a view of the dim gray road where
it came over the grassy swells from Meander and the world, knitting a
large blue sock.

Mrs. Chadron was a cow-woman of the unimproved school. She was a heavy
feeder on solids, and she liked plenty of chili peppers in them, which
combination gave her a waist and a ruddiness of face like a brewer.
But she was a good woman in her fashion, which was narrow, and
intolerant of all things which did not wear hoofs and horns, or live
and grow mighty from the proceeds of them. She never had expanded
mentally to fit the large place that Saul had made for her in the
world of cattle, although her struggle had been both painful and
sincere.

Now she had given it up, and dismissed the troubles of high life from
her fat little head, leaving Nola to stand in the door and do the
honors with credit to the entire family. She had settled down to her
roasts and hot condiments, her knitting and her afternoon naps, as
contentedly as an old cat with a singed back under a kitchen stove.
She had no desire to go back to the winter home in Cheyenne, with its
grandeur, its Chinese cook, and furniture that she was afraid to use.
There was no satisfaction in that place for Mrs. Chadron, beyond the
swelling pride of ownership. For comfort, peace, and a mind at ease,
give her the ranchhouse by the river, where she could set her hand to
a dish if she wanted to, no one thinking it amiss.

"Well, I declare! if here don't come Banjo Gibson," said she, her hand
on the curtain, her red face near the pane like a beacon to welcome
the coming guest. There was pleasure in her voice, and anticipation.
The blue sock slid from her lap to the floor, forgotten.

"Yes, it's Banjo," said Nola. "I wonder where he's been all summer? I
haven't seen him in an age."

"Who is he?" Frances inquired, looking out at the approaching figure,

"The troubadour of the North Platte, I call him," laughed Nola; "the
queerest little traveling musician in a thousand miles. He belongs
back in the days of romance, when men like him went playing from
castle to court--the last one of his kind."

Frances watched him with new interest as he drew up to the big gate,
which was arranged with weights and levers so that a horseman could
open and close it without leaving the saddle. The troubadour rode a
mustang the color of a dry chili pepper, but with none of its spirit.
It came in with drooping head, the reins lying untouched on its neck,
its mane and fo