Nothing was said about the vast herds, the thousands of fat cattle grazing out over the great pastures around; but the visitors were impressed with the evidence of great wealth visible on every hand. The capacious corral and innumerable ricks of prairie-hay bore mute testimony to the thrift and opulence which reigned at the Estill ranch.
As Mr. Estill led the way back to the dwelling he said:—
"Hugh will be greatly disappointed when he learns that he has missed your visit. I have been away with him for the last fortnight, and only returned last evening, when I learned from my wife that—that—my children had a very pleasant day up at your place." Then in a constrained voice he added: "I would like to meet your father, Mr. Warlow; for there is a subject which I would like very much to discuss with him."
"My father expressed a wish to make your acquaintance also; for it appears that he is anxious to discuss the early history of this country with you," Clifford replied.
Mr. Estill seemed greatly agitated on hearing this; but when about to reply, dinner was announced, and he arose and led the way into the long, walnut-paneled dining-room. All this time Clifford was mutely wondering why the wealthy old ranchman should be so anxious to meet his father.
"Can it be that the cattle-king is opposed to the intimacy growing up between myself and his daughter?" young Warlow asked himself. Then he thought of the friendly manner of his host, and rejected the idea at once.
They were soon gaily chatting over the soup; but as Clifford's eye glanced along the wall his attention was attracted by a painting, which hung where the light fell upon it in such a way as to bring out every detail with perfect clearness. In its foreground was a mammoth tree, shading the gables of a stone cottage; a ruined wall, half smothered by vines. Across the stream, which had half encircled the knoll where the building stood, were fields of ripening grain, that rippled in the billowy waves, stirred and tossed by the summer breeze, wheat of coppery red or palest gold, the silvery sheen of rye and oats contrasting with the tawny prairie and dark, green groves, through which shimmered the brook and pools that he recognized as old friends.
As his eye sought the author of this delicate compliment, which was a truthful picture of his place—the Old Corral—he caught Miss Estill's amused look; for she had been watching the pleased surprise which had grown upon his face as he realized what the picture really was. His glance must have been very expressive in reply; for a blush swept over her face, usually serene in its quiet dignity, or vivacious with blithesome wit, and her blue eyes retreated behind their long lashes—a guilty admission that she was the artist who had painted the scene.
This silent by-play was not unnoticed, quiet as it all seemed; for as Clifford turned to take the plate of rare good things which the host passed to him, he encountered the eyes of Mrs. Estill fixed upon him; but the lady smiled with a look of such evident enjoyment of the situation that he half forgot that Mr. Estill still held the plate, which young Warlow seized with an air which was neither as graceful nor self-possessed as a hero should have worn.
With ready tact Mrs. Estill came to the rescue by saying:—