Franklin drove up to the great dugout which made the main building, in front of which the soil had been worn bare and dusty by many hoofs.  The Halfway House was now a business enterprise of assured success.  Many signs of prosperity appeared to the eye accustomed to the crude simplicity of the frontier.  These immigrants from the far-off South, incongruous and unfitted as they had seemed in this harsh new country, had apparently blundered into a material success far beyond that of their average neighbour.  The first years, the hardest ones of their struggle, were past, and the problem of existence was solved.  In those days one did not always concern himself about problems more intricate and more distant.

Buford met him in the yard, and the two together busied themselves in taking care of the team, the former apologizing that he still had no servant for such work, “I did have a nigger here for a while,” he said, “but he turned out no account, and the first I knew he went off for a cow-puncher down the trail.  I’m mighty glad to see you again, captain, for it looked as though you had forsaken us.  It certainly is a comfort to see a gentleman like yourself once in a while.  We meet plenty of cowmen and movers, decent folk enough, but they have a lack, sir, they have a lack.  I maintain, sir, that no gentleman can flourish without that intelligent social intercourse with his kind which is as much a part of his livin’, sir, as the eatin’ of his daily bread.  Now, as I was sayin’ about General Lee, sir—­but perhaps we would better go in and join the ladies.  They will be glad to see you, and later on we can resume our discussion of the war.  I am willing to admit, sir, that the war is over, but I never did admit, and, sir, I contend yet, that Lee was the greatest general that the world ever saw—­far greater than Grant, who was in command of resources infinitely superior.  Now, then—­”

“Oh, uncle, uncle!” cried a voice behind him.  “Have you begun the war over again so soon?  You might at least let Mr. Franklin get into the house.”

Mary Ellen stood at the door of the dugout, just clear of the front, and upon the second step of the stair, and her hand half shading her eyes.  The sun fell upon her brown hair, changing its chestnut to a ruddy bronze, vital and warm, with a look as though it breathed a fragrance of its own.  A little vagrant lock blew down at the temple, and Franklin yearned, as he always did when he saw this small truant, to stroke it back into its place.  The sun and the open air had kissed pink into the cheek underneath the healthy brown.  The curve of the girl’s chin was full and firm.  Her tall figure had all the grace of a normal being.  Her face, sweet and serious, showed the symmetry of perfect and well-balanced faculties.  She stood, as natural and as beautiful, as fit and seemly as the antelope upon the hill, as well poised and sure, her head as high and free, her hold upon life apparently as confident.  The vision of her standing there caused Franklin to thrill and flush.  Unconsciously he drew near to her, too absorbed to notice the one visible token of a possible success; for, as he approached, hat in hand, the girl drew back as though she feared.