comparison with the emerald wonders which centuries of care have
wrought from the turf of England. The house of which we have seen one
room was one of the best upon this green and park-like thoroughfare.
The gentleman who was sitting by the fire was Mr. Arthur Farnham. He
was the owner and sole occupant of the large stone house--a widower of
some years' standing, although he was yet young. His parents had died
in his childhood. He had been an officer in the army, had served
several years upon the frontier, had suffered great privations, had
married a wife much older than himself, had seen her die on the Plains
from sheer want, though he had more money than he could get
transportation for; and finally, on the death of his grandfather he had
resigned, with reluctance, a commission which had brought him nothing
but suffering and toil, and had returned to Buffland, where he was
born, to take charge of the great estate of which he was the only heir.
And even yet, in the midst of a luxury and a comfort which anticipated
every want and gratified every taste, he often looked longingly back
upon the life he had left, until his nose inhaled again the scent of
the sage-brush and his eyes smarted with alkali dust. He regretted the
desolate prairies, the wide reaches of barrenness accursed of the
Creator, the wild chaos of the mountain canons, the horror of the Bad
Lands, the tingling cold of winter in the Black Hills. But the Republic
holds so high the privilege of serving her that, for the officer who
once resigns--with a good character--there is no return forever, though
he seek it with half the lobby at his heels. So Captain Farnham sat,
this fine May morning, reading a newspaper which gave the stations of
his friends in the "Tenth" with something of the feeling which assails
the exile when he cons the court journal where his name shall appear no
more.

But while he is looking at the clock a servant enters.