as a "towny," and not a frontiersman like the
other.

As they approached the cabin the elder man stopped, and turning to her,
said:--

"Do you know Indians?"

The girl started, and then recovering herself with a quick laugh:
"G'lang!--there ain't any Injins here!"

"Not the kind YOU mean; these are very peaceful. There's a squaw here
whom you will"--he stopped, hesitated as he looked critically at the
girl, and then corrected himself--"who will help you."

He pushed open the cabin door and showed an interior, equally simple but
well joined and fitted,--a marvel of neatness and finish to the frontier
girl's eye. There were shelves and cupboards and other conveniences, yet
with no ostentation of refinement to frighten her rustic sensibilities.

Then he pushed open another door leading into a shed and called "Waya."
A stout, undersized Indian woman, fitted with a coarse cotton gown, but
cleaner and more presentable than the girl's one frock, appeared in the
doorway. "This is Waya, who attends to the cooking and cleaning," he
said; "and by the way, what is your name?"

"Libby Jones."

He took a small memorandum book and a "stub" of pencil from his pocket.
"Elizabeth Jones," he said, writing it down. The girl interposed a long
red hand.

"No," she interrupted sharply, "not Elizabeth, but Libby, short for
Lib'rty."

"Liberty?"

"Yes."

"Liberty Jones, then. Well, Waya, this is Miss Jones, who will look
after the cows and calves--and the dairy." Then glancing at her torn
dress, he added: "You'll find some clean things in there, until I can
send up something from San Jose. Waya will show you."

Without further speech he turned away with the other man. When they were
some distance from the cabin, the younger remarked:--

"More like a boy than a girl, ain't she?"

"So much the better for her work," returned the elder grimly.

"I reckon! I was only thinkin' she didn't han'some much either as a boy
or girl, eh, doctor?" he pursued.

"Well! as THAT won't make much difference to the cows, calves, or the
dairy, it needn't trouble US," returned the doctor dryly. But here a
sudden outburst of laughter from the cabin made them both turn in that
direction. They were in time to see Liberty Jones dancing out of the
cabin door in a large cotton pinafore, evidently belonging to the
squaw, who was following her with half-laughing, half-frightened
expostulations. The two men stopped and gazed at the spectacle.

"Don't s