At first they lived in a tent, and then in a series of large wooden boxes that they called first “The House” and then “Home.”  Machinery began to come into the camp in the wake of long strings of mules walking two and two.  Upon the report of their special consulting engineer the nearest transcontinental railroad began to lay metals across the desert, to the mines.  One day came strangers with picks and shovels, and the next day came more.  And these began to scratch among the sage-brush and to explode sticks of dynamite against the faces of hills.  Claims were staked; shanties built; a hotel with saloon attached, all of shining tin and tar paper, arose in the night.  The first thing Barbara knew Wilmot began to talk of a stretch of sage-brush as Main Street.  And the same day she heard a man with red beard speak of the little town as “Allen.”

One night a man was shot dead among the sage-bushes of Main Street.  Six hours later Wilmot came in on a horse covered with lather.  There was a stern, but not unhappy, look in his eyes.

“Well?” she asked.

“He showed fight,” said Wilmot; “and we had to pot him.”

“Did you—­”

“Would you care?  We shook hands on keeping all details secret.  I think the town of Allen will be run orderly in the future.  And by the way, have I such a thing as a clean shirt?”

“You will have,” said Barbara, “when the things dry.”

“Barbara!”

“Yes, it had to come to it.  There are only two women in town, and the other isn’t fit to wash your shirts, dear.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He examined them critically, then kissed them uncritically.

“They don’t look like a washer-woman’s hands yet,” he said.

“No,” she said, “not yet.  But please say they look less and less like a sculptor’s.”

[Illustration:  “You will,” said Barbara, “when the things dry”]

“Barbara,” he said, “they look more and more like a dear’s.  But tell me, aren’t you getting bored with it—­missing New York things and all and all?”

“No,” she said stoutly, “I’m not.  I’m useful here in some ways.  And I was about as useful there as—­as all the other people.  I’m not even worried about the mines.”

“Neither am I. But development’s a great deal slower than I thought.  We’ve still plenty of money.  And the moment we begin to ship ore, we’ll have plenty of credit which is just as useful.  No!  I’m not worried.  We’re going to be rich, and we’re going to live in a palace.”

“And then what?”

“That is worrying me.  What do people do when the striving’s over, and the sixteen hours a day hard work?  What do they do?  Oh, Barbs, we know lots of such people, and we must find out exactly what they do, and—­do something else.  Living as we are living has its drawbacks; but it’s not a place to hurry over.”