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"The peas are sprouting pretty lively. The tomatoes are as perky as the young generation. The strawberries—well, they're saying, 'To-day we're here, to-morrow we're gone.' You shall have strawberries and cream for supper this evening."

After delivering this report in his own neat style, Stillwater rolled down his shirt sleeves, threw aside his big straw wide awake, and sank into a rocker.

"What are you making, mother?"

"A little dimity dress for Indiana to wear about the farm."

"Well, history repeats itself on this place. Are you commencing to make dresses for Indiana again? I suppose you're imagining she's a little fat tot, and we've always been just here."

"Not when I look at all this goods," said Mrs. Stillwater laughing, "though she's small, compared to what I was at her age."

"Why don't you send to town for some dresses," asked Stillwater.

"Oh, because it's a pleasure to make it myself, father, and the child loves to see me do it."

"Bye the bye." Stillwater took a handkerchief from his pocket, and unfolding it, carefully disclosed what to ignorant eyes was simply an ordinary potato. "I'll have something to show at the next county fair, that'll make neighbor Masters feel like very small potatoes."

Mrs. Bunker, who was embroidering red roses on white linen, handled the potato with the air of a connoisseur.

"Father, you're working as hard on this farm as if your living depended on it," said Mrs. Stillwater.

"My living does depend on it; I'd have been under the ground before long, if I hadn't taken to this. I consider every potato which costs me ten dollars, is equivalent to a doctor's pill."

Mrs. Bunker laughed.

"My dear grandmother, a man who works as hard as I'm working on my farm, makes a living and nothing more. I sat in my office and doubled my capital without turning a hand, but that's the pace that kills. Halloa, Glen," as a young, good-looking fellow in knickerbockers opened the gate. "Leave your wheel right there."

"Good morning, Mrs. Stillwater."

"Good morning, Glen; how's your mother?"

"Well, thanks. Sends her love, and father's quite his old self."

"Who cured him?" said Stillwater.

"He was getting to be a regular hypochondriac. We compared our symptoms; they were about alike. I constitute myself my own doctor. I buy a farm, and a pretty thing it is, too. I'll be wabashed, if he don't go and do the same."

"Ah, but father happened to have his farm, Mr. Stillwater," said the young fellow, laughing. "It's been neglected for years. It's not a model farm like this, but we're getting it into shape." He looked around, as though he missed something or someone.

"Say, Glen, what do you think of this?" Stillwater proudly exhibited his potato. Glen examined it with professional interest. "You couldn't do any better than that, could you?"

"We don't try. You know what father says, 'Farmin' ain't no fad with my neighbor, Stillwater.'—I'll just fetch a drink from the well."

He went off with a long, swinging stride, and, returning in a moment with a tin cup in his hand, seated himself at Mrs. Stillwater's feet, on the step of the farm-house porch.

"Fine tasting water, eh?" said Stillwater watching him. "Cold as ice; it's a fine thing to have a spring like that, right on your ground."

Glen nodded, drinking slowly, and fingering the dainty, pink and white, flowered material on which Mrs. Stillwater was working. He finally rose, restored the tin cup to the well, sauntered back and into the kitchen, and out again, with a disappointed expression.

"What's the matter, Glen? Lost anything?" inquired Mr. Stillwater, winking at the others.

Glen smiled. "Where's Indiana?"

"Oh, Indiana. She went off on Circus nearly three hours ago."

"Why didn't she stop for me?"

"I suppose she thought one's company, two's a crowd," answered Stillwater.

"You never know when Circus is going to cut up his games," remarked Glen, gloomily.

"Tell me about Circus now," said Mr. Stillwater scornfully, "don't I know Circus by this time?"

"Do you think anything could have happened?" asked Mrs. Stillwater in alarm.

"I've yet to see the horse that Indiana couldn't manage. I never saw two people understand each other better than she and Circus. He fretted and fumed when she jumped on his back this morning, then he did his great act. Stood right up on his hind legs, and looked around for applause. But she sat him like a rock. The two of them made the prettiest picture you ever saw. Well, she got him so, that he trotted off with her like Mary's little lamb. Indiana has a way with a horse."

"I think I hear her now," said Glen, walking down to the gate, and flinging it open.

"Look at that boy!" said Stillwater. "See, how his face lights up!"

"It's only natural," answered Mrs. Stillwater. "They all feel like that towards Indiana."

"No," said Stillwater, watching Glen, "not just like that."

"Yes," interpolated Mrs. Bunker, "he's the same as the rest."

"No," persisted Mr. Stillwater. "Not quite the same. Look at him out there! He's a fine lad."

They glanced at him, standing bare-headed, holding the gate and watching. His small, finely shaped head, with its well-modeled features, showing in relief against the sycamore tree near the gate.

"He fought well for his country," continued Stillwater.

"There are others," said Mrs. Bunker tersely.

"That's all right," responded Stillwater, while the clatter of horses hoofs came nearer. "Not all of them went like him—willing to give their heart's blood."

