The slanting rays of the sun streamed from a saffron sky in the west and blazed in the red, yellow, and pink foliage on the mountain-side.  The light brought into clearer outline the brown peaks and beetling crags that rose bleak and bare above the wealth of color, beyond the dark, evergreen stretches of pines and mountain cedars.  The gorgeous tail of a peacock spread and gleamed under the cherry-trees in the back yard.  A sleek calf was running back and forth in a little lot, and a brindled cow was bellowing mellowly, her head thrown up as she cantered down the road, her heavy bag swinging under her.

At the sight of the woman a flock of ducks, chickens, and geese gathered round her.  She shooed the fowls away with her apron.  “They want the’r supper,” she said, as she led her guest back to the front yard.  She went to the gate and looked down the road.  “I see Luke at the branch,” she added, coming back to him; “he’d be on faster ef he knowed you wus heer.”

Luke Bradley was about fifty years of age.  He had blue eyes, a long body, long arms, and long legs.  His hair was reddish brown and his face florid and freckled.  He walked with a shambling gait, stooped considerably, and swung his arms.  He seldom wore a coat, and on days as mild as this his shirt-sleeves were always rolled up.  He presented a striking contrast to John Westerfelt, who, by the people of that remote section, might have been considered something of a swell.

“How are you, ol’ hoss?” Bradley laughed, as he swung the sagging gate open and grasped his friend’s hand.  “Glad to see you; I’ve done nothin’ but fight tongue battles fer you all day.  Webb has been cussin’ me black an’ blue fer biddin’ agin ’im fer a stranger, but thar’s one consolation—­we’ve got ’im on the hip.”

Westerfelt laughed pleasantly as he followed his host into the sitting-room.  “Much obliged to you, Luke.  I’m glad I took your advice about the investment.”

“Me’n Marthy wus both dead set on gettin’ you over heer,” Luke said, as he placed a chair for Westerfelt in front of the fire.  “Both of us ’low a change will do you good.”

Mrs. Bradley sat down in a corner and spread out her ample homespun skirt and began to run the hem of her apron through her fat, red fingers.

“Me’n Luke’s been talkin’ it over,” she said, with some embarrassment; “we ‘lowed you mought mebby be willin’ to put up with us; we’ve got a spare room, an’ you know about how we live.  You’ve lied unmercifully ef you don’t like my cookin’,” she concluded, with an awkward little laugh.

“I never lie,” he retorted, smiling.  “It’s been a year since I ate at your house, but I can taste your slice-potato pie yet, and your egg-bread and biscuits, ugh!”

She laughed.  “You’ll stay, then?”

“I’m afraid not.  I’ve packed up some pieces of furniture—­a bed and one thing or other—­and I calculated that I’d occupy the room over the stable.  I’d like to be near my business.  I reckon I can get my meals down at the hotel.  I’ll stay with you to-night, though; the wagon won’t come till to-morrow.”