“Good-morning!” answered a voice, one neither abnormally high nor repressedly low, the kind of voice the man seldom heard in the society to which he was accustomed—­one natural, unaffected, frankly interested.  The owner thereof came forward, held out her hand.  Two friendly brown eyes smiled up at him from the level of his shoulder.  “I know without your introducing yourself that you’re Mr. Craig,” she welcomed.  “Uncle Landor told me before he left what to expect.  He and Aunt Mary had to go to town this morning.  Meanwhile I’m the cook, and at your service,” and she smiled again.

For far longer than civility actually required, to the extreme limit of courtesy and a shade beyond, in, fact, until it unmistakably sought to be free, Clayton Craig retained that proffered hand.  Against all the canons of good breeding he stared.  Answering, a trace of colour, appearing at the brown throat, mounted higher and higher, reached the soft oval cheeks, journeyed on.

“I beg your pardon,” apologised the man.  He met the accusing eyes fairly, with a return of his old confidence.  “You had the advantage of me, you know.  I was not forewarned what to expect.”

It was the breaking of the ice, and they laughed together.  The girl had been working with arms bare to the elbow, and as now of a sudden she rolled the sleeves down Craig laughed again; and in unconscious echo a second later she joined.  Almost before they knew it, there alone in the little whitewashed kitchen with the crackling cook-stove and the sunshine streaming in through the tiny-paned windows, they were friends.  All the while the girl went about the task of preparing a belated breakfast they laughed and chatted—­and drew nearer and nearer.  Again while Craig ate and at his command the girl sat opposite to entertain him, they laughed and chatted.  Still later, the slowly eaten meal finished, while Elizabeth Landor washed the dishes and put everything tidy and Craig from his seat on the bottom of an inverted basket reversed the position of entertainer, they laughed and chatted.  And through it all, openly when possible, surreptitiously when it were wise, the man gave his companion inspection.  And therein he at first but followed an instinct.  Very, very human was Clayton Craig of Boston, Suffolk County, Massachusetts, and very, very good to look upon was brown-eyed, brown-skinned, brown-haired Elizabeth Landor.  Neither had thought of evil, had other thought than the innocent pleasure of the moment that first morning while the tiny clock on the wall measured off the swift-moving minutes.  Good it is to be alive in sun-blessed South Dakota on a frosty warm October day, doubly good when one is young; and these two, the man and the girl, were both young.  Months it takes, years sometimes, in civilisation, with barriers of out on the prairie, alone, with the pulse of nature throbbing, throbbing, insistently all about, the process is very swift, so swift that an hour can suffice.  No, not that first hour wherein unconsciously they became friends, did the angel with the big book record evil opposite the name of Clayton Craig; not until later, not until he had had time to think, not until—.