“It behooves a tenderfoot like you to sit and diligently learn of such experienced and toughened old-timers as we are, rather than flaunt your untried ideas in our faces,” responded Gordon, with a smile that transformed the keen gray eyes of this man of much labor, much lofty ambition, and much sorrow, so that they seemed for the moment strangely young, laughing, untroubled; as clear of taint of evil knowledge as the source of a stream leaping joyously into the sunlight from some mountain solitude. It was a revelation to Louise. “I will try to be a good and diligent seeker after knowledge of this strange land of yours,” she answered, with a little laugh half of embarrassment, half of enjoyment of this play of nonsense, and leading the way to her suit-case and Mary outside. “When I make mistakes, will you tell me about them? Down East, you know, our feet travel in the ancient, prescribed circles of our forefathers, and they are apt to go somewhat uncertainly if thrust into new paths.” And this laughing, clever girl had cried with homesickness! Well, no wonder. The worst of it was, she could never hope to be acclimated. She was not—their kind. Sooner or later she must go back to God’s country. To her surprise, Gordon, though he laughed softly for a moment, answered rather gravely. “If my somewhat niggardly fate should grant me that good fortune, that I may do something for you, I ask that you be not afraid to trust to my help. It would not be half-hearted—I assure you.” She looked up at him gratefully. His shoulders, slightly stooped, betokening the grind at college and the burden-bearing in later years, instead of suggesting any inherent weakness in the man, rather inspired her with an intuitive faith in their quiet, unswerving, utter trustworthiness. “Thank you,” she said, simply. “I am so glad they did not hurt you much that day in the court-room. We worried—Mary and I.” “Thank you. There was not the least danger. They were merely venting their spite on me. They would not have dared more.” There is always a crowd at the Velpen station for outgoing or incoming trains. This meeting of trains is one of the dissipations of its people—and an eminently respectable dissipation. It was early—the eastbound leaves at something past eight—yet there were many people on the platform who did not seem to be going anywhere. They were after such stray worms as always fell to the lot of the proverbial early bird. The particular worm in question that morning was the new girl court reporter, homeward bound. Many were making the excuse of mailing belated letters. Mary was standing guard over the suit-case and umbrella near the last car. She seemed strangely alone and aloof standing there, the gravity of the silent prairie a palpable atmosphere about her.