towards the home of Thora and Red, living their happy pastoral.
In the grove of pines Thora was playing her violin.
"Thurston came in today," said Sheridan. "I forgot to tell you. That means all the crowd that followed his lead, fourteen of them, practically all the cattlemen now, will come under the ditch. We can begin the drainage canal, and we can start to reclaim the outlying lands. It looks as if Chico community is going to be a success, Mary."
She slid her hand into his, breathing in the air deeply.
"To work," she said.
"And to love," said he.
"And to put love into work, Peter."
"Makes for perfect happiness."
"Is your happiness complete, Peter?"
"Why do you ask me that, Mary?"
"Because—because"—the sunset glow was very rosy on her face—"there is something that might make it more complete. Do you know what Thora is playing, and why she is playing it, Peter?"
He listened, wondering. Then he caught the rhythm of the notes. It was the air with which Thora used to play Mary to sleep, the air that she had played when Mary had told of her good fortune.
"It is a lullaby," he said.
"Yes, Peter. I used to whistle it. Soon—I think I shall be humming it, Peter dear."
THE END
