Her Lord and Master. Martha Morton

old Glen came to see the baby, and stood by her cradle, sucking his thumb in solemn-eyed wonder. Not having any brothers or sisters of his own, he adopted her immediately; and he loved to be tyrannized over by the petted baby girl, who kicked and scratched him one minute, and the next caressed him with her little, soft, fat palms. His father had risen in the world very much the same way as Stillwater. They had been ranchmen together.

      Stillwater lit a meerschaum pipe and puffed it slowly. Glen followed his example.

      "There's two birds building a nest up in that sycamore," said Stillwater. "Hear them twitter? They're just as happy as can be."

      Glen lounged on the step, looking dreamily up at the sky.

      "Well, how are things going on over at the farm?" inquired Stillwater.

      "Oh, we'll show some livestock at the County Fair that can't be beat." His eyes smiled a challenge at Stillwater.

      "No competition," chuckled Stillwater, "but just you come over to the barn. I want to show you something. 'Farming ain't no fad with Friend Masters,' but I'll meet him at Phillipi."

      "When you men once get with the livestock, that's the last we see of you. Dinner's ready as soon as Indiana's dressed," said Mrs. Bunker, as they sauntered off laughing.

      It was the custom of the family to partake of dinner farm style, in the large kitchen. The first bell, which Kitty rang daily, was for the family, the second summoned the farm hands.

      Glen and Stillwater, by chance, not by any intention of punctuality, emerged from the farm, just as the first bell resounded from the house. It was then that Glen thought fit to stop and utter a very vital question.

      "Mr. Stillwater, I want to ask you what you think of my chances with—with Indiana?"

      Glen was oblivious to the fact that he had not chosen a very propitious time or spot, to broach such a subject. The dinner bell had just sounded and Mr. Stillwater had been working since five o'clock that morning, to gain an appetite. Then, the mid-day sun poured down on them where they stood, and an Indiana sun is hot in May.

      "Your chances with Indiana?" The repetition was merely a subterfuge to gain time, as Indiana's father had not the remotest idea how to answer her young suitor. Glen's preference had been an open secret for a long time; but he had never openly broached the subject, not even to Indiana.

      "Yes!"

      "Oh—oh, I think they're all right, my boy—why shouldn't they be?" Stillwater looked about him as though challenging earth and heaven to contradict.

      "That's exactly what I think," said Glen, grasping the other's hand. "Why shouldn't they be?"

      Stillwater's heart sank as he looked into the young fellow's glowing, hopeful eyes. He strongly suspected that Indiana would not accept her old playmate in the character of a lover. But he could not bring himself to tell Glen this. He felt deeply for the son of his oldest friend.

      "I've known her all her life, Mr. Stillwater," said Glen, as though this was a fact unknown to Stillwater.

      "Is that so, my boy?" said Stillwater, accepting the information seriously.

      "And it is my conviction that I understand her better than anyone living; better even than yourself!"

      "You do?" said Stillwater. "Well, that's wonderful!"

      "It is, and that's why I don't see how Indiana could marry anyone else."

      "Anyone else but you?" repeated Stillwater with deference.

      "Precisely; anyone else but me. Can't you see it yourself? A stranger wouldn't understand her. He wouldn't have the remotest idea how to treat her. I know all her faults."

      "Are you positive about that?"

      "Positive."

      "Well, it's a great thing to know the worst beforehand."

      "Then I can rely on your co-operation in this matter, Mr. Stillwater?"

      "You can," said Mr. Stillwater. "I'd like to see it. I've known you from a little lad and you're the son of my oldest friend. I'm with you—you can figure what that's worth." He himself knew how little his wishes would weigh with his opiniative little daughter, in such a case. Glen also realized that fact only too well. What they said was merely a matter of form. They both felt there was a certain etiquette attendant on the subject. "Thank you, Mr. Stillwater. I'm glad to think you consider me a proper husband for Indiana."

      "Don't mention it, my boy! and now, I want to give you a little advice. Don't spring anything on Indiana!"

      Glen looked at him inquiringly.

      "Don't be too sudden—"

      "Indiana has already received several offers, but I don't believe anyone of them was a shock to her," answered Glen dryly. He thought also, "How can a fellow be sudden with a girl he's known ever since she had short, yellow rings curling all over her head, and wasn't sure on her feet."

      "She expected those offers, but she never dreams of such a thing from you."

      "No, I don't suppose she does," said Glen, gloomily.

      "Of course, we can't tell anything about her. One never knows what sort of a notion Indiana's going to take. I don't want to discourage you—but don't stake your whole life on this thing, my boy. It won't do—it never does."

      Glen drew a deep breath, and turned his head away.

      "Put your cap on! The sun's hotter than July."

      "Oh, Manila has schooled me to this—and worse, if it comes." He compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past the farm, to the utmost line of horizon, and beyond that.

      "You're a true soldier, my boy. Face the music—we've all got to, sooner or later."

      The dinner bell rang again with menace in its brassy tones.

      "We'd better go back to the house. They'll give us Hail Columbia! Brace up, Glen, and remember—I'm with you!"

      Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker was saying to Kitty: "It's the last of those men, once they get with the live-stock."

      "Here they are," said Kitty. "Why, Mr. Stillwater! Dinner's ready long ago."

      "Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool. This is the hot part of the day. Do you observe that the sun has approached its meridian, Kitty? No occasion for rush here. Rest and quiet, Kitty—that's my cure. Say, look at Indiana! Isn't she the sweetest thing that ever happened?"

      She peeped from behind her mother, dressed in the simple pink and white dimity. Her hair had been smoothly brushed, and hung in one long braid. She looked like a fair and happy child, of not more than fifteen; laughing, refreshed from sleep. Glen gazed at her, but said nothing. His recent confession to Indiana's father, had the effect of making him conscious and tongue-tied. There was a large orchard on the farm, where lay the afternoon shade. The family repaired there, according to the daily custom, as soon as dinner was over. Hammocks hung in the trees and Kitty spread shawls on the ground, and brought pillows galore.

      Glen sat in the midst of the group, tuning his mandolin, which he kept at the farm. Glen and his mandolin were associated. All invitations issued to him included the clause, "Bring your mandolin!" He seldom made a social visit without it, except on doleful occasions, such as funerals or visits of condolence.

      He was hailed with joy whenever he appeared with his frank smile and his mandolin. In the West, there is a keen appreciation of impromptu pleasure.

      In the orchard the fruit trees had fully blossomed, the grass was still a young, tender green. Through the masses of delicate pink and white color, shone here and there, glimpses of the exquisite blue sky. There is little to admire, as far as scenery is concerned, in this flat country, over which one can travel for miles without seeing a rolling meadow, or a sign of a hill. But one can rave over the skies of Indiana, sometimes brilliantly, sometimes softly tenderly blue. Their peculiar azure