WHEN Hugh told Captain Osborn of his conversation with Judge Lynn, the captain laughed.

“And so he told you the country was going to the dogs, did he? Well, my boy, when Judge Lynn, as he is called, imbibes a few drinks of whiskey, he is fond of uttering prophecies of the nature you describe. He owes everybody in town. I would not be surprised if he would ask you for a loan of five or ten dollars before a week.”

“Well, if he should,” asked Hugh, looking up, “would I be safe in letting him have it? Would he not return it?”

“Never,” returned the captain; “he was never known to pay even the most trivial debt unless compelled to do so; yet he is a rather good fellow for all that—does no one any particular harm. He served one term in the legislature, and ever since has had an idea that he is a great political factor. As to the hot wind part of his story, that is the stereotyped cry of the cattlemen. I presume Lynn is getting ready to make a speech to a cowboy audience. I have lived here for five years. There was little or no farming attempted during the first and second years, but for the last three years the agricultural yield has been enormous. I have never yet experienced the hot winds. The rain belt is, year by year, creeping westward, and the so-called arid region is giving way before the farmer’s plow.”

“I suppose,” said Hugh, “that it is simply a war between the cattlemen on the one hand and the farmers on the other. The elements are not taking sides.”

“I should say,” replied the captain, “from the crops we are raising, that the elements are taking the farmers’ side. By the way,” he continued, “Major Hampton called this morning, and asked me to present his compliments to you. He wishes you to call at his home this evening, and I promised him that you would do so.”

“Thank you,” said Hugh. “The major has been away almost two weeks. I wonder if he found anything of the cattle thieves.”

“No,” replied the captain; “he got on their supposed trail, and followed it to St. Louis, only to learn he was mistaken after reaching there. The major is certainly a most persistent man.” That evening Hugh called at Major Hampton’s home. His house was a cottage in design, although large and roomy. There were little porches here and there, and a wide veranda in front. The yard was enclosed by a neatly-painted fence. A green, velvety lawn evinced much care. The major met Hugh at the door.

“Come in, come right in,” said he, cheerily, as he ushered Hugh into his library. Low, richly-carved bookcases occupied the walls. Every shelf was filled with tawny-colored volumes. Above one of the bookcases was a large mounted buffalo head, and across the room, as a foil for the buffalo trophy, was a pair of mounted Texas steer horns, measuring almost six feet from tip to tip. A few bronzes and choice paintings, artistically arranged, set off the room. The ceiling was delicately frescoed in blue and gold, while a deep frieze of red suggested warmth.

“Thank you,” said Hugh, as he seated himself in a chair pushed toward him by the major.

“Well, I am glad to see you again, Stanton, I am indeed,” said the major. “I have been looking forward to a visit from you with the keenest pleasure.”

“It is very good of you to say so,” answered Hugh, “but I am quite sure that I have reason to be congratulated more than yourself!”

“As to that—ah!” exclaimed the major, hastily arising from a leather couch, where he had thrown himself, “Mr. Stanton, permit me.” Some one had entered the room through a side door directly back of Hugh’s chair. He arose and turned as the major spoke.

“My daughter, Miss Marie, Mr. Stanton.” The girl appeared to be about eighteen years of age. She bowed rather coldly, and turned toward her father, asking, “How soon will you want me to sing, papa?”

“Oh, ho!” laughed the major, “that was a little surprise I had in store for Mr. Stanton. You have robbed my program of part of its interest.”

“I beg your pardon, papa,” said the girl, her lips parting in a sweet smile, “now that Mr. Stanton is advised of it, he will have ample time to prepare his nerves for the ordeal. You see, papa,” she went on, “Ethel Horton has invited me to go driving with her. We will not be gone long—perhaps an hour.”

“All right, daughter, that will be soon enough,” replied the major.

As the girl turned to go, Hugh noticed her wealth of bronzed hair. She was just budding into womanhood, and her soul shone out through her deep blue eyes, as if challenging one to doubt her. Hugh’s glance was half critical, although not the glance of personal interest.

There was a time to come, however, when he would wonder how it had been possible for him to look upon this girl with other than feelings of personal interest. Little did he dream, on that first evening at Major Hampton’s, of the great sorrow that was to come—a sorrow in which this light-hearted, innocent girl would awaken to a grief that could not be comforted—a grief that he, himself, was destined to share with her.

“She is a wonderful girl,” said the major, after Marie had gone. “I doubt if her equal can be found in the Sunflower State.”

“Very prepossessing,” replied Hugh. “Her face is a most intellectual one.”

The major opened a fresh box of cigars. “Have a cigar, Stanton,” said he. “I feel in a humor to talk, and nothing aids more in conversation than smoking a good cigar.”

After the cigars were lighted, the major returned to his former reclining position on the lounge.

“My dear Stanton,” said he, “are you at all interested in politics?”

“I can’t say that I am,” returned Hugh. “I usually vote, and that’s about all.”

“I, perhaps, am not claiming too much when I say that in politics I am a philosopher. If I had the power, I would try the experiment of setting aside this so-called political economy, and these financial heresies, substituting therefor a little common sense in conducting the affairs of state. In a great country like ours, whose mountains are fairly bursting open with tons of unmined precious mineral, a country whose credit is unlimited, we should be able to furnish employment to a million men, in building better roads, in constructing dikes, in making canals for waterway transportation, and in reclaiming arid lands. Instead, our present limited population is congested into inactivity; our highways are lined with the unemployed, and, while surrounded by plenty, our people are actually dying of starvation.”

“I am aware,” replied Hugh, “that there are many unemployed, especially in large cities like Chicago and New York. The poor people are usually provided with free soup-houses, however, and need not starve.”

“My dear Stanton,” said the major, with great earnestness, “patriotism cannot and will not survive on charity soup. The plan that I have in mind would set in motion the wheels of our paralyzed industries. It would do away with idleness, and elevate the starving man to a position of self-support and self-respect. Benevolent soup-kitchens destroy self-respect, and loyalty grows lean on such a diet.”

Hugh was about to reply, when the bell rang. The major hastily arose, knocked the ashes from his cigar, and opened the door.