Ben Overleigh got up and shook himself, and then relieved his feelings in a succession of ranch-life expletives, given forth with calm deliberation and in a particularly musical voice, which was one of Ben’s most charming characteristics. He had many others too: his strong manly presence, his innate chivalry to every one and everything, and his quiet loyalty, made him an attractive personality in the valley; and his most original and courteous manner of swearing would have propitiated the very sternest of tract-distributors. He was a good friend, too, and had long ago attached himself to Robert Strafford, and looked after him--mothering him up in his own manly tender fashion; and now he glanced at the young fellow who was going to bring his bride home on the morrow, and he wondered what words of encouragement he could speak, so that his comrade might take heart and throw off this overwhelming depression. “That’s enough of this nonsense,” he said cheerily, as he stood and faced his friend. “Come and show me what you’ve done to make the house look pretty. And see here, old man, I’ve brought two or three odd things along with me. I saw them in town the other day, and thought they might please her ladyship when she arrives. I stake my reputation particularly on this lamp-shade. And here’s a table-cloth from the Chinese shop, and here’s a vase for flowers, and here’s a toasting-fork!” They had gone into the house, and Ben Overleigh had laid his treasures one by one on the table. He looked around, and realised for the first time that Robert Strafford was offering but a desolate home to his bride. Outside at least there were flowers and creepers, and ranges of splendid mountains, and beautiful soft lights and shades changing constantly, and fragrances in the air born of spring; but inside this dreary little house, there was nothing to cast a glamour of cheerfulness. Nothing. For the moment Ben’s heart sank, but when he glanced at his friend, he forced himself to smile approvingly. “You’ve bought a capital little coal-oil stove, Bob,” he said. “That is the best kind, undoubtedly. I’m going to have scores of cosy meals off that, I can tell you. I think you could have done with two or three more saucepans, old man. But that is as nice a little stove as you’ll see anywhere. A rocking-chair! Good. And a cushion too, by Jove! And a book-shelf, with six brand-new books on it, including George Meredith’s last novel and Ibsen’s new play.” “Hilda is fond of reading,” said Robert Strafford, gaining courage from his friend’s approval. “And some curtains,” continued Ben. “And a deucèd pretty pattern too.” “I chose them myself,” said the other, smiling proudly,--“and, what’s more, I stitched them myself!”