It seems strange, in such golden summer weather, that every man and woman and child on this sunbathed footstool of God shouldn’t be sanely and supremely happy.... My husband, I am glad to say, is once more back in his home. And I have been realizing, the last few days, that home is an empty and foolish place without its man about. It’s a ship without a captain, a clan without a chief. Yet I found it both depressing and humbling to be brought once more face to face with that particular fact.

Dinky-Dunk, on the other hand, has come back with both an odd sense of elation and an odd sense of estrangement. He has taken on a vague something which I find it impossible to define. He is blither and at the same time he is more solemnly abstracted. And he protests that his journey was a success.

“I’m going to ride two horses, from now on,” he announced to me this morning. “I’ve got my chance 123 and I’m going to grab it. I’ve swapped my Buckhorn lots for some inside Calgary stuff and I’m lumping everything that’s left of my Coast deal for a third-interest in those Barcona coal-fields. There’s a quarter of a million waiting there for the people with money enough to swing it. And I’m going to edge in while it’s still open.”

“But is it possible to ride two horses?” I asked, waywardly depressed by all this new-found optimism.

“It’s got to be possible, until we find out which horse is the better traveler,” announced Dinky-Dunk. Then he added, without caring to meet my eye: “And I can’t say I see much promise of action out of this particular end of the team.”

I must have flamed red, at that speech, for I thought at the moment he was referring to me. It was only after I’d turned the thing over in my mind, as I helped Struthers put together our new butter-worker, that I saw he really referred to Casa Grande. But my husband knows I will never part with this ranch. He will never be so foolish as to ask me to do that. Yet one thing is plain. His heart is no longer here. He will stick to this prairie farm of ours only for what he can get out of it.

Dinkie warmed the cockles of my heart by telling 124 me this afternoon when we were out salting the horses that he never wanted to go away from Casa Grande and his mummy. The child, I imagine, had overheard some of this morning’s talk. He put his arm around my knees and hugged me tight. And I could see the tawny look come into his hazel eyes speckled with brown. My Dinkie is a prairie child. His soul is not a cramped little soul, but has depth and wideness and undiscerned mysteries.