Again she coloured sensitively, and hastened to swing the team around until Betty stood in the furrow. "My father's coming," she said. Instantly Lounsbury was all regret, for he saw that she had misunderstood him. "You don't _look_ Texas," he said earnestly. "It's just the name. And--and I think Dallas is pretty, too." The implied jest on her native State did not do away with her displeasure. She nodded gravely and, turning, put the lines about her shoulders. The mules started. "Now I've got you down on me," he said penitently. "Honest, I didn't mean----" She paid no heed. He clapped on his hat, whipped his horse and followed alongside, waiting for her to look up. Opposite the shack, Lancaster and his other daughter were standing by the furrow. Here she drew rein. "This is Marylyn," she said, as the storekeeper leaned to grasp her father's hand. Lounsbury again lifted his hat and looked down, long and admiringly, upon the younger girl. Her fair hair, framing in soft waves a pale, oval face, and her blue eyes, watching him in some confusion, were strongly in contrast with the straight, heavy braids--brown, and showing burnished tints in the light--and the unwavering eyes of her sister. Looking at her, he was reminded of girls he had seen beyond the Alleghanies--girls who knew little, or no, toil, and who jealously guarded their beauty from sun and wind. Answering Lancaster's blunt questions, that followed close upon each other, he paid her prettiness constant and wondering homage; and she, noting the attention, retreated a little and was quiet and abashed. "Who's you' party?" the elder man demanded, indicating the distant camp with one crutch, and leaning heavily upon the other. "Surveyors," replied Lounsbury. "Surveyors!" There was alarm in Lancaster's tone. He suddenly recalled how, slighting Dallas' advice, he had delayed a trip to the land-office for the purpose of filing on the claim. "W'at they doin'?" "Something right in your line, sir. They're laying out a railroad." "A railroad? You don' say! How'll it come?" "Why, right this way." Lancaster caught the other by the bootstrap. "Shore?" he asked. "Sure," repeated Lounsbury; "sure as death and taxes. It's bound to run somewhere between the coulee and Medicine Mountain, and it'll stop--at least for a few years--at the Missouri. With those sloughs in the way at the south end of the gap, it can't reach the river without coming over your land. First thing you know, you'll have stores and saloons around your house. There's going to be a town on the Bend, sir." The elder man scanned the younger's face. Lounsbury was smiling half teasingly, yet undoubtedly he was in earnest.