together, and few
words ever passed between them. Ellen had a canvas curtain stretched
upon a wire across a small triangular comer, and this afforded her a
little privacy. Her possessions were limited in number. The crude
square table she had constructed herself. Upon it was a little
old-fashioned walnut-framed mirror, a brush and comb, and a dilapidated
ebony cabinet which contained odds and ends the sight of which always
brought a smile of derisive self-pity to her lips. Under the table
stood an old leather trunk. It had come with her from Texas, and
contained clothing and belongings of her mother's. Above the couch on
pegs hung her scant wardrobe. A tiny shelf held several worn-out books.

When her father slept indoors, which was seldom except in winter, he
occupied a couch in the opposite corner. A rude cupboard had been
built against the logs next to the fireplace. It contained supplies
and utensils. Toward the center, somewhat closer to the door, stood a
crude table and two benches. The cabin was dark and smelled of smoke,
of the stale odors of past cooked meals, of the mustiness of dry,
rotting timber. Streaks of light showed through the roof where the
rough-hewn shingles had split or weathered. A strip of bacon hung upon
one side of the cupboard, and upon the other a haunch of venison.
Ellen detested the Mexican woman because she was dirty. The inside of
the cabin presented the same unkempt appearance usual to it after Ellen
had been away for a few days. Whatever Ellen had lost during the
retrogression of the Jorths, she had kept her habits of cleanliness,
and straightway upon her return she set to work.

The Mexican woman sullenly slouched away to her own quarters outside
and Ellen was left to the satisfaction of labor. Her mind was as busy
as her hands. As she cleaned and swept and dusted she heard from time
to time the voices of men, the clip-clop of shod horses, the bellow of
cattle. And a considerable time elapsed before she was disturbed.

A tall shadow darkened the doorway.

"Howdy, little one!" said a lazy, drawling voice. "So y'u-all got
home?"

Ellen looked up. A superbly built man leaned against the doorpost.
Like most Texans, he was light haired and light eyed. His face was
lined and hard. His long, sandy mustache hid his mouth and drooped
with a curl. Spurred, booted, belted, packing a heavy gun low down on
his hip, he gave Ellen an entirely new impression. Indeed, she