as made, and the daily life went on as usual. The
sons worked in the fields by day, and in the evening played at pitching
horseshoes on the bare circle where the children romped. The women went
on baking, sewing, and singing. August Naab's prayers were more fervent
than ever, and he even prayed for the soul of the man who had robbed
him. Mescal's cheeks soon rounded out to their old contour and her eyes
shone with a happier light than Hare had ever seen there. The races
between Silvermane and Black Bolly were renewed on the long stretch
under the wall, and Mescal forgot that she had once acknowledged the
superiority of the gray. The cottonwoods showered silken floss till the
cabins and grass were white; the birds returned to the oasis; the sun
kissed warm color into the cherries, and the distant noise of the river
seemed like the humming of a swarm of bees.

"Here, Jack," said August Naab, one morning, "get a spade and come with
me. There's a break somewhere in the ditch."

Hare went with him out along the fence by the alfalfa fields, and round
the corner of red wall toward the irrigating dam.

"Well, Jack, I suppose you'll be asking me for Mescal one of these
days," said Naab.

"Yes," replied Hare.

"There's a little story to tell you about Mescal, when the day comes."

"Tell it now."

"No. Not yet. I'm glad you found her. I never knew her to be so happy,
not even when she was a child. But somehow there's a better feeling
between her and my womenfolk. The old antagonism is gone. Well, well,
life is so. I pray that things may turn out well for you and her. But I
fear--I seem to see--Hare, I'm a poor man once more. I can't do for you
what I'd like. Still we'll see, we'll hope."

Hare was perfectly happy. The old Mormon's hint did not disturb him;
even the thought of Snap Naab did not return to trouble his contentment.
The full present was sufficient for Hare, and his joy bubbled over,
bringing smiles to August's grave face. Never had a summer afternoon in
the oasis been so fair. The green fields, the red walls, the blue sky,
all seemed drenched in deeper, richer hues. The wind-song in the crags,
the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare's ears with music. To
be alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was
beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough.

Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab
raised his head as if listening.

"Did you hear anyt