"Can't we look around the house while the kettle boils?" inquired Gordon, looking up from the fire he had kindled after some difficulty. He was kneeling on the bare, dusty ground which had been trodden by the hoofs of thousands of cattle in the past.
The girl nodded. Her delight in being this man's cicerone was superlative. This was different from the days she had spent with David Slosson.
"Sure. Come on," she cried. "And there's a well out back where we can fill the kettle."
They hurried off to the well, and, between them, rather like two children, they filled the kettle. Then they returned and placed it on the fire, and again approached the house.
It was a squat, roomy structure of the ordinary frame type, but it was in perfect preservation even to its paint, and Hazel pointed this out as they approached.
"You see this was my daddy's first home," she said. "It's where I was born." She drew a deep, happy sigh. "I seem to remember every stick of it. And my daddy, why, he just loves it, too. That's why, though we don't use it now, he has it painted every year, and kept clean. You see, when my daddy built this for my momma he hadn't a pile of dollars. It was just all he could afford, and he didn't ever guess he'd have a great deal to spend on a home. We lived here years, and our cattle grazed out in the valley beyond. I used to spend my whole time on the back of a small broncho mare, chasing up and down the hills and woods. And that's how I found that tunnel we came through. My, but I do love this little place!"
"It's great," agreed Gordon warmly. "I'd call it a—a poet's home."
The girl flung open the front door and led the way in. Instantly Gordon had the surprise of his life. It was furnished. Completely and comfortably furnished. What was more, the furniture, though old, was in perfect repair, and the room looked as though it had been recently occupied.
"When you said 'disused,'" Gordon exclaimed, "I—I—thought it would be empty."
The girl smiled a little sadly.