It was very late, so late that the sun entering at the south windows of the room shone glaringly upon the white counterpane of his bed when Craig awoke the next morning.  Breakfast had long been over, but throughout the unplastered ranch house the suggestion of coffee and the tang of bacon still lingered.  At home those odours would have aroused slight sensations of pleasure in the man, even at this time of day; but now and here they were distinctly welcome, distinctly inviting.  With the aid of a tin pail of water and a cracked queensware bowl, he made a hasty toilet, soliloquised an opinion of a dressing-room without a mirror, and descended the creaking stairs to the level below.

The main floor of the ranch house contained but three rooms.  Of these, it was the living-room which he entered.  No one was about.  The pipe which he had smoked with his uncle before retiring the night before remained exactly as he had put it down.  His cap and gloves were still beside it.  Obviously there was no possibility of breakfast here, and he moved toward the adjoining room.  On his way he passed a hook where upon arrival he had hung his riding blouse.  Telltale with its litter of dust and grass stems, it hung there now; and unconsciously he scowled at the recollection it suggested.

Opening the door, he was face to face with a little fast-ticking cheaply ornate clock.  Its hands indicated eleven, and the man grimaced tolerantly.  As in the living-room, no human was present, but here the indications for material sustenance were more hopeful.  It was the dining-room, and, although in the main the table had been cleared, at one end a clean plate, flanked by a bone-handled knife and fork and an old-fashioned castor, still remained.  Moreover, from the third room, the kitchen, he could now hear sounds of life.  The fire in a cook-stove was crackling cheerily.  Above it, distinct through the thin partition, came the sound of a girlish voice singing.  There was no apparent effort at time or at tune; it was uncultivated as the grass land all about; yet in its freshness and unconsciousness it was withal distinctly pleasing.  It was a happy voice, a contented voice.  Instinctively it bore a suggestion of home and of quiet and of peace; like a kitten with drowsy eyes purring to itself in the sunshine.  A moment the visitor stood silent, listening; then, his heavy shoes clumping on the uncarpeted floor, he moved toward it.  Instantly the song ceased, but he kept on, pushed open the door gently, stepped inside.

“Good-morning!” he began, and then halted in an uncertainty he seldom felt among women folk.  He had met no one but his uncle the previous night.  Inevitably the preceding incident with his guide had produced a mental picture.  It was with the expectation of having this conception personified that he had entered, to it he had spoken; then had come the revelation, the halt.