th tawny flecks, wide-open, clear and comprehending. "My
father's Evan Lancaster," she explained.

"Lancaster--oh, he's traded at my store."

"That's him over there with Marylyn."

Lounsbury turned in his saddle and looked toward the shack. "Marylyn?"
he said. "What a pretty name! Sounds like Mary_land_. How'd she----" He
paused questioningly.

"Mother's name was Mary Lynn," she answered, her voice lowered. "So she
just put it together."

"And yours?"

"Mine's Dallas. I was born in Texas."

He leaned back against his high cantle and smiled. "I could 'a' guessed
_that_," he declared.

Again she coloured sensitively, and hastened to swing the team around
until Betty stood in the furrow. "My father's coming," she said.

Instantly Lounsbury was all regret, for he saw that she had
misunderstood him. "You don't _look_ Texas," he said earnestly. "It's
just the name. And--and I think Dallas is pretty, too."

The implied jest on her native State did not do away with her
displeasure. She nodded gravely and, turning, put the lines about her
shoulders. The mules started.

"Now I've got you down on me," he said penitently. "Honest, I didn't
mean----"

She paid no heed.

He clapped on his hat, whipped his horse and followed alongside, waiting
for her to look up. Opposite the shack, Lancaster and his other daughter
were standing by the furrow. Here she drew rein. "This is Marylyn," she
said, as the storekeeper leaned to grasp her father's hand.

Lounsbury again lifted his hat and looked down, long and admiringly,
upon the younger girl. Her fair hair, framing in soft waves a pale, oval
face, and her blue eyes, watching him in some confusion, were strongly
in contrast with the straight, heavy braids--brown, and showing
burnished tints in the light--and the unwavering eyes of her sister.
Looking at her, he was reminded of girls he had seen beyond the
Alleghanies--girls who knew little, or no, toil, and who jealously
guarded their beauty from sun and wind. Answering Lancaster's blunt
questions, that followed close upon each other, he paid her prettiness
constant and wondering homage; and she, noting the attention, retreated
a little and was quiet and abashed.

"Who's you' party?" the elder man demanded, indicating the distant camp
with one crutch, and leaning heavily upon the other.

"Surveyors," replied Lounsbury.

"Surveyors!" There was alarm in Lancaster's tone. He suddenly recalled
how, slighting Dallas' advice,