alled Sabbath, and which the
austerity of his creed had made so cold and cheerless. On Sunday night
there had been a hop on the shore of the lake, and a constable had
danced with a skillet-wiper from town. The children of the New Englander
sell their winter piety for the summer dollar.

"I can't conceive of anything more delicious than this atmosphere," said
Mrs. Blakemore. "It's heavenly down by the lake. And in the woods there
are such beautiful ferns. Are you fond of ferns, Mr. Milford?"

"Don't believe I ever ate any," Milford answered, and the women screamed
with laughter. One of them spoke of such charming impudence, and George
looked at her with his cankered eye. Mrs. Stuvic said, "Oh, you keep
still!" The Dutch girl passed at a spraddling gallop, setting a dog at a
chicken condemned to death. Old Lewson shouted and shrank behind a tree.
Mrs. Blakemore's thin hand was seen in the air. It was a command, and
silence fell.

"Would you mind telling us something of the wild life in the West?"

"There's no wild life in the West now," Milford answered. "It is there,
as it is nearly everywhere, a round of stale dishonesty."

"George, dear, do you hear that? Stale dishonesty! Really, there is
thought in that. Western men are so apt in their phrasing. They aren't
afraid of critical judgment. But they are too picturesque to be simple.
They are like an old garden run to blossoming weeds--the impudent new
springing from the venerable old. Did you hear me, George?"

"How's that?" George asked, looking up from a dream of trouble.

"Oh, I shall not repeat it. Mr. Milford, nearly all my thoughts are
wasted on him. His mind is occupied by things sterner but not nearer
true." George grunted something that sounded like "bosh." She smiled and
tapped him on the arm. Her face was thin but pretty. Milford gave her an
admiring look. She caught it in an instant and drooped her eyes at him.
Some of the women saw it and pulled at one another, standing close
together. But the old woman did not see it. Her eye was not set for so
fine a mischief. A Mrs. Dorch began to hum a tune. She left off to tell
Milford that she had a sister in Dakota. She had gone out as a
school-teacher, and had been married by a rancher. His name was Lampton.
It was possible that Mr. Milford might know him. He did not, but it gave
her a chance to talk, and the slim Mrs. Blakemore began to droop her
eyes. The man was nothing to her. She wouldn't stoop to set up a