o my study, Zulime was
ecstatically rearranging furniture. During our absence in Colorado,
father had moved to another house, relinquishing all claim on the
Homestead, and for the first time in our lives my wife and I were
authentic householders in full possession of every room. We had a
door-bell, and our clock was our own. Our meal-times conformed to our
will, and not to another's. We went to bed when we pleased, and rose
when we got ready.

Zulime's joy of ownership was almost comical. Leading me from room to
room she repeated, "This is _our_ house. Don't you like our house? Isn't
it fun to have it all to ourselves?"

Her rapture instructed me. I perceived that the old Homestead had not
yet served its purpose. So far as my father was concerned it was a story
told, a drama almost ended, but as the undivided home of my young wife
it developed new meaning. Another soul was coming into being; another
tenant was about to take its place beneath our roof. Small feet would
soon be dancing through those silent rooms, careless of the men and
women whose gray heads and gaunt limbs had been carried out over their
thresholds to a final resting-place beneath the sod.

A new interest, a new phase of life, was coming to Zulime, and to me.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Old Pioneer Takes the Back Trail

In the midst of this period of hard work on _Hesper_, news of the death
of Frank Norris came to me. Frank Norris the most valiant, the happiest,
the handsomest of all my fellow craftsmen. Nothing more shocking, more
insensate than the destruction of this glorious young fictionist had
come to my literary circle, for he was aglow with a husband's happiness,
gay with the pride of paternity, and in the full spring-tide of his
powers. His going left us all poorer and took from American literature
one of its strongest young writers.

The papers at once wired me for tributes, and these I gave, gladly, and
later when one of the magazines paid me for an article, I used the money
in the purchase of a tall clock to serve as a memorial. This time-piece
stands in the hall of my city home and every time I pass it I am
reminded of the fine free spirit of Frank Norris. In my small corner of
the world he remains a vital memory.

All through October I wrote on my novel, but as the dark days of autumn
came on, I began as usual to dwell upon my interests in the city and not
even Zulime's companionship could keep me from a feeling of
restlessnes