"You bet they did. Why, they was all over the hull prairie, all day and all night, too, mostly--on ponies you know.""Ponies!" exclaimed Larry. "Did they have ponies? Could they ride? How big are they?""How big? Blamed if I know. Let's see. There's Tom. He's just about a man, or thinks he is. He's sixteen or seventeen. Just now he's in the high school at Winnipeg. He don't like it though."Here a shadow fell on Mr. Sleighter's face. "And the girls--there's Hazel, she's fifteen, and Ethel Mary, she's eleven or somewhere thereabouts. I never can keep track of them. They keep againin' on me all the time.""Yes," said Mrs. Gwynne. "It is hard to realise that they are growing up and will soon be away from us.""That's so," said Mr. Sleighter.
"And the schools," continued Mrs. Gwynne, "are there good schools?""Schools?" exclaimed Mr. Sleighter. "There's a real good school not more than a couple of miles away.""Two miles," exclaimed the mother aghast.
"Oh, that's nothin'. They ride, of course. But we ain't got much of a master now. He's rather--you know." Mr. Sleighter significantly tipped up with his little finger and winked toward Mr. Gwynne.
"But you love that country," she said.
"Yes, I love it and I hated to leave it. But the missis never liked it. She was city born and bred. She wanted the lights, Iguess, and the shows. I don't blame her, though," he continued rapidly. "It's kind of lonely for women, you know. They've got to have amusements and things. But it's God's own country, believe me, and I would go back to-morrow, if I could.""You still own your ranch?"
"Yes; can't sell easily. You see there's not much broke on it--only a hundred acres or so."
"Why, how big is the ranch?"
"Five hundred acres and a wood lot. I did not farm much, though--mostly cattle and horses. I was away a good deal on the trail.""The trail?"
"Yes, buying cattle and selling again. That was the worst of it.
I am not much of a farmer, though farming's all right there, and Iwas away almost all of the time. I guess that made it pretty hard for the missis and the kids."At this point the Widow Martin came in to lay the table for tea.
Mr. Sleighter took the hint and rose to go.
"You will do us the pleasure of staying for tea, Mr. Sleighter?"said Mrs. Gwynne earnestly.
"Oh, do," said the youngest little girl, Nora, whose snapping black eyes gleamed with eager desire to hear more of the wonderful western land.
"Yes, do, and tell us more," said the boy.
"I hope you will be able to stay," continued Mrs. Gwynne.
Mr. Sleighter glanced at her husband. "Why, certainly," said Mr. Gwynne, "we would be glad to have you."
Still Mr. Sleighter hesitated. "Say, I don't know what's come over me. I feel as if I had been on the stump," he said in an embarrassed voice. "I ain't talked to a soul about that country since I left. I guess I got pretty full, and when you pulled the cork, out she come."During the tea hour Mrs. Gwynne tried to draw her visitor out to talk about his family, but here she failed. Indeed a restraint appeared to fall upon him that nothing could dispel. Immediately after tea Mrs. Gwynne placed the Bible and Book of Prayers on the table, saying, "We follow the custom of reading prayers every evening after tea, Mr. Sleighter. We shall be glad to have you join us.""Sure thing, ma'am," said Mr. Sleighter, pushing back his chair and beginning to rock on its hind legs, picking his teeth with his pen knife, to the staring horror of the little girls.
The reading was from the Scripture to which throughout the centuries the Christian Church has gone for authority and guidance in the exercise of charity and in the performance of social service, the story of the Samaritan gentleman to whom the unhappy traveller whose misfortune it was to be sorely mishandled by thieves owed his rescue and his life.
Throughout the reading Mr. Sleighter paid the strictest attention and joined in the prayers with every sign of reverence. At the close he stood awkwardly shifting from one foot to another.
"Well, I'll be goin'," he said. "Don't know how you roped me in for this here visit, ma'am. I ain't et in any one's house since Ileft home, and I ain't heard any family prayers since my old dad had 'em--a regular old Methodist exhorter he was. He used to pray until all was blue, though most times, specially at night, I used to fall asleep. He was great on religion.""I don't suppose he was any the worse for that," said Mrs. Gwynne.
"Not a mite, not a mite, ma'am. A little strict, but straight as a string, ma'am. No one could say anythin' against Hiram Sleighter--H. P. Sleighter. I was named for him. He used to pray to beat creation, and then some, but he was a straight man all right. And to-night your kids and your family prayers made me think of them old days. Well, good-night and thank you for the good time you gave me. Best I've had in a dog's age.""You will come again, Mr. Sleighter," said Mrs. Gwynne, giving him her hand.
"Yes, and tell us more about that new country," added her son.
"My, I'd like to go out there!"
"It's a wonderful country all right and you might do a hull lot worse."
