The day after the fire was an idle one at Perfection City. No one felt able to work, Ezra least of all. He lay upon the floor of the kitchen with a wet handkerchief on his head, and several times he asked Olive not to make so much noise. She was as still as a mouse, she thought, but then his head ached, poor fellow! So she went out and sat in the shade of the house among her morning-glories, while the hens walked about with their wings down and their tongues lolling out, trying to cool themselves. The black burnt prairie seemed to send up shafts of heat to the copper-coloured sky. A man rode up to the bars, and for one moment Olive’s heart stood still. She feared it might be Mr. Cotterell, whom she had not seen since the day at the spring, now some weeks past. It was not Mr. Cotterell, however, but one of the settlers from the other side of Cotton Wood Creek. He came forward with his bridle-rein over his arm, his horse following, head down. “Wal, how’d you ’uns git ’long with that pesky fire?” he observed, without any preliminary greeting. He was a Missouri man, and they often prided themselves on their rudeness. It was their way of showing their independence. “Good morning, Mr. Owen,” said Olive, who knew the man quite well. “We have escaped all right, thank you. I hope you were not injured?” She was extra careful in her manner, as the politeness for two had all to be furnished by herself. “Yer hain’t been burnt out I see. You all’s mighty silly anyhow. Why in thunder didn’t yer back-fire before? ’Tain’t agin’ yer principles, is it?” Mr. Owen grinned under the impression that he was funny. “We didn’t back-fire, because we thought it wrong to start a fire in such a wind and let it possibly burn up our neighbours,” said Olive stiffly. “Then ’tis agin yer principles to back-fire, by Gosh! The boys was ’lowing as much over to Union Mills.” “It is against our principles to injure our neighbours. You don’t object to that, Mr. Owen, do you?” said Olive. “I reckon you’ll git mighty tired o’ them idees ef yer live long on the prairie,” observed Mr. Owen. “Seen ole man Cotterell lately?” he inquired suddenly, half shutting his green-grey eyes and looking at Olive intently. She was somewhat surprised at the question, but knowing from experience how inquisitive the average settler is, she answered readily enough. “No, I haven’t seen him for a long time. Was he burnt out? I didn’t know the fire had gone so far.” “I calkerlate he warn’t tetched by the fire,” said Mr. Owen, very slowly. He made long pauses between his remarks, during which he continued unremittingly the steady occupation of his life, namely, chewing tobacco. Olive began to feel impatient. She did not like to ask him into the house for fear of disturbing Ezra, so she sat down again in her chair, and pointing to a log of wood which lay near and seated on which he could still hold his horse, she asked him to take a seat also. Mr. Owen sat down with a grunt.