THREE men stood on the veranda. “Why, how do you do?” said the major, “come in. I am very glad to see you.”

Judge Linus Lynn, with his weather-beaten tile, Bill Kinneman, with his red eyes, and Dan Spencer, with his wobbling tooth, all stalked into the room.

“Why, hello, pardner,” said Dan Spencer, as he caught sight of Hugh, “how d’ ye do?” They all shook hands.

“We jist drapped in fur a minit, Major,” said Bill Kinneman, “to say hello. Did n’t know yer hed company, or we would n’t hev cum. Heerd you’d got back. Did n’t see nuthin’ of the cattle thieves, I reckon?”

“Nothing,” responded the major, thoughtfully. “I failed. Tell Mr. Horton that I struck the wrong trail, and followed it down through Oklahoma, and on east to the Missouri River, and then to St. Louis, only to be disappointed in the end.”

“Purty danged good nerve, I can tell ye,” said Dan Spencer, “to foller them cussed cattle thieves like the major did. I’m thinkin’ I’d be purty hostill if I had to do it;” his tooth wobbled like the side motion of a fanning-mill.

“Don’t care if I do,” said Judge Lynn, greedily, as he reached over, and helped himself to a cigar.

“Why, certainly, gendemen,” said the major, and, eagerly rising, he passed around the box of cigars.

“Jist about the time o’ day I smoke,” said Dan Spencer, as he threw an enormous quid of tobacco toward the cuspidor. Bill Kinneman expectorated a sounding pit-tew of tobacco juice at the receptacle just as Judge Lynn threw a burnt match in the same direction.

“Waal, boys,” said Dan Spencer, when their cigars were going, “we’ve got toomultuous dooties to perform, an’ I guess we may as well move on. Jist drapped in fur a minit, yer know, Major.”

“That’s right, boys,” replied Major Hampton, shaking hands most cordially with them as they started away, “come often and be in no hurry about going, is the standing invitation you each have.” They all shook hands with Hugh, and soon after crept out along the veranda and down the steps into the street. When they were gone, the major said:

“They represent the masses. We cannot ignore them. Rightly guided, they are a power for good morals and good government; otherwise they are liable to menace the very foundations of our society.” Presently they heard some one singing.

“Hello!” said the major, “Marie has returned. Well, Stanton, let us quit the library and our cigars. By the way, I am a student of men, and I am surprised that you are not a musician, for you certainly have a soul full of it. I want you to hear my daughter sing. I fancy,” he continued, hesitatingly, “that she has a fairly good voice.”

They adjourned to an adjoining room. From a musician’s standpoint this room was a veritable dream. It was furnished with a “baby grand,” a complete musical library, containing some rare volumes; also with busts of Beethoven, Haydn, Bach, Handel, Mendelssohn, Chopin, Liszt, Schumann, Wagner, and other famous composers. On the walls were well-selected paintings, each in itself a study pertaining to music.

“This, Mr. Stanton,” said the major, “is my daughter’s studio. You are the first stranger ever invited into this room.”

“And who is her instructor, may I inquire?”

“I direct my daughter’s education in all her studies,” modestly replied the major.

“I am sure I feel highly honored,” returned Hugh.

Marie glanced innocently at him over her shoulder. She was standing before a music-case, with one foot slightly advanced, and as she turned to look at Hugh her gracefully poised figure seemed to him a perfect model.

“You are most welcome,” said the girl, smiling, “or we would not have asked you here.”

Hugh was wondering why he had been invited into the sacredness of this musical retreat, from which others were excluded, but his reverie was interrupted by the major’s seating himself at the piano. He struck a few chords on the keys, and, after running through several modulations, he glided into Mendelssohn’s Symphony in C Minor. The major’s great body swayed back and forth as the music moved him with its entrancing power. Someway, the spirit of the melody stirred Hugh in a manner strangely new.

The music suddenly ceased with a few jagged, broken notes, mixed together in a wailing discord, and the major turned sharply around toward their guest.

“Oh, papa,” cried Marie, “why did you do that?”

“All right, Stanton, my boy,” said the major, laughing, as he tossed his long, gray locks back from his forehead. “I see I am not mistaken; you have a soul filled with harmony, although you may not be able to play, as you say, even a jew’s-harp.”

Marie sang a selection from the “Bohemian Girl,” while her father played the accompaniment. Her rich, deep tones, silvery in their sweetness, vibrated and filled the room with a melody almost divine. She breathed into the song the fullness of her intensely musical soul. Her flutelike tones budded and then crescendoed into full-grown fragrant flowers, which gradually died away, like the falling petals—one by one—of an over-ripe rose. An impalpable sense of mystery and majesty seemed to envelop the singing girl to the now exalted and thrilled senses of Hugh Stanton. What subtle power was this that thrilled him through and through? It was unfathomable—he could not understand the genius of the invisible that swelled up about his exalted brain and filled him with a spirit not his own, while his soul throbbed in ecstatic delight. She ceased singing, and Hugh sank back into his chair, exhausted. The music had exhilarated him with new and wonderful thoughts—devout thoughts, divine ideas. The major turned from the piano, and discovered Hugh in the mysterious struggles that come to a traveler when his soul has been swept away on the surging deep of song.

Hugh soon took his leave of Major Hampton and his daughter, gratefully accepting their cordial invitations to call again at an early day. That night he dreamed of dwelling in some sacred and mystical retreat surrounded with music and poetry. Then the scene changed, and he saw a wide waste of desolate prairie stretching away in every direction. Presently Marie Hampton stood before him, weeping bitterly. Her fair cheeks and amethyst eyes were bathed in tears, while near her was Ethel Horton, speaking words of consolation. Between them was a mound of earth, and, looking closer, he saw it was a new-made grave.