dwelt the family from Kansas.

The house of the man from Leavenworth was lighted as though for some
function. There were no curtains at the windows, and even had there
been, the shock of this spectacle which went on before our eyes would
have been sufficient to set aside all laws and conventions. With hands
in pockets we stood and gazed blankly in at the open window. There was
a sound of revelry by night. The narrow Mexican fireplace again held
abundance of snapping, sparkling, crooked pinon wood. The table was
spread. At its head sat the next postmaster; near him a lately
sorrowful but now smiling lady, his wife, the woman from Kansas. The
elder daughter was busy at the fire. At the right of the man from
Leavenworth sat none less than Curly, the same whose cow pony, with
bridle thrown down over its head, now stood nodding in the bright flood
of the moonlight of Heart's Desire. At the side of Curly was the
Littlest Girl from Kansas, and she was looking into his eyes.

It was thus that the social compact was first set on in the valley of
Heart's Desire.

A vast steaming fragrance arose from the bowl which stood at the head
of the table. In the home of the girl from Kansas there was light,
warmth, comfort, joy. It was Christmas, after all.

"By the great jumpin' Jehossophat!" said Tom Osby, "them's _our_
oysters!"

"And to think," mused Dan Anderson, softly, as we turned away,--"we
_fried_ ours!"