always opportunity for company at this end of the trail."

We were sitting in a circle under the thin shade of some
cottonwood-trees beside a little stream; the air of noon, hot above our
heads, was tempered with a light breeze from the southwest. As my uncle
spoke, Rex glanced over at Mat Nivers, sitting beside him, and then
gazed out thoughtfully across the stream. I had never thought her
pretty before. But now her face, tanned by the sun and wind, had a
richer glow on cheek and lip. Her damp hair lay in little wavelets about
her temples, and her big, sunny, gray eyes were always her best feature.

Girls made their own dresses on the frontier, and I suppose that
anywhere else Mat would have appeared old-fashioned in the neat,
comfortable little gowns of durable gingham and soft woolen stuffs that
she made for herself. But somehow in all that long journey she was the
least travel-soiled of the whole party.

At my uncle's words she looked up questioningly and I saw the bloom
deepen on her cheek as she met the young man's eyes. Somebody else saw
that shadow of a blush--Bill Banney lying on the ground beside me, and
although he pulled his hat cautiously over his face, I thought he was
listening for the answer.

The young New-Englander stared long at the green prairie before he
spoke. I never knew whether it was ignorance, or a lack of energy, that
was responsible for his bad grammar in those early days, for Rex Krane
was no sham invalid. The lines on his young face told of suffering, and
the thin, bony hands showed bodily weakness. At length he turned to my
uncle.