s. Stuvic, and the romping of the children
coming out.

"I guess that's the best rabbit dog anywhere around here," he said, as a
flea-bitten cur trotted past. He had never seen the dog hunt rabbits. He
knew nothing about him except that he had been ordered to shoot him for
howling, the dreary night when old Lewson died.

"He does not look that he could run very fast," she replied, turning her
eyes upon the dog.

"Oh, yes, he runs like a streak. He outran a pack of wolves up in the
Wisconsin woods."

"Wolves!" she said, looking at him.

He knew that he was a liar, but he said "wolves." He asked if she had
ever seen any wolves. She had seen packs of coyotes on the prairie. "I
went to my uncle when I came to this country," she said. "He lived away
in the West. I stayed there two years, and then I came with him to
Chicago. I did not like it so far off. The wind was always blowing
lonesome in the night, and I thought of my old home where the grass
fringed the edge of the cliff."

"Did you speak English before you came to this country?"

"I could read it, and I did read much--old tales of fierce fights on the
sea."

"How long do you expect to stay out here?"

"I am with Mrs. Goodwin, and when she says go, I go. She is very kind to
me."

Mrs. Goodwin came out, calling "Gunhild." She was tall, with grayish
hair, and on the stage might have played the part of a duchess. Her
husband's affairs were prosperous, and she devoted herself to the
discovery of genius. She had found a young girl with a marvelous voice,
and had educated her into a common-rate singer, put her in opera, and
the critics scorched her. The discoverer swallowed a lump of
disappointment, and turned about to find another genius. In an obscure
corner of a newspaper, she found a gem in verse, the soul-spurt of a
young man. She sought him out, and paid for the printing of a volume of
verses. The critics scoffed him, and she swallowed another lump. One of
her assistant discoverers brought to her a pencil sketch of a buffalo,
and this led to the finding of Gunhild Strand. The girl was modest. She
disclaimed genius, but she was sent to the Art Institute; she would
climb the mountain. But she got no higher than the foot-hills. "I did
not have any confidence in myself," the girl declared. "And now I must
work for you to pay you for what has been spent." This was surely a
proof that she had no genius, but it was an evidence of gratitude, a
rarer quality, and