"First crop don't amount to much, anyway," said Mr. Gaines, making sure that his tie pin was still in place, as the girls were in the company, and seemed to regard him as something of a hero. "First crop don't amount to much. Likely to be rushed in in too much of a hurry, and in a dry season you lose your seed for your pains. Better take your time; pick out a prime piece of land, get your shacks up, and start plowing. If you're pushed for money, work out for somebody for awhile the first year, or put up hay on the bald-headed; you can usually sell it to settlers next winter, and soak 'em hard, always soak 'em hard." "On the bald-headed?" repeated Jean; "what does that mean?" "That means the prairie," Mr. Gaines explained, "because it's as bare as a bald head, 'cept for a very short grass which makes wonderful good hay." Armed with Mr. Gaines' generous advice we prepared to start for the West about the end of April, and, as it came about, my father and Mrs. Lane arranged a domestic event on the very day of our departure. The affair was quiet and unpretentious; ceremony in the church at eleven, and dinner at Mrs. Lane's--Mrs. Hall's, I should say--where Marjorie and Jean served, and we all tried to live in a joyous glow which was strangely shot through with streaks of unhappiness. That night at six we left for the West. We travelled in a colonist car, and it was lucky that there were four of us, as we occupied just one section. At night we pulled the seats out, and let down the upper berth, so that there were two narrow beds. The girls had the lower one, around which we arranged an improvised curtain, and we had brought some blankets, which they spread on the wooden slats of their seats. Jean rapped on her hard bed with her knuckles. "At least, the blankets will save the paint," she remarked facetiously. "You're lucky," said Jack. "You should see our stone-boat." Jack and I lay on the bare boards above. I say we lay, for during that first night there was little sleep. We were under high nervous tension, which the rhythmic clickety-click of the car-wheels could not immediately soothe. Gradually the sound droned itself into my consciousness as one word, with the accent on the last syllable--Mani-to-bah, Mani-to-bah, Mani-to-bah. Then, as I was about to fall asleep, the pent-up excitement of Marjorie and Jean would burst forth in little giggling exuberances which came rippling up to our station aloft.