hat the dishes had to be washed
three times each day, and that the mud and rain and wind and snow often
shut the homestead in for weeks at a stretch. Seeing the valley at its
loveliest, under the glamor of a summer afternoon, we found it perfect.

After dinner we men-folks (leaving the women, in the "good old way," to
clear away the dinner dishes) went out on the grass under the trees, and
as I talked of my mountaineering Uncle Frank said, with a wistful note
in his voice, "I've always wanted to go out into that country with you.
Chasing a deer through a Wisconsin swamp don't satisfy me--I'd like to
get into the grizzly bear country--but now I'm too old."

Thereupon father stated his desires. "There are just two trips I want to
make--I'd like to go by a steamboat from Duluth to Detroit, and I want
to see Yellowstone Park."

"Well, why don't you do it?" demanded my Uncle. "You can afford it now."

Father's face became thoughtful. "I believe I will. Lottridge and Shane
are planning that boat trip. I could go with them."

"Sail ahead," said I, "and if you get back in time I'll take you through
Yellowstone Park. Zulime and I are going to Montana in July."

Neither of them had the slightest desire to see London or Paris or Rome,
but they both longed for a fuller knowledge of the West. They were
still pioneers, still explorers over whose imagination the trackless
waste exercised a deathless dominion. To my uncle I said, "If I could
afford it, I would take you with me on one of my trailing expeditions
and show you some real wilderness."

"I wish you would," he answered quickly. "I'd tend horses, cook, or
anything else in order to go along."

Of course this wistful longing was only a mood on his part, for he was
naturally of a cheerful disposition, but music and the wilderness always
stirred him to his deeps. Ten minutes later he was joking with Zulime,
giving a fine exhibition of the contented husbandman.

As the time came to leave, my mother glanced about her with an emotion
which she brokenly expressed when she said, "I don't suppose I shall
ever get over here again. You must come and see me, after this."

"Oh, you'll be comin' over oftener than ever, now that you've got a
daughter to lean on," retorted Lorette with easy grace.

On our way home, at the crest of the hill, I drew rein in order that we
might all look away over the familiar valley, stretching mistily toward
the sun, and I, too, had the feeling--which