"Hurrah!" cried Indiana, entering the gate at full gallop, riding straddle, breathless, hatless, her yellow hair streaming behind her. Sitting aloft Circus, who was a tall horse, she looked like a little boy, a very young, tender, pretty boy, whose hair his mother could not yet bring herself to cut. She circled the mound in the centre of the garden, and pulled Circus up tightly at the steps. He reared at the suddenness of the check. Indiana sank forward on his neck, spent with her ride, and circled his head with her arms.

"No more tricks, Circus," she murmured. "The show's over; we're just beat out, Circus." Glen took her in his arms, and lifted her bodily off the horse. A stable boy led him away. His shining black coat was covered with flecks of foam.

"Give me a drink, someone!" said Indiana.

"Not now, Indiana," pleaded Mrs. Stillwater, "you're so warm."

"I'm parched, I tell you," said Indiana, stamping her foot, and pressing her hand to her throat.

Glen ran quickly to the well, and returned with the tin cup, which he held to Indiana's lips.

"Slowly," he said, holding the cup.

"It's warm," she said, snatching the cup, and spilling the remainder of the water.

"Why didn't you stop for me?" asked Glen.

"I wanted to ride alone," answered Indiana, sinking down on the step. "I wanted to think—"

"Think," echoed Stillwater.

"Think," repeated Mrs. Bunker. "Writing a book, Indiana?"

"Think!" said Glen. "If Indiana's taking these notions, I guess I'd better say good bye." He put on his cap.

"Don't mind them, darling," said Mrs. Stillwater. She drew Indiana's head down on her shoulder, feeling her hot cheeks and forehead solicitously.

"She's so warm—"

"What's the use of riding yourself out like that, Indiana?" said Mrs. Bunker.

"Grandma Chazy," cried Indiana, starting up. "I'd rather have one mad gallop like that if it were the death of me, than take a slow gait for the rest of my life."

"Indiana!" exclaimed Mrs. Stillwater.

"That's only the sporting spirit in her, mother," said Stillwater. "She comes by it honestly." He smiled as he recalled a few venturesome dealings of his own within the last year, which had not culminated as he would have wished. Stillwater was one of the men who could enjoy a laugh at his own expense.

"There was a devil in me, this morning," said Indiana, fiercely, "and I just rode it down."

"Indiana!"

"That's only young blood, mother. You can't expect her to be the same as we old-timers." He glanced slyly at Mrs. Bunker, who poked him with her needle.

"I was on the war path," said Indiana. "If I hadn't gone out with Circus, I—I—well, you'd have just scattered, that's all."

"Bet yer life," chuckled Stillwater.

"Is my dress finished?" asked Indiana, burying her face in the pink and white folds on Mrs. Stillwater's lap.

"Just a stitch or two more, dear. I've been working on it all morning."

"It looks so nice and cool. I want to put it on."

"So you shall, dear," said Mrs. Stillwater, in the tone one uses to a fractious baby.

"Just leave my hair alone, Glen," exclaimed Indiana, turning suddenly around on him, with flashing eyes.

"All right, Indiana," he said, meekly.

"Come now, darling; come up stairs and when you've had your bath, I'll dress you up and brush your hair nicely. It's all tangled."

"I didn't mean to be cross, Glen," said Indiana, with a sudden change of mood, as Mrs. Stillwater took her hand and led her through the kitchen.

"Oh, that's all right, Indiana!"

Glen Masters had known Indiana all her life. When she was born, the six-year old Glen came to see the baby, and stood by her cradle, sucking his thumb in solemn-eyed wonder. Not having any brothers or sisters of his own, he adopted her immediately; and he loved to be tyrannized over by the petted baby girl, who kicked and scratched him one minute, and the next caressed him with her little, soft, fat palms. His father had risen in the world very much the same way as Stillwater. They had been ranchmen together.

Stillwater lit a meerschaum pipe and puffed it slowly. Glen followed his example.

"There's two birds building a nest up in that sycamore," said Stillwater. "Hear them twitter? They're just as happy as can be."

Glen lounged on the step, looking dreamily up at the sky.

"Well, how are things going on over at the farm?" inquired Stillwater.

"Oh, we'll show some livestock at the County Fair that can't be beat." His eyes smiled a challenge at Stillwater.

"No competition," chuckled Stillwater, "but just you come over to the barn. I want to show you something. 'Farming ain't no fad with Friend Masters,' but I'll meet him at Phillipi."

"When you men once get with the livestock, that's the last we see of you. Dinner's ready as soon as Indiana's dressed," said Mrs. Bunker, as they sauntered off laughing.

It was the custom of the family to partake of dinner farm style, in the large kitchen. The first bell, which Kitty rang daily, was for the family, the second summoned the farm hands.

Glen and Stillwater, by chance, not by any intention of punctuality, emerged from the farm, just as the first bell resounded from the house. It was then that Glen thought fit to stop and utter a very vital question.

"Mr. Stillwater, I want to ask you what you think of my chances with—with Indiana?"

Glen was oblivious to the fact that he had not chosen a very propitious time or spot, to broach such a subject. The dinner bell had just sounded and Mr. Stillwater had been working since five o'clock that morning, to gain an appetite. Then, the mid-day sun poured down on them where they stood, and an Indiana sun is hot in May.

