onsciousness of sheltered girlhood, but already, in bud, the
suggestion of that big type of woman who, as years mellow her, touches
with sympathy every life with which she comes in contact. What she now
was, promised more in the future, as though Fate said, "I'm not through
with her yet. I've plenty in reserve to go to her making."

"Intelligence," said Dick pompously, "is the tree of life in man, and
the flower in woman--and one does not presume to criticize flowers."

Mr. Davison changed his method of attack.

"Oh, of course I'm up against it," he said, "with you three fresh from
the academic halls. But I can tell you you'll feel pretty lonely out
here. The street-car conductors don't talk Sanskrit in the West. They
talk Swede."

"Oh, this,--this is home!" cried Madeline, springing up as if to shake
off the conversation. "You don't know how I love it! It's fresh and
vigorous and its face is forward." She flung out her arms and smiled
radiantly down on the three young men, as though she were an embodiment
of the ozone of the Northwest.

"Sing to us, please, Madeline," said Dick.

"Very well, I will," she said. "I'll sing you a song I made myself
yesterday, when I was happy because I was at home again. Perhaps it will
tell you how I feel, for it's a song of Minnesota." She turned and
nodded to Mr. Davison, and then slipped through the doors to the room
where the piano stood.

The long shadows of afternoon lay across the lawn, and the grass, more
green than ever in the level light, clasped the dazzling blue of the
quiet waters. The three men stretched themselves in their easy chairs,
as a stroked kitten stretches itself, with a lounging abandon which is
forbidden to their sisters, as Madeline's voice rose fresh and true and
touched with the joy of youth.

"Ho, west wind off the prairie;
Ho, north wind off the pine;
Ho, myriad azure lakes, hill-clasped,
Like cups of living wine;
Ho, mighty river rolling;
Ho, fallow, field and fen;
By a thousand voices nature calls,
To fire the hearts of men.

"Ho, fragrance of the wheat-fields;
Ho, garnered hoards of flax;
Ho, whirling millwheel, 'neath the falls;
Ho, woodman's ringing ax.
Man blends his voice with nature's,
And the great chorus swells.
He adds the notes of home and love
To the tale the forest tells.

"Oh, young blood of the nation;
Oh, hope in a world of