Ten years have rolled by, and times are better; both are older, worn a little by climate, larger, changed.
On the way to the National Park I chanced past their village one evening on the great Pacific Railroad, and mentioned “Hillsdale” incidentally.
I saw a woman turn half-way round and look towards me, but went on unmindful of the situation. Suddenly her companion arose and asked me if I said Hillsdale, to which I assented, and then a vacant seat was made and both came back and questioned me. They were strange people, truly.
He a stout-built, long-bearded man, half gray, with buffalo overcoat, fur cap and mittens on; she well wrapped in beaver; both Western-looking in every particular.
“You spoke of Hillsdale, sir,” began the woman; “and we lived there once, and feel curious to know if you would not remain all night with us. We have a farm near by next station. I hope you will consent to spend the night with us;” clearly the woman was the social leader.
There was a pleading in the look, a frank expression that said, Please do, and I consented.
Two miles, a drive by a cold open sleigh-ride—cold is hardly strong enough to mark the term,—and we found a low unpainted farm-house, plastered below, with chamber-floor for ceiling overhead, and rudely formed walls; a house of three rooms, mainly in two; a farm of six thousand acres, five teams, three tenant-houses, wagons and sleighs and farming-tools without stint, but comfort nowhere.
After breakfast the farmer fed his flocks and attended to his general chores, while I stayed in and chatted by a sickly pretence of fire made of bad coal and green kindling-wood. I had seen, each time as he came in, how gently he handled his little pet dogs, that seemed their only children, how deeply absorbed he was in farm and stock, and how anxious he was I should see the ranch, but how little he noticed his superior companion.
“Where are your children?” I ventured to inquire.