tine of putting a paper together, with one letter of type at a
time. I hated the hard mechanical work. Most of our neighbors were
proving up, going back. But we realized, with a little shock of
surprise, that we did not want to go back. Imperceptibly we had come to
identify ourselves with the West; we were a part of its life, it was a
part of us. Its hardships were more than compensated for by its
unshackled freedom. To go back now would be to make a painful
readjustment to city life; it would mean hunting jobs, being tied to the
weariness of office routine. The opportunities for a full and active
life were infinitely greater here on the prairie. There was a pleasant
glow of possession in knowing that the land beneath our feet was ours.

For a little while we faced uncertainly the problem that other
homesteaders were facing--that of going back, of trying to fit ourselves
in again to city ways. But the eagerness to return to city life had
gone. Then, too, there was something in the invigorating winter air and
bright sunshine which had given me new resistance. There had been a
continuous round of going down, and coming back with a second wind; but
I had gained a little each time and was stronger now than before.

In the mid-afternoon, after our orgy of spring house-cleaning, with
everything fresh and clean, Ida Mary said, "Someone is coming--straight
across our land."

"Who is it?" I asked. We had learned to recognize every horse in that
part of the country a mile away. But this was not a plainsman.

We rushed into the shack and made a mad scramble through the trunk, but
before we could get dressed there came a knock at the door. "Will you
wait a moment, please?" I called. It was the custom of the plains for a
man to wait outside while his hostess dressed or put her house in order,
there being no corner where he could stay during the process. If the
weather prohibited outdoor waiting, he could retire to the hayshed.

A pleasant voice said, "I'll be glad to wait." But as I whispered,
"Throw me those slippers," and Ida Mary said _sotto voce_, "What dress
shall I wear?" we heard a muffled chuckle through the thin walls.

When we threw open the door to a slightly built man with brown hair and
a polished air about him, I knew it was the cartoonist from Milwaukee.
Only a city man and an artist could look like that.

"How do you do, Mr. Van Leshout."

"How did you know?" he said, as he came in.

"So you were a Lucky Num