"We are your neighbours, from Fourteen and Twenty-two," she explained. "We saw your tent, and thought we would welcome you to prairie-land."
"That is good of you," said a well modulated English voice, but some way the voice seemed to break just there, and the lips of the new-comer went all a-tremble. The next we knew she and Jean had their arms about each other. . . .
"Oh, how horribly stupid of me!" the stranger exclaimed, in a moment or two, disengaging herself and dabbing her eyes with a little lump of handkerchief. "One gets a bit—a bit lonely, in spite of everything. You will think I am rather a bad pioneer. My name is Mrs. Alton, and I'm so glad you came, Miss—Miss——"
Jean introduced herself and the others of our party, and then we clambered down out of the wagon.
"Gerald and I have been very much alone," Mrs. Alton explained. "Gerald doesn't seem to mind it a bit—rather glories in it, I think. Already he has made some great explorations, but always under Sandy's watchful eye. Sandy is a great comfort. Aren't you, sir?"
She turned to the dog, who sedately held up one paw in acknowledgment of her remark.
"Gerald, I should have told you, has just turned three. I am a widow," Mrs. Alton rattled on, as though not wishing to stress the point—"and Gerald and I have our way to make in the world. He is tired now, and asleep after a great day's roaming, but I shall wake him before you go."
"Oh, please don't!" Jean entreated. "Let us see him as he sleeps," and without waiting for an invitation she gently made her way into the little tent.
"Don't you think me clever?" Mrs. Alton asked, when we had at last discovered it.
It consisted of a trunk, with the lid turned back, and about half the contents removed. In this she had laid a little mattress, and on the mattress slept a beautiful boy, his face still ruddy from his wrestle with the prairie winds; his lips cherry red and slightly parted; his little arms thrown jauntily above his head. Jean leaned and touched the breathing lips with hers, and so did Marjorie, and a little later I saw tears on the cheeks of both. It was then I remembered that these girls had not seen a child since we left Regina in the spring, and the mothering instinct in them, pent up through all those lonely months, now burst forth in sweet silent tears. I began to realize that Gerald Alton was to be one of the important members of the community.