very pleasant music in his ears. Day by day he watched his dwelling
grow with the infinite joy of creating, and night after night he crept
with Peter into the work-shed and slept the sleep of a man tired
and contented. In the long summer evenings the sunlight hung like a
champagne curtain over the mountains even after bedtime, and Grant had
to cut a hole in the wall of the shed that he might watch the dying
colors of the day fade from crimson to purple to blue on the tassels of
cloud-wraith floating in the western sky. At times Linder and Murdoch
would visit him to report progress on the Big Idea, and the three would
sit on a bench in the half-built house, sweet with the fragrance of new
sawdust, and smoke placidly while they determined matters of policy or
administration. It had been something of a disappointment to Grant that
Murdoch had not considered Phyllis Bruce one of "the family." He had
left her, regretfully, in the East, but had made provision that she was
still to have her room in the old Murdoch home.

"Phyllis would have come west, and gladly, if I could have promised
her a position," Murdoch explained, "but I could not do that, as I knew
nothing of your plans, and a girl can't afford to trifle with her job
these days, Mr. Grant."

And Grant said nothing, but he thought of his whim-room, and smiled.

Grant was almost sorry when the house was finished. "There's so much
more enjoyment in doing things than in merely possessing them after
they're done," he philosophized to Linder. "I think that must be the
secret of the peculiar fascination of the West. The East, with all its
culture and conveniences and beauty, can never win a heart which has
once known the West. That is because in the East all the obvious things
are done, but in the West they are still to do."

"You should worry," said Linder. "You still have the plowing."

"Yes, and as soon as the stable is finished I am going to buy four
horses and get to work."

"I supposed you would use a tractor."

"Not this time. I can admire a piece of machinery, but I can't love it.
I can love horses."

"You'll be housing them in the whim-room," Linder remarked dryly, and
had to jump to escape the hammer which his chief shied at him.

But the plowing was really a great experience. Grant had an eye
for horse-flesh, and the four dapple-greys which pressed their fine
shoulders into the harness of his breaking plow might have delighted
the heart of any teamster.