"Your chances with Indiana?" The repetition was merely a subterfuge to gain time, as Indiana's father had not the remotest idea how to answer her young suitor. Glen's preference had been an open secret for a long time; but he had never openly broached the subject, not even to Indiana.

"Yes!"

"Oh—oh, I think they're all right, my boy—why shouldn't they be?" Stillwater looked about him as though challenging earth and heaven to contradict.

"That's exactly what I think," said Glen, grasping the other's hand. "Why shouldn't they be?"

Stillwater's heart sank as he looked into the young fellow's glowing, hopeful eyes. He strongly suspected that Indiana would not accept her old playmate in the character of a lover. But he could not bring himself to tell Glen this. He felt deeply for the son of his oldest friend.

"I've known her all her life, Mr. Stillwater," said Glen, as though this was a fact unknown to Stillwater.

"Is that so, my boy?" said Stillwater, accepting the information seriously.

"And it is my conviction that I understand her better than anyone living; better even than yourself!"

"You do?" said Stillwater. "Well, that's wonderful!"

"It is, and that's why I don't see how Indiana could marry anyone else."

"Anyone else but you?" repeated Stillwater with deference.

"Precisely; anyone else but me. Can't you see it yourself? A stranger wouldn't understand her. He wouldn't have the remotest idea how to treat her. I know all her faults."

"Are you positive about that?"

"Positive."

"Well, it's a great thing to know the worst beforehand."

"Then I can rely on your co-operation in this matter, Mr. Stillwater?"

"You can," said Mr. Stillwater. "I'd like to see it. I've known you from a little lad and you're the son of my oldest friend. I'm with you—you can figure what that's worth." He himself knew how little his wishes would weigh with his opiniative little daughter, in such a case. Glen also realized that fact only too well. What they said was merely a matter of form. They both felt there was a certain etiquette attendant on the subject. "Thank you, Mr. Stillwater. I'm glad to think you consider me a proper husband for Indiana."

"Don't mention it, my boy! and now, I want to give you a little advice. Don't spring anything on Indiana!"

Glen looked at him inquiringly.

"Don't be too sudden—"

"Indiana has already received several offers, but I don't believe anyone of them was a shock to her," answered Glen dryly. He thought also, "How can a fellow be sudden with a girl he's known ever since she had short, yellow rings curling all over her head, and wasn't sure on her feet."

"She expected those offers, but she never dreams of such a thing from you."

"No, I don't suppose she does," said Glen, gloomily.

"Of course, we can't tell anything about her. One never knows what sort of a notion Indiana's going to take. I don't want to discourage you—but don't stake your whole life on this thing, my boy. It won't do—it never does."

Glen drew a deep breath, and turned his head away.

"Put your cap on! The sun's hotter than July."

"Oh, Manila has schooled me to this—and worse, if it comes." He compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past the farm, to the utmost line of horizon, and beyond that.

"You're a true soldier, my boy. Face the music—we've all got to, sooner or later."

The dinner bell rang again with menace in its brassy tones.

"We'd better go back to the house. They'll give us Hail Columbia! Brace up, Glen, and remember—I'm with you!"

Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker was saying to Kitty: "It's the last of those men, once they get with the live-stock."

"Here they are," said Kitty. "Why, Mr. Stillwater! Dinner's ready long ago."

"Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool. This is the hot part of the day. Do you observe that the sun has approached its meridian, Kitty? No occasion for rush here. Rest and quiet, Kitty—that's my cure. Say, look at Indiana! Isn't she the sweetest thing that ever happened?"

She peeped from behind her mother, dressed in the simple pink and white dimity. Her hair had been smoothly brushed, and hung in one long braid. She looked like a fair and happy child, of not more than fifteen; laughing, refreshed from sleep. Glen gazed at her, but said nothing. His recent confession to Indiana's father, had the effect of making him conscious and tongue-tied. There was a large orchard on the farm, where lay the afternoon shade. The family repaired there, according to the daily custom, as soon as dinner was over. Hammocks hung in the trees and Kitty spread shawls on the ground, and brought pillows galore.

Glen sat in the midst of the group, tuning his mandolin, which he kept at the farm. Glen and his mandolin were associated. All invitations issued to him included the clause, "Bring your mandolin!" He seldom made a social visit without it, except on doleful occasions, such as funerals or visits of condolence.

He was hailed with joy whenever he appeared with his frank smile and his mandolin. In the West, there is a keen appreciation of impromptu pleasure.

In the orchard the fruit trees had fully blossomed, the grass was still a young, tender green. Through the masses of delicate pink and white color, shone here and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue sky. There is little to admire, as far as scenery is concerned, in this flat country, over which one can travel for miles without seeing a rolling meadow, or a sign of a hill. But one can rave over the skies of Indiana, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes softly tenderly blue. Their peculiar azure is not reproduced in any other country of the world. The color ran out when the skies of Indiana were painted, and never renewed, in order that they should remain unique. The secret belongs to the Universe.