't done its best. And yet it has done
beautifully! Why, when did you ever see such a list as this?" He
dexterously draws from an extensive inner breast-pocket, such as no
coat but a book-agent's or a shop