relock platted and adorned fantastically with
vari-colored ribbons. Rosettes were on the bridle, a fringe of leather
thongs along the reins.

The musician himself was scarcely less remarkably than the horse. He
looked at that distance--now being at the gate--to be a dry little man
of middle age, with a thirsty look about his throat, which was long,
with a lump in it like an elbow. He was a slender man and short, with
gloves on his hands, a slight sandy mustache on his lip, and wearing a
dun-colored hat tilted a little to one side, showing a waviness almost
curly in his glistening black hair. He carried a violin case behind
his saddle, and a banjo in a green covering slung like a carbine over
his shoulder.

"He'll know where to put his horse," said Mrs. Chadron, getting up
with a new interest in life, "and I'll just go and have Maggie stir
him up a bite to eat and warm the coffee. He's always hungry when he
comes anywhere, poor little man!"

"Can he play that battery of instruments?" Prances asked.

"Wait till you hear him," nodded Nola, a laugh in her merry eyes.

Then they fell to talking of the coming night, and of the trivial
things which are so much to youth, and to watching along the road
toward Meander for the expected guests from Cheyenne, who were to come
up on the afternoon train.

Regaled at length, Banjo Gibson, in the wake of Mrs. Chadron, who
presented him with pride, came into the room where the young ladies
waited with impatience the waning of the daylight hours. Banjo
acknowledged the honor of meeting Miss Landcraft with extravagant
words, which had the flavor of a manual of politeness and a ready
letter-writer in them. He was on more natural terms with Nola, having
known her since childhood, and he called her "Miss Nola," and held her
hand with a tender lingering.

His voice was full and rich, a deep, soft note in it like a rare
instrument in tune. His small feet were shod in the shiningest of
shoes, which he had given a furbishing in the barn, and a flowing
cravat tied in a large bow adorned his low collar. There were stripes
in the musician's shirt like a Persian tent, but it was as clean and
unwrinkled as if he had that moment put it on.

Banjo Gibson--if he had any other christened name, it was unknown to
men--was an original. As Nola had said, he belonged back a few hundred
years, when musical proficiency was not so common as now. The
profession was not crowded in that country, happily, a