osition. It has happened quite
often since the war."

Hetty shook her bridle impatiently. "Then, of course, one would not like
them any longer," she said.

Nothing more was said until they crossed the ridge above them, when Hetty
pulled her horse up. Across the wide levels before her advanced a line of
dusty teams, the sunlight twinkling on the great breaker ploughs they
hauled, while the black loam rolled in softly gleaming waves behind them.
They came on with slow precision, and in the forefront rolled a great
machine that seamed and rent the prairie into triple furrows.

"What are they doing there? Do they belong to you?" asked Miss Schuyler.

The flush the wind had brought there turned to a deeper crimson in Hetty's
usually colourless face. "To us!" she said, and her voice had a thrill of
scorn. "They're homesteaders. Ride down. I want to see who's leading
them."

She led the way with one little gloved hand clenched on the dainty switch
she held; but before she reached the foremost team the man who pulled it
up sprang down from the driving-seat of the big machine. A tall wire
fence, with a notice attached to it, barred his way. The other ploughs
stopped behind him, somebody brought an axe, and Hetty set her lips when
the glistening blade whirled high and fell. Thrice it flashed in the
sunlight, swung by sinewy arms, and then, as the fence went down, a low,
half-articulate cry rose from the waiting men. It was not exultant, but
there was in it the suggestion of a steadfast purpose.

Hetty sat still and looked at them, a little sparkle in her dark eyes, and
a crimson spot in either cheek, while the laces that hung from her neck
across the bodice of the white dress rose and fell. It occurred to Flora
Schuyler that she had never seen her companion look half so well, and she
waited with strained expectancy for what should follow, realizing, with
the dramatic instinct most women have, who the man with the axe must be.
He turned slowly, straightening his back and stood for a moment erect and
statuesque, with the blue shirt open at his bronzed neck and the great axe
gleaming in his hand; and Hetty gasped. Miss Schuyler's surmise was
verified, for it was Larry Grant.

"Larry," said her companion, and her voice had a curious ring, "what are
you doing here?"

The man, who appeared to ignore the question, swung off his wide hat.
"Aren't you and Miss Schuyler rather far from home?" he asked.

Flora Schuyler understood