Peak and Prairie | Page 6

dice sounded cheerful and sociable; the checkers, with their shining
eyes, seemed to take a real interest in the game; and when she scored
the result to "Willie" or to "Mother," the old familiar every-day relation
seemed restored between them.
To-night Willie was having all the luck, and that was sure to put his
mother in the best of spirits. She played on and on, much later than her
custom was, till at last the luck turned, and looking at her flat,
gold-faced watch, she found, with a shock, that it was ten minutes after
ten o'clock.
"My sakes!" she cried. "I ought to be ashamed of myself! Come, David,
come right along to bed. You're going to sleep on the mat at the back
door."
David, who was nothing if not amenable, cheerfully acceded to this
arrangement. Even before his new mistress had finished tying him to
the railing, he had curled himself up on the mat and was fast asleep.
When she patted him on the head, however, by way of good-night, his
tail gave a responsive wag, and little Mrs. Nancy left him with the
friendliest feelings.
The next morning the dog was gone. Yes, incredible as it seems, that
graceless dog was gone--gone without a word of farewell.
Mrs. Nancy was standing gazing in dejected mood at the fragment of
string he had left behind him, when the milkman, one of her special
cronies, arrived. The good-natured Sam was full of sympathy.
"I reckon he came in with some ranchman yesterday, and got lost in the
town. Like as not he's gone home. Good Lord! I'd just like to see that

'ere ranchman when his dog gits back with a locket round his neck!"
"I washed him too, Sam," Mrs. Nancy lamented, as she accompanied
her visitor to the gate. She was too conscientious to detain the man
from the performance of his duty.
"You washed him!" he cried, as he got into his cart. "Jerusalem! I guess
that's the first time a ranch dog ever got a taste of a bath."
And the cart rattled off, leaving David's little friend standing at the gate.
It was just after sunrise, and she looked down the street to the
mountains, which were bathed in a flood of translucent crimson
reflected from the east.
"I wonder if the walls of the heavenly Jerusalem look very different
from that!" she mused, as she gazed into the deepening color. When she
turned back to the house, she had almost forgotten the ungrateful
runaway in thoughts of her boy and his heavenly abiding place.
The next afternoon Mrs. Tarbell was sitting on her front porch
endeavoring to readjust the bows upon the old straw bonnet. She had
taken them off, and sponged both ribbon and straw, and she was now
trying her best to make the bows hold up their heads with the spirit and
grace which distinguish a milliner's trimming. She looked up from time
to time to enjoy the reflection of the trees in the lake surrounding the
house. For her grass was being flooded to-day, and that was always a
pretty sight. "It looks almost as pretty as Watkins' pond out on the
Goodham turnpike," she reflected, as the water glistened in a broad
expanse. She owned a good piece of land, a hundred feet front. Willie
had meant to have a vegetable garden when he had got strong enough
to work in it.
A horseman had turned into the street, and came cantering toward the
house. But horsemen were part of the landscape in Colorado, and she
scarcely noticed his approach till a joyful bark caused her to look up,
just in time to see David take a flying leap over the gate and come
dashing up to her.

"Why, David!" she cried; and then she stopped, abashed, for the
horseman was already tying his pony to the post.
"Mrs. Tarbell?" he questioned, as he opened the gate; and without
waiting for an answer, he went on: "I've come to thank you for getting
my dog away from those scoundrels at the City Hall. They had the
decency to tell me where to look for you."
"Oh, pray don't mention it!" said little Mrs. Nancy, with old-fashioned
courtesy.
"Not mention it!" cried her visitor. "It was the kindest thing I ever
heard of. I don't see what made you do it."
"Oh, I couldn't help it. David looked so miserable being dragged along
at the end of a pole."
"The cowards!" he cried. "Don't get a chair, ma'am. I like the steps
better. Did you call him David?" he asked, with a twinkle of
amusement in his kind gray eyes, as he seated himself on the low step,
with his long legs trailing off over the walk.
"Well, yes.