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Betty, orphaned at the age of six, had been adopted by the kind-hearted Mrs. Wopp. The child found her chief joy in life, outside of Jethro, Nancy and Job, in a flower-bed. A small plot of ground had been allotted her for her own use, and there every spring for the last four years her precious flowers had bloomed and had filled her eyes with brightness and her soul with gladness. Morning-glories and nasturtiums were the surest to bloom. They climbed the strings so gracefully and turned the old weather-beaten fence where they grew into a tapestry of gorgeous dyes.,

“No, my son.” The answer was more sincere than a few weeks before she could have believed possible. The coming of the child had taken from her life many hours of association with Billy, sweet as only mothers know; yet May Nell’s influence had softened and refined Billy, enlarged his vision.,

They tied the horses, and once hidden from the road, shed every superfluous garment. Billy was quite ashamed of the chill he could not help when he saw the handcuffs, pistols, and cartridges disposed neatly and conveniently about the Sheriff’s waist. They looked so vicious, “disrespectable.”,

“Shame on you Moses, rampagin’ an’ bellerin’ there like a gang of coyotes,” remonstrated his mother.

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He looked at the beaming faces, at the beautiful table with Jean’s great pagoda cake in the centre, the dates, 1893-1906, in evergreen; at the flowers everywhere; at the dishes,—they usually ate from vine leaves at their out-of-door feasts,—at the paper napkins folded fantastically and hovering over the table like gay butterflies. His eloquent face told his surprise, his gratitude, his delight. He opened his mouth to speak some fitting word, but it wouldn’t come. He tried again, for he felt the occasion called for something formally appreciative. But only a whimsical idea flitted into his mind; and he sang back—,

“You’d think this here day’s trip to Calgary was a journey to Jeroosalem,” he complained, all his slips of paper used up in jottings to remind him of duties imposed.,

That ardent daughter of Jubal sighed, not for the encroachment on her Sunday afternoon leisure hour, but because she had found out the lesson was to be on Jonah and the whale. She had always been partial to the story of the ravens feeding Elijah and to the parable of the Prodigal Son. She felt that her temperament inclined her most to stories where hospitality and mouthwatering descriptions of hunger appeased provided the dramatic interest. Well she knew that the Tishbite and the erring son who returned to the feast of fatted calf would have received full justice at her hands. As for Jonah, and the whale with the inordinate oesophagus, she would do her best.,

“Oh ’bout the fairies an’ stars an’ lovely things that grownups know nothin’ about.”