“Why, I stayed.  There wasn’t anything else to do.  And after I looked around the valley a little and saw the Peshastin ditch and what it could do, I got busy.  I found work; did anything that turned up and saved like a miser, until I was able to have the land cleared of sagebrush.  It has mean roots, you know, sprawling in all directions like the branches.  Then I saved to make connections with the ditch and to buy trees.  I set the whole twenty acres to apples—­I always did like a good apple, and I had sized up the few home orchards around Wenatchee—­then I put in alfalfa for a filler, and that eased things, and I settled down to office work, small pay, lots of time to plan, and waited for my trees to grow.  That was four years ago, five since I struck the Wenatchee valley, and this season they came into bearing.  Now, at the end of this month, I am giving up my position with the Milwaukee, cutting railroading for good, to go over and superintend the harvesting.  And say”—­he stood erect, the inner glow illumined his face—­“I’ve had an offer for my crop; three hundred and fifty dollars an acre for the fruit on the trees.  Three hundred and fifty dollars for a four-year-old orchard!  Think of that!  Seven thousand clear for re-investment.”

“How splendid!” she said, and in that instant her face seemed to catch and reflect his enthusiasm.  “To have waited, fought like that in the face of defeat, and to have made good.”

“And it’s only the beginning,” his voice caught a little; “an apple orchard has bigger results every year after maturity.  There’s a man over there on the Wenatchee who is going to make a thousand dollar profit on each acre of his twelve-year orchard.  You ought to see those trees, all braced up with scaffolding, only fourteen acres of them, but every branch loaded.  But that orchard is an exception; they had to lift water from the river with buckets and a wheel, and most of the pioneers put in grain.  Their eyes are just beginning to open.  But think of Hesperides Vale in another five years.  And think what that High Line ditch means.  Just imagine it!  Water, all you can use and running to waste; water spilling over in this sage-brush desert.  Doesn’t it spell oasis?  Think of it!  Grass and flowers and shade in place of this sunbaked sand and alkali.”

“It sounds like a fairy tale,” she said.  “I can hardly believe it.”

“I’ll show you.”  He hurried around to the office door and came back directly with a basket of fruit.  “Here are a few samples from my trees.  Did you ever see pink like that in a bellflower?  Isn’t it pretty enough for a girl’s cheek?  And say,” he held up an exceedingly large apple, nearer the size of a small pumpkin, “how’s this for a Rome Beauty?  An agent who is selling acreage for a company down the Yakima offered me five dollars for that apple yesterday.  He wanted it for a window display over at his Seattle office.  But look at these Jonathans.”  His sensitive fingers touched the fruit lingeringly with a sort of caress, and the glow deepened in his face.  “They represent the main crop.  And talk about color!  Did you ever see wine and scarlet and gold blend and shade nicer than this?”