and a very pretty, daintily-ordered home it was.  She had five rooms on the second floor, with a kitchen below:  this was her parlor in front, a bright, well-furnished room, tastefully ornamented with pictures, some of which I recognized as her own paintings in our school-days; and here was her dining-room to the left, with a small guest-chamber that she hoped I would occupy when I returned.  The other rooms on the west of the parlor were hers and Nellie’s—­Oh, I had not seen Nellie, her five-year-old, nor her dear husband, who was so much better to-day, though he could not rise without difficulty; and would I therefore come and see him?

As Ruth gave me thus a passing glance at her household arrangements, I saw through the open door of an apartment back of the dining-room a light shower of plaster fall to the ground, marking the oilcloth that covered the floor, and for one instant sending out into the hall a puff of whitish dust.

“Oh, that is one of the effects of our terribly dry climate,” said Ruth, following my glance and noticing the dust:  “every little while portions of our walls crumble and fall in like that.  There is no doubt a sad litter in Mr. Foster the clerk’s room, where that shower occurred:  he has gone to the city for the day, however, and it can be cleared before his return.  Here is my husband, Jenny.”

In a recess by the parlor window, on a lounge, Mr. Denham was trying to disguise the necessity for keeping his tortured limb extended by an appearance of smiling ease.  He was a handsome, frank-faced man, with a firm, fearless eye and a gentle, kindly mouth, and I could readily understand my friend’s look of sweet content when I saw him and her child Nellie, who was hanging over her papa with the fond protecting air of a precocious nurse.  I sat down quickly beside them to prevent my host’s attempting to rise, and the hour that elapsed before dinner flew by in interesting conversation.

“I am so sorry I had to go for a little while,” said Ruth, returning to announce that meal, “but my good Wang-Ho is sick to-day, and I had to help him a little.”

“Where is Lester, Ruth?” asked her husband.

“Oh, he is kind and helpful as ever, but he does not understand making dessert, you know, Edward.”

“That’s true, and Miss Jane will excuse you, I am sure, for she and I have been reviewing the principal features of pioneer-life, and she professes herself rather in love with it than otherwise.”

“It is all so fresh and enjoyable, despite its discomforts and inconveniences,” I said; “and need I quote a stronger argument in its favor than yourself, my dear Ruth?  You seem perfectly happy, and I really cannot see why you should not be so.”

She had her golden-haired little girl in one arm, and she laid the other hand caressingly on her husband’s shoulder, “There is none:  I am happy,” she said in a low, earnest tone; and then added laughingly, “or I shall be as soon as Edward gets well of sciatica and Wang-Ho recovers from his chills.”