better than a
house." Having got this out, Mr. Royce relaxed his frown, took
his cigar from his mouth, looked at it, and put it back between
his teeth without relighting it.

Claude was watching him with surprise. "There's no question about
Enid, Mr. Royce. I didn't come to ask you about her," he
exclaimed. "I came to ask if you'd be willing to have me for a
son-in-law. I know, and you know, that Enid could do a great deal
better than to marry me. I surely haven't made much of a showing,
so far."

"Here we are," announced Mr. Royce. "I'll leave the car under
this elm, and we'll go up to the north end of the field and have
a look."

They crawled under the wire fence and started across the rough
ground through a field of purple blossoms. Clouds of yellow
butterflies darted up before them. They walked jerkily, breaking
through the sun-baked crust into the soft soil beneath. Mr. Royce
lit a fresh cigar, and as he threw away the match let his hand
drop on the young man's shoulder. "I always envied your father.
You took my fancy when you were a little shaver, and I used to
let you in to see the water-wheel. When I gave up water power and
put in an engine, I said to myself: 'There's just one fellow in
the country will be sorry to see the old wheel go, and that's
Claude Wheeler.'"

"I hope you don't think I'm too young to marry," Claude said as
they tramped on.

"No, it's right and proper a young man should marry. I don't say
anything against marriage," Mr. Royce protested doggedly. "You
may find some opposition in Enid's missionary motives. I don't
know how she feels about that now. I don't enquire. I'd be
pleased to see her get rid of such notions. They don't do a woman
any good."

"I want to help her get rid of them. If it's all right with you,
I hope I can persuade Enid to marry me this fall."

Jason Royce turned his head quickly toward his companion, studied
his artless, hopeful countenance for a moment, and then looked
away with a frown.

The alfalfa field sloped upward at one corner, lay like a bright
green-and-purple handkerchief thrown down on the hillside. At the
uppermost angle grew a slender young cottonwood, with leaves as
light and agitated as the swarms of little butterflies that
hovered above the clover. Mr. Royce made for this tree, took off
his black coat, rolled it up, and sat down on it in the
flickering shade. His shirt showed big blotches of moisture, and
the sweat was rolling in clear drop